Margaretta nodded, then shook her head. “Sometimes,” she said.
“Would he be there now?”
She shook her head. “He has been gone for two days.”
“Margaretta, what is Manolo’s cell phone number?”
Every junkie had a cell phone.
Morgan handed her a pad of paper and a pen. “Just write down the number, Margaretta.”
“Will you hurt him?” she asked, handing the pad back to Morgan.
“No, of course not,” Stone replied. “If he returns the picture at once, he will get a thousand-dollar reward.”
Margaretta began to recover herself. “Please,” she said, taking her phone from her apron pocket, “let me call him so he won’t be frightened.”
“All right,” Stone said, “but please speak English.”
Margaretta blew her nose, then pressed a button.
“Yeah?”
“Manolo, it’s Mama. I have good news.”
“Mama, I’m busy right now.”
“Could you use a thousand dollars?”
A brief silence. “What are you talking about?”
“If you bring home the picture, you will get a thousand dollars.”
Stone rubbed his thumb against his fingers.
“Cash,” she said.
“A thousand dollars?”
“Yes, truly, but you have to bring the picture home now.”
“Mama, I already sold the picture. I got a hundred dollars for it.”
Stone said a silent “Who?”—exaggerating his lip movement.
“Who did you sell it to, Manolo?”
“I can’t tell you, Mama. He would hurt me. I gotta go now.” He hung up.
“What can I do?” Margaretta asked. “You heard.”
“Margaretta,” Stone said, “please leave it to me. We’ll find Manolo and learn who bought the picture, and your son will not be hurt, I promise. And he may still get the thousand dollars.”
Margaretta looked at Morgan for confirmation.
Morgan nodded vigorously. “Now you can go back to work, Margaretta. Everything will be all right.”
“Oh, Margaretta?” Stone said.
She turned. “Yes, sir?”
“Do you have a photograph of Manolo?”
She fished in her other apron pocket and came up with a wallet. She found it and handed it to Stone.
“Thank you, Margaretta,” he said. “I’ll see that it’s returned to you.” She went to the kitchen, and he looked at the picture: it was a school photo, taken when the kid must have been sixteen or so. He was angelically beautiful.
“Now what?” Morgan asked.
Stone motioned for them to go out onto the terrace, pointing at his ear. When they had closed the doors behind them, he said, “I’ll take care of this.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Find Manolo, for a start.”
“How are you going to find a junkie in Spanish Harlem?” she demanded.
“Please, Morgan, go inside.”
Reluctantly, she went inside and closed the doors behind her.
Stone called Dino and got sent directly to voice mail. Stone left an urgent message, then went inside, where Morgan stood, hands on hips.
“What did you do?”
“I left someone a message.”
“Dino?”
“Yes.”
“What can he do?”
“Morgan, Dino is the commissioner of police. Now I’m going to go home and try to get some work done. I’ll call you when we have some results.” He kissed her, retrieved his jacket, and left.
? ? ?
ALL THE WAY home in the cab, Stone thought about what had to be done. This was not good. Morgan’s question was appropriate: How was he going to find a junkie in Spanish Harlem? All he had was a cell number, and he hoped it was enough.
? ? ?
BACK IN HIS OFFICE, Stone checked and Dino had not yet returned his call. He called Dino’s secretary, and it went straight to voice mail. In desperation, he called Viv.
“Hello, Stone.”
“Good morning, Viv. I’m having trouble reaching Dino. Do you know where he is?”
“Yes, he’s at a policeman’s funeral, a patrolman who was shot last week.”
Stone remembered the news report. “When am I likely to be able to reach him?”
“Oh, God, it could take half the day or longer. There’s a parade, then a very long funeral service, then the wake—the boy was Irish—and you know how that can go. Did you leave him a message?”
“Yes.”
“Well, stop calling him, he’ll get back to you as soon as he can.”
“Right,” Stone said. “I’ll wait for his call. Bye.” He hung up and called Art Masi.
“This is Lieutenant Masi. I’m attending a police funeral. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back later in the day.”
Stone sighed and called Bob Cantor.
“Hey, Stone.”
“Listen, Bob, I’ve got to locate a guy, and all I have is a cell phone number.”
“Give it to me. Let me fire up my cell search engine,” Cantor said. “I’ll call you back.”
Stone waited impatiently; ten minutes later, Joan buzzed him. “Bob Cantor on one.”
He grabbed the phone. “Yes, Bob.”
“I’ve got your guy,” Cantor said. “He’s in Spanish Harlem.”
“I figured. Can you put him at an address?”
“He’s moving, in a car or a cab. No, wait, he’s stopped. He’s on the street. Hang on, I’ll superimpose my street map. I’ve got him going into a building near the corner of Fifth Avenue. He’s still moving, he must be climbing stairs.”
“Give me the address, Bob.”
Cantor recited it. “Hang on, he’s moving funny.”
“What do you mean, funny?”
“It’s like he’s dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“Short, choppy movements. Hang on.”
“What’s going on, Bob?”
“He seems to be on the sidewalk again. Oh, shit, I think he went off the building.”
“How can you tell that?”
“It’s like he was scuffling with somebody, and he lost the fight. He was on an upper floor, maybe the roof. Now he’s on the sidewalk.”
“I’d better get up there,” Stone said.
“He’s not moving,” Cantor said. “You’d be better off calling nine-one-one.”
32
STONE CALLED 911 and reported the incident, then he ran outside, got into a cab, and headed uptown.
? ? ?
IT WAS A GOOD twenty minutes before Stone arrived at the scene. A patrol car and an ambulance had one side of 125th Street blocked, and a small crowd lingered, hoping for a look at the body, which was a lump under a sheet. A supervising sergeant had arrived and was standing next to the lump, taking notes from a conversation with one of his officers.
Stone waited for them to finish, then approached the officer and showed him his retirement badge. “Sarge, do you mind if I have a look at the body? It’s about another case.”
The sergeant looked at him narrowly. “Are you Barrington?”
“Yep.”
“Yeah, I remember you from the One Niner. What case?”
“Art theft. The kid stole a valuable picture, then sold it, and I have to find out who to.”
“Awright,” the cop said, turning his back on the corpse. “Be quick about it.”
Stone pulled back the sheet and saw that the angelic good looks of the sixteen-year-old had fled him. He was scrawny and unshaven and his hands and fingernails were filthy; his head rested in a pool of drying blood. Stone pushed up his sleeves and found fresh track marks. He checked his pockets and found a wad of bills, something over fifty dollars, and a business card from a bar, with a phone number written on the back of it. He palmed the card and returned the cash to the pockets. “Thanks, Sarge,” he said. “Did he go out a window or off the roof?”
“The roof. We got a couple of witnesses to that.”
“Anybody see who threw him off?”
“Of course not. You get what you needed?”
“Not much to get,” Stone replied.
“That’s life, pal.”
Stone departed the scene and walked down 125th Street. He had a look at the card: Sam Spain’s Bar, maybe a block down the street. His cell phone buzzed.
“Yes?”
“It’s Dino. I’m at a wake. What do you need?”
“I needed to locate a junkie, but I got there too late.”
“A particular junkie?”
“The son of Morgan’s maid. He stole something, and I was trying to get it back, but he’s already sold it.”
“Any idea where?”
“Not really, but there was a business card from a bar in his pocket. I thought I’d check it out.”
“What bar?”
“Sam Spain’s on 125th Street.”