Most important, John Stefanovitch thought that she was beautiful, inside and out—and she needed to be told that very much right now. Sarah needed to believe it about herself again.
When they had kissed at her beach house, Sarah had actually experienced some light-headedness. She hadn’t felt that way in years; and she found that she’d missed it a lot, more than she had known.
79
THE ELEVATOR EASED TO A stop and the polished oak door slid open noisily. Sarah smiled when she saw Stefanovitch. This was like a date. How many people their age were dating nowadays? A lot, she suddenly realized.
He had obviously spiffed up after work. His thick brown hair was combed; his faded blue work shirt looked pressed. He would always seem a little Pennsylvania-barnyard, but there was also a subtle polish to him, something that went beyond Minersville, a dash of Manhattan cynicism. And he definitely was handsome, even in the Chair.
“Hello there, Stef.” She suddenly felt shy, the way she did whenever she overthought a social situation. “How’d it go?”
“Well, it was a long day, but a pretty good start.” He immediately retreated into talk about work.
So did she. “How was Isiah Parker? How was he to be with?” she asked. It was partly a nervous question, but she did want to know.
“A lot better than you and I on our first day.” Stefanovitch smiled. “I like him. He wants St.-Germain. His brother was a lot of his life. There’s something else, though, something Parker’s not willing to tell me yet.”
It had suddenly occurred to Sarah that they were holding this conversation in the hallway, where they were easy prey to eavesdroppers.
“Should we go inside?”
“It’s a nice hallway and all, but I guess we should move inside. Sam Snead, winner of three Masters and three PGAs. Is he still up and around?”
“He went off about an hour ago. Will you have a drink with me? I have some wine.”
He liked the way she looked in jeans, bare feet, and a faded Western print shirt. “If I have that drink, I think I’ll turn into a vegetable.”
“That’s okay. I’ll feed you something if you like.”
Sarah made cheese and herb omelets, and she opened a bottle of Château Margaux. It was quiet in the kitchen, where they sat; nicely peaceful after the long, frantic day.
While the eggs were cooking, Stefanovitch finished the last of the tollhouse cookies.
“I’ve gone past the point where sleep is possible. You know that feeling?” he said after he’d polished off his omelet and half the bottle of wine.
“I know the feeling right now. Another omelet? More wine? Cookies?”
“Please.”
“Really?” Sarah’s eyes widened. The light from the lamp overhead played through her hair.
He nodded and grinned. He was feeling almost human again. There was something so luxurious about the cheese omelet and wine at midnight. He hadn’t eaten like this for a long, long time. Part of his life was getting so good, so much better, that it frightened him.
After the second helping, he sat at the table with a satisfied smile spread across his face.
“Beautiful, talented, and she can cook like a whiz. What’s the catch? What’s wrong with her?”
Sarah sighed, her brow puzzling slightly. “She’s divorced. Has a small child who needs lots of love and attention.”
“What else? Nobody would ever object to Sam. Nobody worth too much, anyway.”
“She can be a workaholic sometimes, which might make her seem too self-centered to some people.”
“There’s more than that, isn’t there?”
“Probably. I think so. Oh, I don’t know. Stefanovitch, do you want to go to bed with her tonight?” Sarah said, and suddenly she could barely breathe. It was out now. No turning back.
A look of concern drifted over his face, a definite mood shift.
“Do you think that’s a good idea right now?”
“I have no idea. It’s what I’d like to do, though.”
As if in a dream, the two of them left the kitchen and proceeded to the bedroom. The world seemed a little fuzzed at the edges. Moonlight was streaming through the picture windows. They began to undress, both of them feeling a little strange, suddenly quiet and private.
As her fingers clumsily unbuttoned and loosened clasps, she kept thinking, I want to make love to him. A warm and pleasant sensation was spreading through her now, almost a glow. She wanted him very much. She had for a long time.
