“About seven months.”

“And the relationship was like what?”

“Pleasant, amusing—he did have a sense of humor—and attractively sexual.”

“And you tried to make it all those things again?”

“Yes, I did, and it worked. Also, besides trusting me, he knew that I had no idea where I was, not even what state I was in, having arrived there in the trunk of a car. He knew that I’m a city person, unaccustomed to the woods, and he knew that I’m a little afraid of the dark.”

“A little?”

“All right, more than a little. Enough that I was well anchored in the cottage. He knew I wouldn’t try to walk out of there at night.”

“So, what is your theory of what happened after you left the cottage with Stone?”

“Well, obviously Onofrio returned to the cabin and someone else killed him. I certainly didn’t, and somehow I don’t think he committed suicide.”

Herbie laughed. “Probably not. Do you have a theory of who killed him?”

“He had associates, he ran a chop shop, which is a criminal enterprise, is it not?”

“It is.”

“Then his associates were criminals. I should think he knew a number of people who would kill him for several million dollars. I think that Onofrio would have killed me for several million dollars, but I don’t think he intended to, or that he thought he had to to get the money. Stone had already said that he would bring the money, but that he would have to see me alive before he’d hand it over.”

“Did you ever meet any of Onofrio’s associates?”

“One man, once. Onofrio picked me up at my apartment for dinner, and we drove to an Italian restaurant in Red Hook, a little mom-and-pop place. I can’t remember what it was called, except that it was the possessive of a male Italian’s first name—Gino’s, for instance, but not actually. But it was a very common Italian name.”

“And did he meet someone there?”

“We had just sat down and ordered wine when a man in a sharp suit came into the place, walked over to our table, and handed Onofrio a plain envelope, rather thick, as if it contained money. He introduced the man as Marty, no last name. The two talked for a minute in a kind of code, not mentioning names or places. The effect was that someone who owed him money had paid him. Onofrio put the envelope into his inside suit pocket, and the man left. He didn’t refer to him again.”

“Did you have any other impressions of the man?”

“He was rather handsome, seemed to be Italian, and Onofrio seemed to respect and trust him, as if he were a valued associate.”

“Yes,” Herbie said, “if you’ve got a few million bucks in cash lying around, you’ve gotta watch out for those valued associates.”

“What should I do?”

“Nothing,” Herbie said. “Let’s let the police make the next move. Do you know how to make a conference call?”

“You enter some sort of code, don’t you?”

Herbie explained the process. “If you get a call from the police, either Connecticut or New York, ask them to hold and call me. If they come to your home or your place of work, or if they take you or ask you to come to a police station, call me and I’ll meet you there. Tell them you don’t want to answer questions until your attorney arrives, and don’t let them charm or threaten or trick you into talking to them before I arrive or am on the phone.”

“All right.”

“If they don’t contact you, then you’re probably in the clear. Go live your life. But I think you’ll hear from them, if only because they’ll want more information.”

“Should I tell them about Marty?”

“After I’m on the phone or present. Only then. I’ll introduce the subject.”

“All right.”

Herbie walked her to the elevator, shook her hand, then returned to his office and called Stone.

“What did you think?” Stone asked.

“I was impressed with her. She told me something she hasn’t told you.”

“What was that?”

“I tell you this as a collaborator in representing her, so as to avoid client-attorney confidentiality.”

“Of course.”

“She was out to dinner one evening when an associate of Buono’s, who he introduced as ‘Marty,’ brought him an envelope that seemed to hold a lot of money. She said that she thought that Buono respected and liked him and regarded him as a trusted associate. I think that Marty sounds good for the killing, if he knew that Buono was coming into millions in cash. They may even have been collaborating, and Marty wanted it all. I think that Hank would have been killed, too, if you hadn’t just taken her out of the cottage.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can learn about that. What do you think Hank’s future looks like?”

“I think she’ll get through this without getting arrested and charged—unless there’s something she hasn’t told me.”

“Well, there is that, isn’t there?”

“All too often,” Herbie replied.

47

Stone called John Fratelli on his throwaway cell phone.

“Yes?”

“It’s Stone Barrington.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Bats Buono is dead.”

“Hey, that’s good news! Who offed him?”

“Somebody arrived at the lake cottage sometime after I left with the girl. He was stabbed repeatedly, and his head was cut off with an ax. His car was rolled into the lake.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. If I was his murderer, I’d put the body in the car before I rolled it into the lake.”

“That’s a very good point.”

“Was Bats driving one of his stolen cars?”

“Very possibly.”

“Then here’s how it might have gone down: Bats is partners with some guy in the kidnapping for ransom. He calls the guy and tells him you’re bringing the money, to get up to the cabin. The guy arrives and finds Bats, but no money and no girl. He takes this badly, then one of two things happens: either he goes into a rage and stabs Bats and cuts off his head to make ID harder, or more likely, he believes that Bats has gotten paid and released the girl, so he puts a gun to Bats’s head and tells him to cough up. Bats swears he didn’t get paid, and the guy puts one in his head, then he cuts the head off so the cops can’t do a ballistics match on the bullet. Maybe it’s his favorite piece.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that. There’s a suspect. Bats had a close associate named Marty. Ring a bell?”

“I don’t know any of his associates, but tell you what: I’ll call Bats’s old man, Gino, and ask about Marty, see what I can get from him. Call you back?”

“Sure.” They both hung up.

• • •

Fratelli called Gino Buono.

“Yeah?”

“Gino, it’s Johnny Fratelli.”

“Did you kill him, Johnny?”

“So you heard.”

“Some cop from Connecticut called me. Did you, Johnny?”

“No, Gino, I’m in Vegas. I had nothing to do with it.”

“I didn’t think you did, but I had to ask.”

“It’s okay. I’ve heard something, though, might be useful.”

“Tell me.”

“Did Onofrio have an associate called Marty?”

“Yeah, Marty Parese. Marty was his right-hand man. They’ve been tight since they were kids.”

“I heard that Marty and Onofrio might have been in this together and were going to split the money.”

“Onofrio didn’t tell me nothing, but that makes a lot of sense.”

“You think Marty would off Onofrio for a few million in cash?”

Gino was quiet for a moment. “Maybe. Come to think of it, who wouldn’t off him for that much money? I can’t think of anybody I’d trust around that kind of money.”

“Just a thought. My condolences, Gino, for your loss.”

“Thanks, Johnny.”

Fratelli called Stone back. “I spoke to Bats’s old man, Gino.”

“And?”

“Gino says the guy is Marty Parese, and he and Bats were tight since they were kids. Gino also thinks Marty is good for the killing, since there were millions involved.”

“I’ll see that it gets looked into,” Stone said. “Thank you, John.”