10
ON MONDAY MORNING the Leahys picked up Carrie and took her to her first rehearsal, and Stone went to work in his office, as usual. Shortly after ten o’clock, Joan buzzed Stone. “Bob Cantor on one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Good morning, Bob. Did you have a nice weekend?”
“I did until a minute ago,” Cantor said.
“What’s up?”
“I had my people in Atlanta on Max Long all weekend. They found a cooperative guard on the apartment complex gate who let them in for a hundred. He was in and out until yesterday afternoon, and then he seemed to hunker down for the evening. Then, this morning, FedEx delivered the box I sent him, and nobody answered the door. Since it required a signature, the guy put it back on the truck.
“My guy got suspicious when this happened. He called Long’s phone number, but there was no answer. Finally, he looked in some windows, and there’s nobody home. His car is still parked outside.”
“So, he got past your guy?”
“His place is on the ground floor; he could have left by a back window and called a cab, I guess. This is not good.”
“No, it’s not. Did the airline’s reservation computer alarm go off?”
“Nope.”
“If he booked under a false name, he’d have to show ID at the ticket counter, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, but he could have made a reservation under another name and had an e-ticket e-mailed to him.”
“Have you warned the Leahys?”
“Yep, and that’s about all we can do for the moment. Carrie is rehearsing at the theater, isn’t she?”
“Yeah. Since Del Wood owns the theater, they didn’t have to go to a studio.”
“How many ways in?”
“Front doors are locked, so the stage door is the only way. There’s a guard there, and we’ve alerted him, but he’s an old guy, and it might not be too hard to get past him.”
“Keep in touch.” Stone hung up.
TEN MINUTES LATER, Joan buzzed him. “Carrie Cox on one.”
“Hello?”
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the Leahys are all over me.”
“That’s their job.”
“Has something happened?”
“Am I interrupting your rehearsal?”
“No. I’m in the ladies’ room on a break.”
“Max has disappeared from his apartment, and we don’t know where he is.”
“Wasn’t somebody watching him?”
“Apparently, he went out a back window.”
“Is he on his way to New York?”
“There was no Delta reservation in his name, but he could already be here, so listen to the Leahys.”
“How’s the weather?”
“What?”
“Between here and Atlanta,” she said.
“Jesus, I don’t know. When I got up this morning the national forecast was for good weather for the entire East Coast.”
“Then he’s in his airplane.”
“He has an airplane?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you mention that before?”
“It didn’t come up.”
“What kind of airplane?”
“It’s a King something or other.”
“A King Air?”
“Yes.”
“With two engines?”
“Right.”
“What’s the tail number?”
“N-something,” she said.
“Every airplane in the United States is N-something.”
“I don’t remember the rest.”
“Does he often fly to New York?”
“Sometimes.”
“Where does he land?”
“I don’t know, exactly.”
“Did you ever fly to New York with him?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he land?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How did you get from the airport to New York?”
“In a limo.”
“Did you go through a tunnel?”
“No, we went over a bridge, the big one.”
“The George Washington Bridge?”
“That’s the one.”
“Did you land at Teterboro?”
“Yes, that’s it!”
“When you got out of the airplane you were at an FBO. Do you remember its name?”
“You mean, like a terminal?”
“Like that, but for private aircraft.”
“What are some FBOs?”
“Jet Aviation, Meridian Aviation, Atlantic Aviation, Furst Avia . . .”
“Atlantic, that’s it!”
“Is that where he always lands?”
“I guess so.”
“Is there anything else you haven’t told me about how Max travels?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How’s your rehearsal going?”
“We’re just reading through the script right now. Gotta run!” She hung up.
Stone got on his computer and went to the FAA aircraft registry, then typed in “Max Long” in the search engine. Nothing. Must be owned by a corporation. Stone called Cantor.
“Cantor.”
“It’s Stone. Carrie forgot to mention that Max Long owns an airplane, a King Air.”
“I thought he was broke.”
“Me, too. He usually lands at Teterboro, at Atlantic Aviation.”
“Got a tail number?”
“That would be too easy.”
“I’m on it.” Cantor hung up.
Stone was left, tapping his foot. Twenty minutes later, Cantor called back.
“I’m here.”
“He landed at ten fifteen last night. Teterboro Limousine took him to the Lowell Hotel, on East Sixty-Third Street.”
“You may need more than the Leahys,” Stone said.
“What, for a guy with a knife?”
“There’s nothing to stop him from carrying a gun on a private airplane.”
“Oh. Okay, I’ll get up to the Lowell now, see what I can see. I don’t think we’ll need more people. I’ll let the Leahys know that he may be packing, but I think the two of them can handle him.”
“If you say so,” Stone said.
HALF AN hour later, Bob Cantor walked into the Lowell, a small, elegant Upper East Side hotel, carrying a box from a florist’s shop. He approached the front desk. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” the desk clerk replied. “May I help you?”
“Do you have a Max Long registered here?” Cantor asked.
The man consulted his computer. “Yes, we do.” He reached out for the box. “He’s out just now; I’ll take the flowers.”
“Just tell Mr. Long that Stone Barrington says, ‘Hi,’ ” Cantor said. He turned and walked out of the hotel, dumped the empty box in the trash can on the corner, and called Stone.
“Hello?”
“It’s Cantor. Long is registered at the Lowell but on the loose.”
“Swell.”