Sarah came to him. They kissed, and it was as sweet as the kiss at the beach. Yes, there is definitely something here, Sarah thought.
“Is this going to be all right for you?” she said against his cheek. She didn’t know how to ask certain awkward questions. She didn’t want to rush or pressure Stef in any way. She wanted this to be right for both of them.
“Yes, it’s good for me. After I got hurt, I thought there might not be any feeling. There is, though. I mean, you know what I mean. I can do something about what I’m feeling.”
Sarah understood better after the first few minutes in bed. For one thing, he had the gentlest touch she could imagine. Using his fingertips, he stroked her back and shoulders, then her face and neck, then lower on her body.
She wondered if he had always been so tender. He wasn’t what she had expected at all.
He was completely aware of her body; very sensitive and warm.
As they became comfortable, the inhibitions began to go away, layer upon layer, like taking off bulky winter clothes.
Sarah straddled Stefanovitch. Admiringly, she noticed that he had the body of a twenty-five-year-old: firm and hard, especially his stomach, but also his arms and shoulders. He was powerful, but so careful in the way he touched her.
Sarah kissed his chest, loving his smell, which was fresh and clean.
His fingers lightly kneaded her back and neck. He was relaxing her, inch by inch, her body starting to melt.
“Where did you learn to be so nice in bed? So sweet?” she whispered.
“Backseats of old cars out in Minersville. The Middleview Drive-In Theater. South Junior High parking lot.”
“No, Stef. Uh-uh.” She kissed him again.
“I was in love once. Remember?”
She placed a finger over his lips. “I love the way you feel. The way you touch me,” she whispered in the darkness.
“Everything is going to be fine. We don’t have anything to be afraid of,” he said.
“I was petrified on the way to the bedroom.”
“So was I, Sarah.” Stefanovitch smiled. He also blushed in the darkness, and was glad that she couldn’t see.
“I’m not anymore. I’m not afraid.”
“I’m not either. Oh, maybe a little bit.”
“Make love to me, Stef. I love the way you touch me. I really do love it.”
80
John Stefanovitch; New York Harbor
THE HARASSMENT CONTINUED the following morning.
It was the only way to get to St.-Germain.
A forty-foot launch transported nearly a dozen officers from U.S. Customs and the Drug Enforcement Agency, as well as Stefanovitch, out to a freighter called the Osprey. The Turkish ship was anchored just inside New York Harbor, near the Ambrose Light.
Captain Mohammed Rowzi silently cursed the fates as he examined a five-page document stamped with the official seal of the Customs Service, Department of the Treasury. A filterless cigarette that was half ash hung from his bloated, white-scabbed lips. Gulls circled and shrieked overhead.
Captain Rowzi’s command of the English language was poor, but he recognized enough words to understand that he and his ship were in serious trouble with the New York City police.
In particular, Captain Mohammed Rowzi knew that he was in big trouble with the unsmiling police lieutenant seated in the wheelchair before him on his ship’s deck.
“What is meaning this paper?” Captain Rowzi folded both arms across his broad chest, the paper
s flapping against the wind. He was trying to appear completely mystified as he talked to the police officials.
“This is just your basic court order,” Stefanovitch said in an innocent voice. “It means the Customs Service has received information deemed reliable, passed on by the police department or another law enforcement agency. Your ship is suspected of carrying contraband, specifically narcotics. Drug Enforcement and Customs now have the power to search the ship. They also have the legal power to seize any narcotics and other contraband they find.
“They have the power to destroy your ship’s cargo on the spot, actually. This is Inspector McManus. The search is at his discretion now. His call. Maybe he can tell you more.”
Stefanovitch glanced over at a U.S. Customs officer, Barry McManus, with whom he’d worked several times before. The most amazing thing about this charade was that it was perfectly legal, even commendable.
Captain Rowzi glared into Stefanovitch’s eyes. “Paper means nothing!” he said, and started to turn away.
