New York Dead (13 page)

“Of course,” Eggers said, extending his hand again. “We’ll make it dinner, when you’ve got the time.”

On his way home, Stone reflected on Bill Eggers’s prosperous appearance, the handsome office, the prestigious law firm. Was it possible that Woodman & Weld might need someone with his background?

When he got home, there was a notice from the NYPD: his return-to-duty physical had been scheduled. Stone flexed the knee. Not bad; he’d begun to forget about it. He tried a couple of half knee bends. It was sore, but he could ace the physical.

Chapter

17

C
an I buy you breakfast?” her low, pleasing voice said on the phone. “It’s the first real day of autumn outside, and we’ll have a walk in the park, too.”

“Oh, yes.” Stone exhaled. He was pitifully glad to hear from Cary. Their last, uncomfortable evening had been eating at him, and, in spite of her parting words, he had been unsure of his reception, should he call her.

“There’s a little French place called La Goulue, on East Seventieth, just off Madison. I’ve got a table booked in half an hour.”

“You’re on.”

They sat in the warm, paneled restaurant, a pitcher of mimosas between them, and drank each other in.

“I don’t know when I’ve been so glad to see anybody,” Stone said.

“I’m glad it’s me you’re glad to see,” she replied. She slipped off her shoe, and, under the tablecloth, rested her foot in his crotch. “Oh, you are glad to see me, aren’t you?” She rolled her eyes.

“That’s not a pistol in my pocket.” He grinned.

Her eyebrows went up. “You’re supposed to wear a gun all the time, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you wearing one now?”

He nodded.

“So that
could
be a pistol in your pocket.”

He laughed. “It could be, but it isn’t.”

“Where are you wearing it?”

“Strapped to my ankle.” He hated the bulge under his coat, hated being careful about inadvertently revealing the weapon.

“You have a badge, too, I guess.”

“That’s right. I wouldn’t be a policeman without a badge, would I?”

“Let me see it.”

Stone produced the little leather wallet and laid it on the table.

She flipped it open and ran a finger around the badge. “It’s gold,” she said.

“A detective’s badge is always gold. It’s what every cop wants, a gold badge.”

The waiter came and refreshed their mimosas from the pitcher, leaning over, eyeing the badge.

Stone flipped the wallet shut and put it back in his pocket.

“I want it,” she said.

“Want what?”

“The badge.”

Stone laughed and shook his head. “To get that badge, you’d have to sign up for the Police Academy, walk a beat for a few years, spend a few more in a patrol car, then get lucky on a bust or two, and have a very fine rabbi.”

“Rabbi?”

“A senior cop who takes an interest in your career.”

“Do you have a rabbi?”

“I did. His name was Ron Rosenfeld.”

“And he helped you?”

“He helped me a lot. I would never have made detective if not for him.”

“Why did he help you?” she asked.

“That’s a funny question. Why do people ever help each other?”

“But there must have been some specific reason, apart from just liking you. Did he help all young policemen?”

“No,” Stone admitted. He thought about it for a moment. “I think it may have been because he was a Jew and I was such an obvious WASP.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t he help Jewish cops, instead of you?”

“I think because he had been discriminated against when he was a young patrolman, so he felt some empathy with my situation. He saw me getting passed over for good assignments, and it rankled, I guess. Oh, he helped a lot of young Jewish cops, too. It wasn’t just me.”

“Did he retire?”

“He died. It was a lot like losing my father.”

“So who helps you now?”

Stone shrugged. “Nobody. Well, Dino helps me.”

“But he’s junior to you, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he’s more inside than I am. I think he defends me sometimes; I think it’s made a difference, too.”

“It’s a funny situation, isn’t it?”

“I guess. I can live with it, though. At least I get to keep doing what I like; I have enough rank to get good cases, and I have a good reputation as an investigator.”

“I don’t want to pry, but I worry about you sometimes. How are you doing on Sasha? I read the papers.”

“The papers were accurate. It’s a brick wall; very frustrating.”

“Are you getting a lot of pressure from above? Political pressure, I mean?”

“So far, my commander has been able to keep the heat off Dino and me. The taxi murders diverted some attention from us at a good time, but they also took all the manpower we had on Sasha’s case.”

