“Stone, I need those photographs.”
“Why?”
“They’re important to something I’m working on.”
“I don’t understand,” Stone said. “How could some bedroom divorce photographs be important to MI Five, or whatever number it is you work for?”
“I can’t talk about that,” she said.
“All right, then, I’ll trade you.”
“What do you mean, trade me? Isn’t that a baseball term?”
“I’ll trade the photographs for some information.”
“What information?”
“I want to know how Larry Fortescue died.”
“Your rabbit-brained photographer fell on him,” Carpenter replied.
“Nah, that’s not what killed him; Herbie fell on Larry’s legs. He was already dead, wasn’t he?”
“How would I know that?” she asked, looking out the window.
“Because somebody—somebody you’re very likely associated with—arrived at the morgue this morning with a federal court order and took the corpse away.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Okay,” Stone said, standing up, “no photographs for you.”
“Wait!”
Stone stopped.
“You can never tell anyone I told you this.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Fortescue died from the application of some sort of poison to the base of his spine. We haven’t figured out yet what it is.”
“I’m going to need a letter to the DA from a credible authority, stating that Fortescue was already dead when Herbie tried to fly.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. It may take a few days.”
“As few as possible, please.” Stone reached into his pocket and handed her the four photographs.
Carpenter looked at the first one, of Fortescue lying on his back, the woman hovering over him. “Oh, Lawrence,” she murmured.
“Huh?” Stone said.
She looked at the other three photographs, then her mouth dropped open. “Jesus!” she said. She got up, found her handbag, took out a cell phone and dialed a number.
“It’s Carpenter,” she said into the phone. “I’ve got a photograph of her.” She looked at the bedside clock. “Half an hour,” she said, and punched off.
“What’s going on?” Stone asked.
“Get out of here. I’ve got to get dressed,” she said, rummaging through the closet for clothes.