“Glad you think so.” Stefanovitch shrugged. “I just hope the people who own all the cargo on board feel the same way. Inspector McManus, you can search the boat now.”
A half-dozen New York Customs inspectors immediately, and rather joyfully, went to work. They began their search by ripping apart several wooden crates filled with Turkish cigarettes, pottery, and phony Oriental rugs.
Next, the inspectors carefully went through the ship’s books, checking the bill of lading line by line against the ship’s actual contents. The inspectors found the usual discrepancies, but they made much of them. The search was as noisy as a New Year’s Eve party in Peking.
Five hours later, John Stefanovitch, Inspector Barry McManus, and a very unhappy-looking Captain Rowzi were back together again in the captain’s small, untidy quarters.
Outside the open door, a uniformed policeman stood with a riot shotgun poised across his chest. The freighter captain was already under arrest. Several million dollars’ worth of uncut heroin was being guarded on one of the police launches off the bow.
“I know nothing of drugs. Someone puts drugs on my ship.” Captain Rowzi solemnly, but nervously and unconvincingly, protested. “I am ship captain seventeen years.”
Barry McManus shook his head. He revealed a trace of sympathetic regret, but mostly bureaucratic indifference. His stiff stare was enough to bring strong men to tears. It had done just that more than once in McManus’s career.
“We want to talk to the owners of the cargo on board.” Stefanovitch repeated his bargaining appeal to the freighter captain. “I think I’ve been consistent on that point.”
The Turkish captain wearily shook his head. His khaki shirt was black with sweat stains that ran nearly to his belt. The cramped bunk room smelled like a horse stable.
“I told you name. Star of Panama Company,” he said again, emphasizing syllables with spit. “Star of Panama Company.”
“Yeah. The Star of Panama Company owns the ship. But not the cargo. Not the heroin, Captain Rowzi. We already went through all this crap. It’s on the bill of lading.”
“Captain Rowzi,” Inspector McManus broke in. “Captain, we legally searched your vessel, and we found uncut heroin. We also found perfectly legal pottery, cigarettes, machine-made rugs, specie. All that cargo is in jeopardy now. All of it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The round, bullish shoulders of the ship’s captain sagged further. His neck had almost disappeared.
“Know nothing of drugs,” he repeated.
Stefanovitch looked at the Customs inspector first, then at Captain Rowzi again. “Tell him, Inspector. I think he deserves to know. The owners ought to know, too. The owners of the cargo.”
“In accordance with provisions of the RICO Act,” McManus said to the freighter captain, “I’ve ordered my officers to destroy your vessel’s shipment of goods. Everything on board. All of the cargo. Everything you’ve brought to New York.”
Captain Rowzi couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Were these policemen insane? Entire ship cargoes were never destroyed. His eyes nearly fell out of his face. Such dangerous, unbelievable English words were being spoken: heroin… destroy…cargo.
“No! What I tell owners?”
Stefanovitch leaned forward in his chair. The stench of garlic and sweat coming from Rowzi was overwhelming in such close quarters.
“You can tell Mr. St.-Germain and his friends that under federal law there will be no restitution for any of their losses. Tell them that this is all legal. It’s the fucking law… Our law. And this is just a start.”
Stefanovitch started to leave the captain’s quarters, but he paused and turned back.
“And tell him that Lieutenant Stefanovitch said hello. We’re old friends. Old, old friends, Mr. St.-Germain and myself.”
81
AT EIGHT-THIRTY that night, Stefanovitch pushed himself between crowded dining tables inside the Lotos Club on East Sixty-sixth. The Lotos Club had originally been opened as a gathering place for people in the literary arts. Nowadays it was a favored locale for business meetings, lectures, and lavish parties for executives.
That evening, the main-floor dining room was filled with men and women gathered for one of the hundreds of honorariums that plague New York every night of the year.
Up on the dark wood podium, Alexandre St.-Germain was addressing the room. He saluted the honoree, but also multinational businesses in general, a subject he was well versed in.
