Fresh Disasters by Stuart Woods

them.
    “You think Herbie is still alive?” Cantor asked.
    “I think that depends on whether Herbie can convince them that he has some hope of paying,” Stone said. “It’s time to call the Brooklyn cop shop.”

21
    S tone sat on the arm of a formerly overstuffed chair in Herbie Fisher’s apartment and watched the two detectives pick their way around the apartment.
    “Well, so far,” Detective One said, “this is vandalism, as I see it.”
    Detective Two nodded in agreement.
    “It’s kidnapping, possibly a homicide, with burglary,” Stone said.
    Detective Two shook his head. “I don’t see anything missing.”
    Stone sighed. “If you could see it, it wouldn’t be missing.”
    “Huh?”
    “Herbie had money here; you see any money?”
    “Well, no, but how do we know there ever was any money here?”
    “We have only the kidnap victim’s word for that, but it’s a start, don’t you agree?”
    Cantor broke in. “Look, guys, my nephew has been missing for three days, and when we enter the apartment, we find this.” He waved an arm around.
    “What can I tell you?” Detective One said.
    “I’ll bet you could tell me a lot if the kidnapped person was a beautiful twenty-one-year-old model. I’ll bet your crime scene people would be all over this.”
    “Here’s another thing,” Detective Two said. “You’ve disturbed this crime scene; it’s no longer any good.”
    Stone and Cantor both held up both hands to show their latex gloves.
    “We’re both retired from the job,” Cantor said. “You think we don’t know at least as much as you two assholes about crime scenes?”
    “Now, speaking to us disrespectfully is not going to get you extra service,” Detective One said, sounding hurt.
    “When I speak of you disrespectfully, it will be in the newspapers,” Stone said, “which is my next stop if you don’t get your ass in gear and put out a bulletin on Herbie. As we explained to you, he owes one of Carmine Dattila’s bookies a lot of money, so you already have a suspect.”
    “Yeah, but that Dattila guy works out of Manhattan,” Detective Two said.
    “He works wherever the fuck he wants to work,” Cantor pointed out, “and the kidnapping and burglary happened in Brooklyn, in, of all places, your precinct. And in just a minute, I’m going to be speaking to your captain.”
    “While I’m speaking to the New York Post ,” Stone added.
    “Awright, awright,” Detective One said. “I’ll make out a report and get Mr. Fisher’s description circulated.”
    Stone’s cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. “Yes?”
    “It’s Joan. You have a new client waiting, so you should get your ass back here in a hurry. This one smells of money.”
    “What new client? Eggers hasn’t said anything about sending anybody over.”
    “Mrs. Bernard Finger.”
    “I’ll be right there,” Stone said. He closed the phone. “Bob, you’ll have to take it from here; I’ve got a fire to build.”
    Cantor nodded.
    Stone ran out of the building, searching for a cab.
     
    J oan met him at the outer door to his office. “She’s very upset; I did the best I could to calm her.”
    “Good girl,” Stone said, kissing her on the top of her head. He strode into his office and found Mrs. Bernard Finger sitting on his sofa, sipping a cup of tea and munching on a cookie, looking not at all upset. She appeared to be in her early forties, very well maintained and pretty much a knockout in her age group and maybe a couple of younger ones, Stone thought.
    “Mrs. Finger,” he said, extending a hand, “I’m Stone Barrington. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
    “Call me Bernice,” she said, shaking his hand. “I expect you know why I’m here.”
    “Why don’t you tell me,” Stone said. “Tell me everything.” He sat down on the sofa and listened intently to every word she said, nodding sympathetically. He knew most of it, but when she patted a briefcase on the sofa beside her, he really began