Kisser (2010)

through a tunnel?”
    “No, we went over a bridge, the big one.”
    “The George Washington Bridge?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “Did you land at Teterboro?”
    “Yes, that’s it!”
    “When you got out of the airplane you were at an FBO. Do you remember its name?”
    “You mean, like a terminal?”
    “Like that, but for private aircraft.”
    “What are some FBOs?”
    “Jet Aviation, Meridian Aviation, Atlantic Aviation, Furst Avia . . .”
    “Atlantic, that’s it!”
    “Is that where he always lands?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Is there anything else you haven’t told me about how Max travels?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “How’s your rehearsal going?”
    “We’re just reading through the script right now. Gotta run!” She hung up.
    Stone got on his computer and went to the FAA aircraft registry, then typed in “Max Long” in the search engine. Nothing. Must be owned by a corporation. Stone called Cantor.
    “Cantor.”
    “It’s Stone. Carrie forgot to mention that Max Long owns an airplane, a King Air.”
    “I thought he was broke.”
    “Me, too. He usually lands at Teterboro, at Atlantic Aviation.”
    “Got a tail number?”
    “That would be too easy.”
    “I’m on it.” Cantor hung up.
    Stone was left, tapping his foot. Twenty minutes later, Cantor called back.
    “I’m here.”
    “He landed at ten fifteen last night. Teterboro Limousine took him to the Lowell Hotel, on East Sixty-Third Street.”
    “You may need more than the Leahys,” Stone said.
    “What, for a guy with a knife?”
    “There’s nothing to stop him from carrying a gun on a private airplane.”
    “Oh. Okay, I’ll get up to the Lowell now, see what I can see. I don’t think we’ll need more people. I’ll let the Leahys know that he may be packing, but I think the two of them can handle him.”
    “If you say so,” Stone said.
     
     
     
    HALF AN hour later, Bob Cantor walked into the Lowell, a small, elegant Upper East Side hotel, carrying a box from a florist’s shop. He approached the front desk. “Good morning,” he said.
    “Good morning,” the desk clerk replied. “May I help you?”
    “Do you have a Max Long registered here?” Cantor asked.
    The man consulted his computer. “Yes, we do.” He reached out for the box. “He’s out just now; I’ll take the flowers.”
    “Just tell Mr. Long that Stone Barrington says, ‘Hi,’ ” Cantor said. He turned and walked out of the hotel, dumped the empty box in the trash can on the corner, and called Stone.
    “Hello?”
    “It’s Cantor. Long is registered at the Lowell but on the loose.”
    “Swell.”

11
    BOB CANTOR DROVE HIS VAN down to the theater district, parked fifty yards from the Del Wood Theater, and turned down the sun visor with the NYPD badge on it, so as not to be bothered. He sat there through the morning, lunching on a sandwich he had packed before leaving his apartment downtown. In his pocket he had the protection order Stone had obtained over the weekend from a friendly judge.
    He opened a book of New York Times crossword puzzles and began his routine: read a definition, then look outside while thinking of the answer. This was not his first stakeout. He had finished two of the puzzles, occasionally peeing into a bag designed for use on small airplanes, and was working on a third puzzle when he saw the tall man approaching the theater from the direction of Eighth Avenue. He popped open his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial button without taking his eyes off the man.
    “It’s Willie,” one of the Leahys said.
    “It’s Cantor. Guy coming toward the theater, answers the description. He’s wearing a raincoat, hands in his pockets, so watch out.”
    “I’m on it,” Willie said, then hung up.
    Cantor hopped out of the van and pressed the lock button on his remote key. He had a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of electronic equipment in the van, and he was taking no chances. He had to wait for a procession of cars to pass before crossing the street, and he made it to the alley down which lay the stage door just as the man did.
    “Mr. Long?” he said. “Is that you?”
    The man turned and looked at him. “Do I know you?”
    “I’ve got something for you,” Cantor said, handing him the envelope.
    The man stared at it but did not take his hands out of his raincoat pockets.
    With his left hand, leaving his right in his own coat pocket, Cantor tucked the envelope into the top of the man’s raincoat. “You’ve