“How’d you find me?” Stone asked.
“I tracked your cell phone, dummy. You think you can hide from me?”
Stone laughed. “I wasn’t hiding, I’m just surprised.”
“I wish I were the bearer of happy tidings,” Dino said.
Stone put down his fork. “Tell me.”
“About five-forty-five this evening, your pal Peter Grant lost control of his car on the West Side Highway, headed south, and turned it into a submarine. A brand-new Mercedes S-class, the souped-up one.”
“Did he survive?”
“No. They got the car up about a half hour ago. The driver’s-side window was blown out—or rather, had a fist-sized hole in it. He had taken a bullet in the head. A witness saw the car go in, but not the firing of the shot. There’s always traffic on that road, and his car just peeled off the right lane, through an emergency parking area and a crash barrier and into the water. It sank quickly, I suppose because of the hole in the window, in twenty feet of water. A police tug and a diver were called and got it up.”
“I’ve just got one question,” Stone said. “Where was Yevgeny Chekhov when this happened?”
“Winging his way toward Paris in something called a Dassault Falcon 8. He took off from Teterboro about lunchtime.”
“Peter would have been on his way to see me when he died,” Stone said.
“Why?”
“I saw him at lunch, expressed my concerns about his relationship with Chekhov, and offered help, if he needed it. He called me around five—Holly was there when I got the call—and said he’d take me up on it. I invited him for a drink at six. He’d have been on time, if the traffic wasn’t too bad.”
“Do you want a look at the body?”
“No, thanks. I’d like to know what he had in his pockets, though.”
“I’ll find out,” Dino replied. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“No. Thank you for coming, Dino. Do you have a next of kin on file?”
“No, we don’t.”
Stone took a card from his pocket. “Call Betty Baker at this number. She knows his family.”
“Thanks.” Dino pocketed the card.
“You got time for a drink?”
“Always,” Dino replied. Their waiter seemed to have read his mind, or his lips, and arrived with a scotch.
“I want to learn that trick,” Holly said.
“If you just think real hard about a drink, a waiter will get the message,” Dino said.
The mâitre d’ came over and looked at their plates. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.
“No,” Stone said, “I’m just not hungry anymore.”
“I am,” Holly said, continuing to eat while Stone’s plate was removed. “I want dessert, too. I didn’t know the decedent.”
Stone contented himself with his wine. “Excuse me for a minute.” He took out his phone, called Lance Cabot, and scrambled. “Were your people still following Peter Grant?”
“They were three or four cars back and saw him take the dive. They called it in, then broke off. We still don’t know what happened.”
“I can help you with that. Dino just caught up with me and told me Peter was shot from another vehicle and took a bullet to the head.”
“That’s a bit less subtle than poisoning, isn’t it?”
“Apparently, Chekhov was in a bit more of a hurry. By the way, he left for Paris around noon in a private jet. He was far from the scene when it happened, maybe even in Paris.”
“I’d love to know what Peter knew,” Lance said.
“He was on the way to my house when it happened,” Stone replied. “I think he was going to tell me what you want to know.”
Lance sighed. “That’s the way it goes sometimes. They get worried too late.”
“Exactly. I think maybe what happened to Vanessa Baker shook him. He realized that it could have been him—or maybe that it was intended to be him.”
“I hope he kept a notebook,” Lance said.
“Dino is going to examine the contents of his pockets. If he had something like that, we’ll get it.”
“Are you with Dino now?”
“Yes.”
“Let me speak to him for a moment.”
Stone handed the phone to Dino. “Lance wants to speak with you.”
Dino took the phone, listened for a moment, then said, “Sure,” and hung up. He handed the phone back to Stone. “He wants us to take the car apart, and Grant’s clothes, too, to see if there’s anything there.”
“Good idea,” Stone said.
“You want to see the car with me?”
Holly put down her fork. “Me, too. I’ll have dessert later.”
45
The police garage lights were on, so they got out of Dino’s SUV. Peter’s car was sitting in the middle of the ground floor, in plain view. Someone had left the driver’s door open, so the shattered window could be seen.
A man wearing police coveralls came over to Dino. “Evening, Commish,” he said. “What can I do you for?”
“Have you done anything with the Mercedes?” Dino asked, nodding toward the car.
“Not yet.”
“Let’s do it now. Take it apart and, when you’re finished, put it on a lift.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said and waved to a pair of his colleagues. “Bring crowbars,” he shouted.
“Can I have a look inside before you start?” Stone asked.
“Sure.”
Stone went to the driver’s door and looked around. Even though it had spent an hour or two in the Hudson River, it looked brand spanking new. The pedals had no wear on them and neither did the tires. He checked the center armrest compartment and found a current auto insurance certificate.
Dino opened the passenger door, then the glove compartment. “We got some paperwork here,” he said.
He put on some latex gloves and handed Stone a pair, then removed an envelope from the glove box. “We got an equipment list here,” he said, “and it’s loaded. One hundred and fifty-six thousand dollars and change.” He separated the list from the other papers and handed it to Stone. It was laminated in thin plastic, so was undamaged.