Stone Barrington 06-11

taking a seat on the banquette opposite the saloon table. “Let me tell you why.”
    “Shut up and listen to this, Herbie,” Cantor said.
    “You didn’t kill the guy,” Stone said.
    “Don’t hand me that shit,” Herbie said. “You think I don’t know when a guy’s dead? I grew up in Brooklyn.”
    Stone let the non sequitur pass. “He was dead, Herbie, but you didn’t kill him. There was an autopsy. The girl killed him. He was already dead when you fell on him.”
    “I don’t believe you,” Herbie replied.
    “Let me introduce Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, chief of the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct. Show him your badge, Dino.”
    Dino gave a little wave and showed Herbie his badge.
    “Dino,” Stone said, “am I lying to Herbie?”
    “Nope,” Dino replied. “The guy was poisoned.”

    Herbie looked at them, back and forth.
    “He’s not lying to you, Herbie,” Cantor said to his nephew.
    “I’m still not going back,” Herbie said.
    “What?” Stone asked, confused.
    “I like it here. I’ve already got five hotels lined up. It’s going to be a sweet deal.”
    “Herbie, you have a court appearance in thirty-six hours. We’ll get the manslaughter charge dropped, plead the other stuff down to a single misdemeanor, and get you non-reporting probation. Then you can come back here and take pictures at hotels.”
    “But I’ll have a record,” Herbie said plaintively.
    “Herbie,” Stone replied, “if you don’t show up for your court appearance, a fugitive warrant will be issued, and cops everywhere, including here, will be looking for you. Would you prefer that to probation?”
    “I don’t know,” Herbie said.
    Bob Cantor reached behind Herbie and brought the flat of his hand hard across the top of his nephew’s head. “Putz!”
    “Ow,” Herbie said, flinching.
    “Go home with Stone and fix this, or I’ll tell your mother,” Cantor said.
    “Okay,” Herbie said sheepishly.

23
    Carpenter was jarred awake by the slamming of the door. Her hand was immediately on the Walther. She was in bed, naked, and she could hear somebody whistling in the sitting room of the Carlyle suite. It was only Mason. She got out of bed, brushed her teeth with the hotel’s toothbrush, found a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and walked into the sitting room, running her hands through her hair. She hadn’t borrowed a hairbrush.
    “Good morning,” Mason said cheerfully. His jacket and Eton tie were draped across a chair, and his shirt was open at the collar.
    “Good morning,” she said, not meaning it. She had never seen him, in any circumstances, without his Eton tie.
    Mason waved a hand at the rolling table. “We’ve got eggs, kippers, and sausage, and that wonderful fresh orange juice they get from Florida.”
    She was surprised to find that she was hungry, and she sat down and began lifting dish covers, dropping them on the floor.

    “Sleep well?”
    “Yes, but not long enough,” Carpenter replied. “You?”
    “Like a top. The sofa was quite comfortable.”
    “Mason, have you ever been uncomfortable in your entire life?” she asked. Wherever they went, Mason always seemed to bring along his father’s campaign furniture, or a down sleeping bag, or a portable bar.
    “Not since the Army,” Mason replied thoughtfully.
    She knew he had served in the SAS, the Special Air Services, Britain’s toughest commando outfit. “Describe to me a single occasion when the Army managed to make you uncomfortable.”
    “Northern Ireland,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I was in Londonderry, keeping an eye on a house where we thought one of those Real IRA chaps might turn up. It was raining, and my Land Rover had a leaky canvas top, and the rain kept dribbling down my neck. Oddly enough, I was more comfy after the bomb went off. I was upside down, but the canvas top was more comfortable if you were lying on top of it, with the vehicle over you. It didn’t leak that way.”
    “Oh,” she said. She took a big bite of eggs with a little kipper. “Had any overnight reports?”
    Mason paused for a moment, then assumed a more somber mien. “Tinker is dead,” he said, “and Thatcher is in hospital, a couple of blocks from here, at Lenox Hill.”
    Carpenter swallowed hard and put down her fork. “She got both of them?”

    “Well, she got Tinker. She didn’t quite get Thatcher, if you see what I mean. He’s still alive.”
    “How did she do it?”
    “Ice pick,