“Is that hurting your investigation?”

Stone sighed. “Not really; not much. The greater part of the legwork had already been done when the taxi shootings happened. We’d interviewed everybody who had anything to do with Sasha by that time. Dino’s going over the reports now, just to be sure we haven’t missed anything.”

“What’s going to happen on the Sasha investigation? I mean, what’s likely to happen?”

“We’ll get a tip,” Stone said. “Eventually. That’s how most cases are solved—never mind all the scientific stuff: fingerprints, DNA matching—most cases are solved because somebody finally tells us something.”

Their eggs Benedict came, and they ate hungrily.

When the check came, Stone paid the waiter, then looked Cary in the eye. “Sometimes, in cases like this, the
person waits a long time to come forward. Sometimes it’s hard to do the right thing.”

She kept his gaze for a moment, then looked down at his jacket and frowned. “Where do you buy your clothes?”

She wasn’t going to talk to him; not yet, anyway. He glanced at the brown herringbone. “Different places. There are a couple of discount places downtown that have nice stuff, sometimes.”

“I said I’d help you furnish the house; I think I’d better start by furnishing you.”

“Okay,” Stone said, “I guess I could use some furnishing.”

“Come with me.”

Stone followed her out of the restaurant. She led him briskly around the block to the corner of Seventy-second and Madison and into a handsome stone building. He had seen the place, but he had never been in. It wasn’t the sort of place cops bought their clothes.

The store was a wonderland of beautiful things. She led him to the third floor, where she found a rack of tweed jackets. In seconds she had extracted one and helped him into it.

A salesman sidled up. “Our forty-two long fits you perfectly,” he said. “That jacket won’t require the slightest alteration.”

Stone felt for the tag, but Cary ripped it off and handed it to the salesman. “Never look at price tags,” she said. “That’s not the way to shop. Buy what’s right for you, and worry about the money later. That’s what credit cards are for.”

She found another jacket, then some trousers, then she started on the suits. He managed to hold her to two, but they were beautiful, he had to admit, and they did fit him perfectly. She shook his wallet out of the old jacket and handed the
garment to the salesman. “Send this,” she said. “He’ll wear the plaid one.”

“I guess I should get some shirts,” Stone said.

“Downstairs,” the salesman said, handing him a credit card chit to sign.

Stone followed instructions and didn’t look at the amount. He tried to stop in the shirt department, but she pulled him away.

“They’re wrong for you,” she said. “We’ll get those elsewhere.” She hailed a cab. Shortly, they were in a Fifth Avenue department store; she guided him to a shop within the store. “These are English,” she said, hauling out a stack of shirts from a shelf, “and they suit you.” A dozen shirts later, they were in an Italian shoe store, trying on loafers and featherweight lace-ups.

By the time they reached Central Park, Stone felt like a new man. The mimosas still buzzed in his veins, and the clear, autumn air elated him. Autumn always seemed like the beginning of the year to Stone; New Year’s was an anticlimax.

“You look wonderful in that jacket,” Cary said.

“I feel wonderful in it,” he replied. “I feel wonderful with you.”

“That’s the way you’re supposed to feel,” she said. They walked north along the Fifth Avenue side, enjoying the color in the trees, and, at Seventy-ninth Street, she led him from the park. “My place,” she said.

The doorman didn’t seem to recognize him. On her floor, he glanced at Sasha’s door.

“Don’t think about that,” she said, pulling him into her apartment.

The place was a mirror image of Sasha’s, and it was
beautifully put together—feminine, without being cloying, beautiful fabrics, good pictures, expensive things. “This is wonderful,” Stone said. “You’re hired as my decorator.”

“You know the best thing about this apartment?” Cary asked.

“What’s that?”

“It has a bedroom. And a bed.”

“Oh. I’d better have a look at that.”

“Yes, I think you’d better,” she said, unbuckling his belt.

Later, when they fell asleep, exhausted, it was with his soft penis in her hand. He liked sleeping that way.

