“I know you,” another cop said. “You were Dino Bacchetti’s partner.”
“Right.”
“Let him write out his own statement,” the cop said to his colleague. “He’ll do it better than you.”
“I know this guy,” Stone said, nodding at Scoop. “His name’s Berman; he’s a free-lance television cameraman. You want me to talk to him?”
“Yeah,” said the cop. “If you know him.”
Stone went and knelt over Berman. “Scoop, how are you feeling? An ambulance is on the way.”
Scoop was gutshot, twice, and there was blood around his lips. His eyes focused. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “I thought you was out to pasture.”
“I was, buddy, but I was in the cab.”
Scoop looked worried. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “You okay?”
“I’m okay. Scoop, did you shoot the other cabdrivers?”
“Yeah, the bastards always got in my way when I was on a story. Other cars would get out of the way, you know? But not hacks, the sons of bitches.”
Stone turned to a cop, who had a notebook out. “You get that?”
“Yeah,” the cop said. “You know, I wanted to shoot a few cabbies myself, at times.”
“Stone,” Scoop said.
“Yeah, Scoop?”
“There’s something I never told you. I shouldda told you, but I didn’t. I wanted it for myself.”
“What’s that, Scoop?” He could hear the ambulance approaching.
“The night Sasha took her dive, remember?”
“You bet I remember.”
“I was there, remember?”
“I remember. You got her on tape. It was a good job.”
“There was a guy on the scene had these black glasses, with tape on them.”
“I remember. His name is Van Fleet.”
“That’s right. He works on stiffs.”
“Right.”
“I think he knows something. I think he saw who tossed Sasha, or something. He was acting funny at the scene. I tried to find him after I showed you the tape, but he was gone. I bought him a drink later, tried to get it out of him, but he wouldn’t talk to me.”
“Okay, Scoop, I’m glad to know that. Thanks.”
The ambulance screeched to a halt, and two men came with a stretcher. Stone stood up to let them at Scoop, and, as he did, he saw Scoop’s eyes glaze over and his head fall to one side. A paramedic produced a stethoscope and listened to his chest.
“This one’s had it,” he said to a cop. “No ticker at all, and, with those kind of holes in him, he ain’t gonna resuscitate, believe me.”
“Ah, shit,” the cop said. “I wanted to see him stand trial.”
“No, it’s better this way,” Stone said. “All neat and tidy; you got your confession.”
Later that morning, when Stone finally got into bed, he discovered he was drunk again.
Chapter 48
On Friday, Stone sat down and thought about his options. He should have gone to the FBI, he knew, when he got the first letter. Their kidnapping case was still open and would remain open until there was some sort of resolution, but they had already conducted their own investigation of Van Fleet and had turned up nothing. Neither had their search of his loft produced anything, and they were unlikely to find Stone’s new information compelling. Anyway, his years as a police officer had made him very nearly constitutionally incapable of going to the FBI for anything.
He could, too, have gone to the police, maybe approached Delgado directly, but it had already been made abundantly clear to him that the police hierarchy considered the case closed and did not want it reopened. If he could deliver Van Fleet and Sasha, handcuffed together, Delgado might listen to him, but not otherwise.
His best alternative was Dino. Dino was even less anxious than Delgado to reopen, because he didn’t want to piss off his superiors, but Dino was his friend, and he still felt guilty about the treatment Stone had received from the department. The trouble was, Dino was in Las Vegas. Stone called Dino’s mother and learned that he was due back from his honeymoon sometime the following day. Stone heaved a sigh of relief. Dino wasn’t going to be easy, but at least he would be in town.
The phone rang.
“Stone. It’s Hi Barker.”
“What’s happening, Hi?”
“I got him. He’s mine for the Sunday-night show. Is there anything else I should know before I interview him?”
“I told you everything at lunch. I’ll leave it to you how to handle him.”
“Will you be there?”
“I’ll be there with a cop,” Stone said. “Where do I go?”
“We’re broadcasting from what the network calls the ‘executive studios,’ on the top floor of their headquarters building on Seventh Avenue. You know the building?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll leave your name with the security guard – and what’s the name of your cop?”
“Bacchetti. What time?”
“Be there at a quarter to eleven, sharp, and go straight to the control room and stay there. We go on the air, live, at eleven thirty, and I don’t want Barron to see you.”
When Stone hung up, he was starting to feel excited.
At noon Saturday, Stone called Dino’s new apartment in the West Village. A woman answered.
“Hello?”
“Is Dino back in town yet?”
“No, who is this?”
“This is Stone Barrington.”
“Oh, yes, we met at the wedding. This is Mary Ann’s mother. I’m just over here tidying up a little so the place will be nice when they get in.”
“What time are they due, Mrs. Bianchi?”
“I’m not sure exactly. They were supposed to come home last night, but Dino was on a winning streak, and they missed their plane. He said they’d get whatever flight was available today. Dino wanted Sunday to rest before going back to work.”
“I see. Mrs. Bianchi, would you write a note to Dino and ask him to call me the moment he gets in? Say that it’s important.”
“Okay, I’ll tack it to the door, so he’ll be sure to see it.”
Stone thanked her and hung up.
The day droned on with no word from Dino, and Stone began calling every hour on the hour. There was no answer. At seven thirty, he got out his tuxedo and began to get dressed. At eight, he called Dino again and still got no reply. At eight thirty, the doorbell rang. Stone thought about it for a moment, then he retrieved his badge and gun from the dresser drawer and strapped on the ankle holster.
When Stone opened the front door, a limousine was at curbside and a mustachioed, uniformed chauffeur stood on the stoop. Stone asked the chauffeur to wait. He went to the living-room phone and called Dino’s number again.