Stefanovitch temporarily parked his wheelchair beside one of the tables. He listened to the Grave Dancer talk.
He also watched—both St.-Germain and the other so-called business leaders. He wondered how many of them were legitimate in their multinational business dealings. Were any of them in the Midnight Club? They all looked so above it all; so beyond reproach; so perfect in every way.
Finally, Stefanovitch began to push himself forward again. He tried to clear his mind, refusing to second-guess himself about what he was doing here tonight.
He was flashing painful scenes from Long Beach on the night of the ambush. He was remembering things about Anna; how she had died that night in March.
When he got close to the speaker’s rostrum, Stefanovitch raised his voice above the din in the room.
“St.-Germain!” he called. “I have a warrant for you to appear before the grand jury. It’s in connection with violations of the Continuing Criminal Enterprise Law. I’m serving you here, with all these very reliable witnesses present.”
Conversation around the room ceased immediately. The waiters stopped serving dinner. Silverware froze halfway to open mouths. St.-Germain’s face was a dark red mask of embarrassment.
Stefanovitch stared at the drug dealer and murderer for a long moment. No one in the dining room looked as if they could possibly belong to the Midnight Club. But nothing was as it seemed anymore.
Stefanovitch finally pushed himself out of the Lotos Club dining room. He was getting to Alexandre St.-Germain. He was sure of it.
82
STEFANOVITCH WENT HOME after the Lotos Club. He felt better than he had at any other time during the St.-Germain investigation. All his instincts told him that they were doing this right. Just right so far.
He took a hot shower, dried off, and popped open a bottle of beer. He called Sarah, and told her about the scene at the Lotos Club. He wanted to talk about everything with her, but he knew enough not to try. He was too worn, absolutely fried, unfit for anybody’s company tonight.
Finally, Stefanovitch dropped off to sleep on his couch, half watching a movie. The late-night feature was Chinatown, Jack Nicholson at his most brilliant and mesmerizing as J. J. Gittes.
Sometime later the phone rang—a jangling up somewhere near the head of the sofa. Stef woke in a disoriented blur.
The room was a cubist puzzle. The picture window was on the wrong side of the bed. All the lights were still on, throwing glaring reflections from the windows back into the room.
He finally realized that he was on the couch in the living room, not in his bedroom.
He reached for the phone, nearly pulling it off the stand in the process. He knew it could only be Sarah.
“Hello, this is Stef.” He imitated a phone-answering machine. “When you hear the beep, tell me last night wasn’t a dream. What time is it? Oh yeah, hi.”
There was a strange silence on the other end of the line.
It felt like the physical reality of being somewhere in pitch-blackness. Like falling into a deep tunnel, or drifting into the unfathomable mysteries of death.
A voice finally filtered through the receiver’s tiny black holes. Stefanovitch’s pulse quickened as he listened.
“I wanted you to know one thing, Stefanovitch. I shot her myself. I took the job personally.
“I stood in the hallway of your pathetic little apartment building in Brooklyn Heights. When the front door opened, I fired the shotgun. You can imagine the rest, I’m sure. You get the picture. Good night for now.”
83
John Stefanovitch and Isiah Parker; Central Park West
I WANTED YOU to know one thing…
I shot her myself…
You can imagine the rest…
The unnerving explosions inside Stefanovitch’s head hadn’t stopped since the phone call.
At six-thirty in the morning, he was on East Forty-third Street waiting for the Sports Center to open. He’d been up since four.
For once, Beth Kelly was sympathetic during the workout. She pushed him, but didn’t try to break him. Something about the wounded look on Stef’s face had quieted her down.
By eight o’clock, Stefanovitch and Isiah Parker were back on Central Park West, waiting for Alexandre St.-Germain to come out to his limousine again, for the chase to resume, the real chase. Maybe the final one.
The Grave Dancer had gotten to Stefanovitch with the phone call.