Stone Barrington 06-11

I put my camera inside and put the log back on top of it. I was looking for another way out of the room when the door opened and all these guys came in.”
    “Were they cops?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Were they in uniform?”
    “No. They looked like detectives, in plain clothes.”
    “And what did they do?”
    “A couple of them grabbed me and threw me up against the wall, and a couple more went over to see about the naked guy on the table. I heard one of them say his leg was broken, and another one said he was dead.”
    “And then what happened?”
    “Then they left.”
    “They left? You mean they left the apartment and left you alone there?”
    “Yeah. One of them said, ‘You stay put.’ So I did.”
    “And then what?”

    “I tried to find another way out of the apartment, except by the door, but there wasn’t one. So I sat down on a chair and looked at the dead guy for a minute. Then the cops arrived. This time they had uniforms. And guns. And they arrested me and took me to a police station, where they put me in a van with some really badass guys and brought me here.”
    “So the detectives just walked out, and a few minutes later the cops came?”
    “Yeah, except I’m not so sure they were detectives.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, when they were talking to each other, they had funny accents.”
    “What kind of accents?”
    “The kind you hear on PBS, on that show Mystery. ”
    “You mean English accents?”
    “Yeah, like that. Like English cops.”
    Stone was stumped. “Now listen: I’m going to get you a lawyer and arrange bail. If your lawyer asks about your relationship with me, you tell him I’m a friend of your uncle Bob, who’s out of town, and when you thought you needed a lawyer, you called me. Got that?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And you say nothing about our meeting yesterday. If he wants to know what you were doing on that roof, tell him you’re a freelance photographer, and you were trying to take a picture you could sell to the tabloids. Nobody hired you. Got that?”
    “Yeah.”
    “When bail is set and you get out, go home and get some sleep. I’m going to be looking into this, and I’ll call you when I find out something.”
    “Okay.”
    “Herbie, have you ever been arrested?”
    “No, not until tonight.”
    “Never? Drunk driving? Burglary? Disturbing the peace? Anything? They’ll find out if you have been, and it will make a difference.”
    “Never. I’m clean.”
    “Do you have a job?”
    “Yeah, I run a one-hour photo processing machine at a drugstore in Brooklyn.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-two.”
    “Do you live with anybody?”
    “I got a little place near the drugstore.”
    “Tell all this to your lawyer.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “I haven’t picked him out yet. I’m going to go and do that now.”
    “When will I get out of here?”
    “When they call your case. It could be two or three hours, there’s no way to tell right now. Your lawyer may be able to find out.” Stone pressed the button to call the guard. “Now go back to your cell and keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk to anybody about why you’re here, and don’t form any friendships with your cellmates. Any one of them will sell you out for a pack of cigarettes.”
    “Okay.”
    The guard came and took Herbie away, and Stone went upstairs to the courtroom.

7
    Stone walked into the courtroom and looked around. He saw Carpenter sitting in the second row, apparently rapt, and he kept looking until he found his man, waiting with a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit who was about to be arraigned.
    Tony Levy was short, stocky, and crafty. He earned his living as a lawyer by hanging around the courts, picking up cases on the fly. Stone had met him half a dozen times in the courthouse, and he was perfect for tonight’s purpose. He reached across the railing and tapped Levy on the shoulder.
    “Hey, Stone,” Levy said, smiling and offering his hand. “I haven’t seen you down here for a while.”
    “I try to stay uptown,” Stone said. “I’ve got a case for you. Can you talk?”
    Levy turned back to his client, who was sporting a full set of restraints. “Don’t go anywhere for a minute,” he said, then he waved Stone to the side of the courtroom and led him through a door into a small conference room. “What’s up?” he asked.

    “Nephew of a friend of mine—you know Bob Cantor?”
    “Ex-cop? Yeah, I had him on the witness stand a few times.”
    “His nephew,