“The bitch broke my nose!” Charlie wailed. “I’m going to fuck her with the knife!”

Arrington continued to struggle, but she was losing. Then she heard the door open, and suddenly she was released.

“How ya doin’?” a strange voice said, followed by two dull thumps. She had seen enough movies to know what a silenced pistol sounded like.

Arrington rolled off the sofa and ran blindly in the direction of the bedroom; she knew she was there when she felt carpeting under her feet. She got behind the door and kicked it shut, then turned around and found the lock. One turn, and she was locked in. She ran into the bathroom, knocking a knee painfully against the toilet. There was a pair of scissors in the top drawer of the vanity; she got them out and began trying awkwardly to aim them at the tape holding her wrists. From the living room she heard two more thumps.

The first man straightened up. “Okay, that piece of business is taken care of. What about the girl?”

“We were told to take out any witnesses,” the second man said.

“Yeah, but didn’t you see? Her eyes had duct tape on them.”

“You’ve got a point.”

The first man walked to the bedroom door and tried it. “Locked. We’ll have to break it down.”

“That’s gonna be noisy,” the second man said. “These old buildings have solid doors.”

“You’re right,” the first man said.

“We’ve been here too long already; let’s get out now.”

Then someone spoke from the front door of the apartment. “Freeze!” the voice said.

Stone stood in a crouch, the.765 pistol fully extended in front of him. He saw, as if in slow motion, the man at the bedroom door start to turn, saw the gun in his hand. He fired once, knocking the man against the bedroom door, then immediately turned and got off another round at the second man, who was pointing a pistol at him. Simultaneously, the man jerked and spun, and Stone felt the breeze and hum of a bullet go past his ear.

Arrington heard the shots and a loud thump against the bedroom door, and she redoubled her efforts with the scissors. The tape was tearing now, and she forced her wrists apart until she could get a hand free. She ripped the tape off her eyes.

Still holding the pistol out in front of him, Stone stepped over the man closest to him and kicked his gun away from him. He performed the same operation with the man lying in front of the bedroom door, then felt for a pulse at the neck. Nothing. He turned to the other man, who was clutching his side with one hand and struggling to get to his feet. “Lie down,” Stone said. When the man continued to get up, Stone hit him with the gun. He went down and lay quiet. “Arrington!” he yelled. He looked around for her. The two Bruce brothers lay near the sofa, bullet wounds in the back of both heads. There was blood all over the floor. “Arrington!” he yelled again, and went into the kitchen. Nothing there.

He went to the bedroom door and tried it. Locked. He stood back, pivoted off his right foot, and drove the left into the door, just below the lock. The door burst open, and he rushed in, the pistol out in front of him. Something was coming at him from his left side, and he hit the floor to get away from it, struggling to get the gun up. Something struck the floor near his head.

Then he saw he was aiming at a naked woman holding a baseball bat. “Arrington!” he shouted, throwing up an arm to ward off the blow.

She froze. “Stone? Where the hell have you been?”

He got to his feet, stuck the gun into his pocket, and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry I took so long,” he said.

She sagged into his arms. “It’s okay,” she replied. “As long as you made it.”

He laid her across the bed and pulled the bedspread over her. She seemed to have fainted. When he was sure she had a pulse and no wounds, he went back into the living room. The man he had hit was on his feet. Stone aimed the gun at his head. “I’m not going to tell you again to lie down! Spread-eagle, now!”

The man obeyed.

Stone frisked him, found a knife, threw it into the kitchen. There was a roll of duct tape on the kitchen counter; he went to the man and taped his hands behind his back. “You just relax,” he said. “I’m going to get you some help.”

He found the phone and dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one,” a woman’s voice said. “Which emergency service do you require?”

“Police,” he replied.

“Police,” another woman’s voice said. “What is the nature of your emergency?”

Stone looked around him, uncertain how to sum it up. “My name is Stone Barrington; I’m a retired police officer. There are four men shot at Ten-eleven Fifth Avenue, Apartment Nine-A, three dead, one wounded. I need an ambulance and the police.” She started to ask him some other questions, but he hung up and called Dino at the 19th Precinct.

“He’s on his way home,” a clerk said.

“Thanks.” Stone hung up and called Dino’s portable phone.

“Bacchetti,” Dino said.

“It’s Stone. You’d better get over to Arrington’s apartment; I’ve got a fine mess for you.”

“Is Arrington all right?”

“Yeah, she’s okay. The Bruce brothers are not, and I’ve got one dead wiseguy and one wounded.”

“You call nine-one-one?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be right there.” Dino punched off.

Stone took a moment to look around the apartment. A laptop computer sat on Arrington’s desk, connected to her printer. A single sheet of paper lay in the out tray; he picked it up and read it. Next to the computer was a stack of three Federal Express packets, one addressed to the NYPD, one to the New York Times, and one to the Commissioner of Internal Revenue. After reading the final issue of DIRT, it was not hard to figure out what was in them. He picked up two of the packets, went to Arrington’s large handbag on the floor beside the sofa, and tucked them into the bag. Then, starting to feel shaky, he sat down on the sofa and took a few deep breaths. His face and his hands were sweaty; he tucked the pistol into its holster, got a handkerchief from his pocket, and began to mop his face. Then he began to feel nauseous. He bolted for the bathroom.

Chapter 59

The bicyclist pulled up a couple of doors down from the address he had been given and got off the machine. It was a ten-speed racing bike, and he was dressed to use it – tight cycling pants, a nylon jacket, a helmet, and very large yellow-tinted goggles. He leaned against a tree and waited, consulting his watch. Half an hour passed, then the woman emerged from the building, just as he had been told she would, dressed in a ball gown and a fur jacket. The chauffeur braced at the rear door of the Mercedes S600; she got into the rear seat, and the car pulled away from the curb.

“We’re going to the Plaza Hotel, Paul,” Amanda said. “I expect to be there until about eleven. We’ll go to the front door.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paul said. “Mrs. Dart, would you mind if I stop at a drugstore and pick up some aspirin? I’m getting a headache.”

“Of course, Paul; we have time.” Amanda pressed the switch that raised the rear sunshade, giving her some privacy, then leaned back, her neck against the headrest, and took some deep breaths. Amanda could sleep in seconds, and she often took advantage of slow automobile trips in Manhattan, where the average speed of traffic was four miles per hour, to rest. “I’m going to take a quick nap, Paul,” she said. “Please don’t disturb me until we’re arriving at the Plaza.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paul replied.

Amanda liked to think of something pleasant as she fell asleep. She thought about her lunch date with Dick Hickock the following day, and it made her smile.