When he got home, the following evening, the Saturday mail awaited him. There was a letter from his bank:

Dear Mr. Barrington:

Just a reminder to let you know that your note is due at the end of the month. The note is, of course, adequately collateralized by your house, and I will be happy to renew it, but I must tell you that, with the softening market in large properties, the bank’s new lending policy will require a substantial reduction of the principal when renewing. I might be able to persuade the loan committee to accept a reduction of $25,000. And, of course, there will be $4800 interest due.”

The letter hit him like a blow to the belly. He’d borrowed the money to renovate the house, but the banker had promised to keep renewing until he had a buyer. Then he had another thought. He dug out the receipts for the clothing he had bought. The total came to nearly four thousand dollars.

Stone went into the bathroom and lost his lunch.

Chapter

18

S
tone was twenty minutes late to work. When he walked into the squad room, the place went quiet. Dino stood up from his desk and waved Stone toward the stairs.

“What’s up?” Stone asked as they trotted up the steps together.

“Leary wants us in the conference room. There’s brass here.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone said.

Down one side of the long table were arrayed the detective squad commander, Lieutenant Leary; Chief of Detectives Vincent Delgado, a slim, rather elegant man in his fifties; and an imposing black man Stone recognized from his photographs
, who was wearing the well-pressed uniform of a deputy commissioner. Deputy commissioners were mayoral appointees. Stone didn’t know the other man, who looked like a banker, in a pin-striped suit, white shirt, and sober necktie.

“Chief, you already know Barrington and Bacchetti,” Leary said.

Delgado nodded, managing a tight smile.

“Commissioner Waldron, these are detectives second grade Barrington and Bacchetti,” Leary said unnecessarily.

“I’m glad to meet you, men,” Waldron said. “I’ve heard a lot about both of you.”

“Oh, shit,” Dino said under his breath, not moving his lips.

“Right,” Stone whispered back. Waldron had been a hot assistant DA when he had joined the campaign staff of the mayor, and, after the election, he had been the mayor’s first appointee to a law enforcement position. It was said Waldron had mayoral ambitions of his own, since the mayor had let it be known that he would not be running for a third term. Waldron had a reputation for meddling in police investigations.

“And, Detectives,” Leary continued, “this is John Everett, special agent in charge of the New York office of the FBI.”

Everett, expressionless, nodded sleepily.

“If you’ll forgive me, gentlemen,” Waldron said to Leary and Delgado, “I’ll tell the detectives why we’re here.”

“Of course, sir,” Leary said.

Delgado merely nodded.

Waldron turned to the detectives. “I want to forget what I’ve read in the reports and what I’ve read in the papers. I
want to hear from you every step that has been taken in the Sasha Nijinsky investigation, from day one. From
minute
one. And don’t leave anything out.”

Goddamn Leary,
Stone thought. If he’d given them a few hours’ notice he could have put together some kind of presentation. Now he would have to wing it.

“From minute one,” Waldron repeated. “Go.”

“Sir,” Stone began, “I was proceeding on foot down the west side of Second Avenue at approximately two
A.M.
on the night of the…occurrence. I was off duty. I happened to look up, and I witnessed the…Ms. Nijinsky’s fall.” He was still having trouble calling the event a crime and Nijinsky a victim.

“This actually happened?” Waldron interrupted. “The papers got it right?”

“Mostly, sir.” He continued to relate the events of that night. When he got to the collision of the ambulance with the fire engine, Waldron started shaking his head.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he said, “that’s the goddamndest worst piece of luck I ever heard of.”

“My sentiments exactly, sir,” Dino said.

Leary and Delgado laughed.

“Go on,” Waldron said.

Stone took the man through his and Dino’s actions for the rest of the night, then asked Dino to describe the subsequent investigation by the detective squad. Neither detective referred to his notebook.

When they had finished, Waldron spoke again.

“Detectives, have you left any avenue uninvestigated?”

“Sir,” Stone said, “the detective squad of this precinct interviewed sixty-one witnesses, co-workers, and friends of Ms. Nijinsky and made more than eight hundred telephone
calls, all within thirty hours of the occurrence. Since that time, Detective Bacchetti has reviewed each of the interview reports, and he and I have conducted a search of the home and business premises of the possible suspect, Van Fleet.”