Woods, Stuart - Stone Barrington 41 - Fast and Loose by Woods Stuart

Author:Woods, Stuart [Woods, Stuart]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2017-03-22T14:59:01+00:00

31

Erik Macher gazed up at the girl on top of him. “How’s that, baby?” he asked.

“Oooh, good!” she replied, as she was expected to. “Why don’t you just move me into your apartment, and we can do this all the time? Looks like you’ve got plenty of room.”

“Don’t ruin the mood,” Macher said, then the doorbell rang. He glanced at the bedside clock: three AM. “What the hell?” he said, sitting up and unseating the young woman.

“What’s the matter?”

The doorbell rang again, and there was a hammering on it, followed by muffled shouting.

“Don’t you move,” Macher said. He reached into his bedside drawer and withdrew a Glock. He grabbed a robe, and as he departed his apartment, he slapped the panic button on his security system, and a siren began to wail. As he reached the first floor, there was a huge bang, a splintering sound, and the front door flew open, followed by a man with a steel ram, surrounded by uniformed police officers wearing body armor.

“Drop the gun!” a cop yelled at him.

Macher had forgotten the Glock in his excitement, and he opened his hand, allowing it to fall onto the stairs. “What the fuck is this?” he screamed.

A cop handcuffed his wrist and fastened the other end to the banister rail. “What’s your security cancellation code?” the cop shouted.

Macher told him, and the cop entered it into a keypad at the bottom of the stairs. The siren abruptly stopped. “I asked you, what the fuck is this?” Macher demanded anew.

A detective in a suit stepped forward and handed him a paper. “This is a warrant, allowing us to search the premises.”

“Search the premises for what?” Macher demanded, tossing the warrant aside.

“Whatever the fuck we like,” the cop replied. “You’ve been served, now shut up and cooperate. Who else is in the house?”

“My secretary lives on the second floor.” As if on cue, the woman appeared, one landing up, tying a robe around her. “And there’s a Ms. . . . oh, I don’t know what the hell her name is. She’s on the top floor in my bed . . . ah, apartment.”

“Is that your office?” the detective asked, pointing at a set of double doors.

“Yes.”

“All right,” he shouted to his group, “execute the plan.” He pointed at a young man in civilian clothes. “You—on the computers, now.”

“Gotcha,” the youth replied, heading for the double doors.

Macher sat down on the stairs, the cold marble freezing his ass through the thin silk robe, picked up the warrant and began to read. “Shit!” he said to nobody in particular.

—

AS DAWN BROKE over the Upper East Side, the policemen began departing, carrying boxes of documents and other evidence. The IT man approached the detective in charge and held up a thumb drive. “Got everything worth having,” he said.

“Go back to the precinct and print it all out,” the detective said, “then get yourself some breakfast and some sleep.”

The detective walked over to Macher, who was still sitting on the stairs, handcuffed to the rail.

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