Dirt by Stuart Woods

Stone: He was the cop who broke the Sasha Nijinsky disappearance case a few years back. For his trouble, the department shipped him out. Now he’s supposed to catch us at our work! Lotsa luck, Stone!
    “What’s going on, Stone?” Dino asked.
    “I don’t believe it,” Stone said. “This happened only this afternoon, what, five hours ago?”
    Elaine was loving it. “I love it!” she crowed.
    “Tell me,” Dino said.
    Stone told him.
    “You got nothing better to do with your time than to track down somebody for an old dame who got caught with her knickers down?”
    “She’s an important client of Woodman and Weld, or maybe just an important person; I’m doing it as a favor to them. And she’s not so old.”
    Dino shook his head. “Give me a good homicide anytime.” He drained his coffee cup and set it on the table, glancing at his watch. “I gotta be somewhere,” he said.
    “Oh?” Stone asked, looking at his own watch. “You’re going home to Brooklyn so early?”
    “Not directly home, no.”
    “Dino.” Stone shook his head. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble.”
    “What’re you talking about, trouble?”
    “I know you; this unscheduled stop has something to do with a lady.”
    “So?”
    “So, if your father-in-law should hear about it, you won’t have anything to offer the ladies anymore.”
    “Stone, don’t say stuff like that,” Dino said, shivering.
    “You know I’m right.”
    “The old man has too much to worry about that he should take an interest in my social life.”
    “Don’t be so sure, pal.”
    “I’m always careful,” Dino said, slipping into his coat.
    “I hope you’re right,” Stone said.

Chapter 11
    O n the West Coast, as Dino left Elaine’s, Allan Peebles arrived at his Beverly Hills home after a long editorial board meeting at the “newspaper” he edited, The American Infiltrator. His editorial board consisted of a dozen writers and editors who had failed at real newspapers and magazines and had ended up, as Peebles had, at the last stop for a journalist, a seamy tabloid. They were consoled by the fact that they were considerably better paid than their counterparts at real newspapers.
    Peebles was an androgynous Scot who had fled his native Glasgow, pursued by rumors about his sexual orientation, for London, where he had acquired an English accent, an English wife, and, apparently while holding his nose, two English daughters. When the marriage failed, hisfather-in-law, who owned a London tabloid, had sent him to America to found a similar organ there, on the condition that he not return to England until his daughters were of age.
    To his father-in-law’s surprise, Peebles had succeeded in putting together a highly profitable, if highly disreputable, publication, which specialized in exposing those parts of the lifestyles of the rich and famous that they had hoped would remain secret. Peebles did this with some glee, while, in the permissive atmosphere of La-La Land, indulging his own rather specialized appetites. Tonight, Peebles was hungry for pizza.
    Upon entering his empty house, he shucked off his jacket, picked up a phone, and pressed an unlabeled speed-dial button.
    “Jiffy Pizza,” a whiskied female voice said.
    “It’s number two zero two; how are you, sweets?”
    “Fine, baby; what’s your pleasure tonight?”
    “I’m in the mood for the special.”
    “’Round-the-world?”
    “You bet.”
    “With sausage?”
    “ Lots of sausage.”
    “That’s going to run you twenty,” she said. Twenty meant two hundred.
    “And cheap at the price, I’m sure it will be.”
    “Half an hour, sweets. Your order is in the oven.”
    “The sooner the better. Bye.” He hung up andwalked into the kitchen. Opening the freezer door, he extracted a bottle of lemon vodka and poured himself a double. He always had to be a little drunk for pizza.
     
    Three miles away, Sheila consulted her book and dialed a number.
    “Hey, talk to me,” a husky male