Dino left, and they sat down again, Vanessa in Stone’s lap. “I’m glad Dino’s gone,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”
Stone kissed her, then picked her up and set her next to him on the sofa. “Dino’s coming back. We don’t want to start something now and shock him when he walks in.”
7
Vanessa ignored his instructions and climbed back aboard, straddling him. “I’m not wearing any underwear,” she said, going for his belt buckle. Before he could stop her he was inside her.
“There!” she said, moving slowly.
“You’re too quick for me,” he said, helping.
“I am. Remember that.”
“How could I forget it?”
They were at the point of climax when the doorbell rang.
“Don’t answer it yet,” she said, moving faster.
“Dino has a key,” Stone replied. “Ringing the bell was his way of being polite.” He picked her up and set her aside again, adjusted his clothing, and managed to be pouring three brandies when Dino walked in, having made coughing noises as he crossed toward the study.
“Gee, I hope one of those is for me,” he said.
Stone handed them each a snifter and took one for himself. He buzzed Helene and told her that now was a good time for dessert.
Dino reached over and adjusted Stone’s necktie. “There, that’s better,” he said. “I hope.”
“Everything is fine, Dino,” Stone replied. “Now, tell us what happened.”
“Trisha Marshall happened,” Dino. “Number nine on your list, right before you.”
“Where?”
“Would you believe the ice rink at Rockefeller Center, and with two cops watching her?”
“You have cops on skates?”
“Not exactly,” Dino replied. “They were watching from the perimeter when she seemed to trip and fall. Then they saw the blood. They both fell down, running across the ice. She’d taken a round in the back of the neck at the top of the spine. She never knew what hit her.”
“Anybody hear a shot?”
“No, but it came from above, at street level, and nobody heard anything or saw it fired. At this time of night the crowds are thinning out.”
“Please add the ballistics report on that one to the other one you’re sending to Lance.”
“Sure. It’s gotta be from the same gun.”
“And the gun is probably from Lance’s armory, down in technical services at Langley.”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,” Dino said.
Fred entered with a tray of Greek pastries, rich with honey, and gave them forks.
“It’s a good hypothesis, and you know it,” Stone said.
“We’re not going to make an immediate announcement,” Dino said.
“You won’t have to. Type is being set as we speak, and I’ll bet there were three TV trucks there before you left.”
“Four,” Dino said, “but all NBC had to do was walk across the street.”
Stone reached for the TV remote control, but Dino held up a hand. “Don’t please; I’ve already seen it, and you can wait until tomorrow morning.”
“Have you thought about a copycat?” Stone said. “After all, a series of murders is an invitation to anybody who’d like to knock off a spouse or an ex.”
“It crossed my mind, but it’s too soon. Maybe after the next one.”
Vanessa spoke up. “You think there’ll be a next one?”
“As sure as brandy follows coffee,” Stone said, pouring them more.
“There’s always an opportunist out there,” Dino said.
“Or two,” Stone added.
“God forbid.” Dino’s phone went off again. He checked the caller ID, then switched off the instrument. “I don’t know how these people get my cell number, but they do, inevitably.”
“Next thing you know,” Stone said, “they’ll be ringing the doorbell.”
“Nobody knows where I am but my driver.”
The doorbell rang.
Stone picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Commissioner Bacchetti, please.”
“Wrong house, wrong time of day,” Stone said, then hung up.
“That was my driver,” Dino said, getting to his feet. “I turned off my cell, so he had to ring the bell.” He tossed off the remainder of his brandy. “I’m going to go home and hide there,” he said. “Tell Helene it was a wonderful dinner, as always, and you two sleep well. Or something.” He departed.
Vanessa climbed aboard again. “Where were we?”
“Why don’t we work on that in an actual bed,” Stone replied. He picked her up and headed for the elevator.
* * *
—
The following morning, when Stone turned on the TV, the media were all over the killing. NBC had a shot from the top of 30 Rock that zoomed in from thirty stories up, framing the corpse surrounded by white coats and blue uniforms, then zooming slowly in. Finally, they showed the remains being loaded on a gurney and then crossing the street to an underground elevator, the press figured it out in time to be hot on the heels of the wagon as it drove away.
They cut to an anchorwoman: “The police have made no statement yet, but our sources tell us that the victim was number nine on the hit list that’s been in the news. If so, her name is Trisha Marshall, and she’s a researcher at the New Yorker magazine. She’s forty-nine, divorced with two college-age children, and a regular at the Rockefeller Center skating rink.”
Stone switched channels and got more of the same. “My kingdom for some political reportage,” Stone said aloud.
Vanessa stirred. “What?”
“Nothing on TV except last night’s killing at 30 Rock,” Stone said.
“What time is it?”
“Breakfast time. What’s your pleasure?”
“French toast, bacon, OJ, and coffee,” she muttered, then turned over and went back to sleep.
Stone phoned the order to Helene in the kitchen, then retrieved the Times from outside his bedroom door, where it appeared, magically, each morning. The Times had placed the story, discretely, at the bottom of page one, where lived the one-sentence headlines of the stories continued inside. Stone went straight for the crossword.