in case.
Mason walked in. “It’s all right, I’m alone.”
“Why the hell are you alone?” she demanded. “Don’t you know who we’re dealing with?”
“Of course I know who we’re dealing with,” he said in his upper-class drawl.
“And why didn’t you call before you came up? I could have shot you.”
“I was supposed to call?”
“Oh, never mind. Where is everybody?”
“I sent two men to the Harvey apartment. We’re waking up more.”
“She’s around this hotel somewhere,” Carpenter said, “I can feel it.”
“Give me a description, and I’ll circulate it.”
“Early thirties, five-five, a little under nine stone, medium brown hair, shoulder length, black eyes . . .”
“Black eyes? Nobody has black eyes.”
“All right, very dark brown. She’s dressed in a business suit, carrying a handbag that looks like a briefcase. God knows what’s in there.”
Mason produced a cell phone and made a call. “Why don’t you want to call the police?”
“I’d like it if we could bag her on our own,” Carpenter replied. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
Mason shrugged. “Why share victory with the NYPD or the FBI?”
The telephone rang, and Carpenter waited for Mason to get to an extension before answering. They picked up simultaneously. “Yes?”
“We’re in the Harvey flat,” a man said. “It’s clean as a whistle.”
“It would be, wouldn’t it?” Carpenter said.
“Hang on, we’re checking the garden.”
Carpenter hung on for a very long time before the man came back.
“We’ve got a corpse—female, might be thirty, medium height and weight.”
“Got her where?”
“Got her in a hotbox in the garden.”
“A gardening hotbox?”
“Exactly.”
“How long dead?”
“No rigor present, she doesn’t stink. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Get out of there, and clean up after yourself. Tell me you didn’t jimmy the door.”
“I picked the lock.”
“Then stake out the place in case La Biche returns, and be very, very careful.”
“All right.”
“Tell me you didn’t make this call on Harvey’s phone.”
There was a brief silence. “Ah, we’re getting out.”
Carpenter punched off. “Dunces! They called here on Harvey’s phone!”
Mason groaned. “Now we’ll have to talk to the NYPD. They’ll surely check her phone records.”
“You let me do the talking,” Carpenter said. She looked up Dino Bacchetti’s cell phone number in her book and dialed it.
22
The jeep ground to a halt in the parking lot of a marina. “This way,” Stone said, pointing.
Dino jumped. “Hang on, it’s my cell phone,” he said, groping for it. “This time of night, somebody’s gotta be dead.” He opened the phone. “Bacchetti.”
“Dino? It’s Carpenter.”
“Oh, hi,” Dino said. He held his hand over the phone. “It’s Carpenter.”
“Why the hell is she calling you ?” Stone asked, reaching for the phone.
Dino held it away. “She’s calling me, I’m talking to her. What’s up, Carpenter?”
“I have a little problem for you, Dino.”
“For me? What kind of problem?”
“A couple of my people stumbled into a murder on your patch.”
“Who did they murder, Carpenter?”
“Nobody. La Biche took care of that.”
“Who’d she murder, one of yours?”
“A civilian, a woman named Ginger Harvey, and La Biche has taken her identity, at least for the time being.”
“Tell me about it.”
Carpenter gave him the address. “It’s a ground floor, rear apartment with a garden. The body’s in a hotbox in the garden.”
“What’s a hotbox?”
“It’s a gardening thing, like a small greenhouse without glass.”
“I’ll send some people over there.”
“They’re not going to find much, except for the body. This woman is very smart, and she will have eliminated all trace of her presence there.”
“Yeah, but we’ve gotta go through the motions.”
“A favor, Dino: Can you wait until, say, mid-morning tomorrow before
Mason walked in. “It’s all right, I’m alone.”
“Why the hell are you alone?” she demanded. “Don’t you know who we’re dealing with?”
“Of course I know who we’re dealing with,” he said in his upper-class drawl.
“And why didn’t you call before you came up? I could have shot you.”
“I was supposed to call?”
“Oh, never mind. Where is everybody?”
“I sent two men to the Harvey apartment. We’re waking up more.”
“She’s around this hotel somewhere,” Carpenter said, “I can feel it.”
“Give me a description, and I’ll circulate it.”
“Early thirties, five-five, a little under nine stone, medium brown hair, shoulder length, black eyes . . .”
“Black eyes? Nobody has black eyes.”
“All right, very dark brown. She’s dressed in a business suit, carrying a handbag that looks like a briefcase. God knows what’s in there.”
Mason produced a cell phone and made a call. “Why don’t you want to call the police?”
“I’d like it if we could bag her on our own,” Carpenter replied. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
Mason shrugged. “Why share victory with the NYPD or the FBI?”
The telephone rang, and Carpenter waited for Mason to get to an extension before answering. They picked up simultaneously. “Yes?”
“We’re in the Harvey flat,” a man said. “It’s clean as a whistle.”
“It would be, wouldn’t it?” Carpenter said.
“Hang on, we’re checking the garden.”
Carpenter hung on for a very long time before the man came back.
“We’ve got a corpse—female, might be thirty, medium height and weight.”
“Got her where?”
“Got her in a hotbox in the garden.”
“A gardening hotbox?”
“Exactly.”
“How long dead?”
“No rigor present, she doesn’t stink. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Get out of there, and clean up after yourself. Tell me you didn’t jimmy the door.”
“I picked the lock.”
“Then stake out the place in case La Biche returns, and be very, very careful.”
“All right.”
“Tell me you didn’t make this call on Harvey’s phone.”
There was a brief silence. “Ah, we’re getting out.”
Carpenter punched off. “Dunces! They called here on Harvey’s phone!”
Mason groaned. “Now we’ll have to talk to the NYPD. They’ll surely check her phone records.”
“You let me do the talking,” Carpenter said. She looked up Dino Bacchetti’s cell phone number in her book and dialed it.
22
The jeep ground to a halt in the parking lot of a marina. “This way,” Stone said, pointing.
Dino jumped. “Hang on, it’s my cell phone,” he said, groping for it. “This time of night, somebody’s gotta be dead.” He opened the phone. “Bacchetti.”
“Dino? It’s Carpenter.”
“Oh, hi,” Dino said. He held his hand over the phone. “It’s Carpenter.”
“Why the hell is she calling you ?” Stone asked, reaching for the phone.
Dino held it away. “She’s calling me, I’m talking to her. What’s up, Carpenter?”
“I have a little problem for you, Dino.”
“For me? What kind of problem?”
“A couple of my people stumbled into a murder on your patch.”
“Who did they murder, Carpenter?”
“Nobody. La Biche took care of that.”
“Who’d she murder, one of yours?”
“A civilian, a woman named Ginger Harvey, and La Biche has taken her identity, at least for the time being.”
“Tell me about it.”
Carpenter gave him the address. “It’s a ground floor, rear apartment with a garden. The body’s in a hotbox in the garden.”
“What’s a hotbox?”
“It’s a gardening thing, like a small greenhouse without glass.”
“I’ll send some people over there.”
“They’re not going to find much, except for the body. This woman is very smart, and she will have eliminated all trace of her presence there.”
“Yeah, but we’ve gotta go through the motions.”
“A favor, Dino: Can you wait until, say, mid-morning tomorrow before
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