New York Dead (14 page)

“Is Van Fleet still a suspect?” Waldron asked.

“Officially, of course, sir. But we haven’t got a thing on him, except that he wrote Ms. Nijinsky a great many very polite letters.”

“Do you have any other suspects?” Waldron asked.

“No, sir,” Stone replied.

There was a brief silence in the room. Nobody seemed to have anything else to say.

Except the FBI man, Everett. “Why didn’t you call the FBI?” he asked.

Stone turned to face Everett; he had felt this coming. “Because no federal crime has been committed,” he replied. “As far as we know.”

“How about kidnapping?” Everett asked.

Chief of Detectives Delgado spoke up. “The lady took a twelve-story dive,” he said laconically. “What’s to kidnap?”

“Good point,” Waldron said.

Everett leaned forward. “Perhaps Detective Barrington would tell us about his terminal velocity theory,” he said encouragingly.

Stone felt color creeping up his neck into his face.

“His
what
theory?” Delgado asked sharply.

“Terminal velocity,” Stone said, clearing his throat. “It’s just a theory, sir. There’s nothing really to support it.”

“I’d like to hear it anyway,” Delgado said.

“So would I,” echoed Waldron.

Leary rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

Stone briefly explained what terminal velocity is and
what part it might have played in Sasha Nijinsky’s fall.

No one spoke. No one took his eyes off Stone.

“Of course,” Dino interjected suddenly, “the lady’s gotta be dead. You don’t fall twelve stories and write about it in your memoirs.”

“We’ve treated this as a homicide from the beginning,” Stone said.

“But you’ve no evidence of a homicide,” Everett said, a little too smoothly. “In fact, the available evidence—the diary—points to a suicide attempt.”

“In any case, the lady’s dead,” Delgado said irritably.

“But Detective Barrington doesn’t think so,” Everett replied. “Do you, Detective?”

Everybody turned back to Stone.

“I think it’s…just possible she may be alive,” Stone said uncomfortably.

“I think Detective Barrington thinks it’s more than just possible,” Everett said. “But what counts is, was she alive when she was taken from that ambulance?”

“She may have been,” Stone said.

“We know she was alive at the scene of her fall, because of the videotape evidence Detective Barrington has told us about,” said Everett, spreading his hands, the picture of reason. “And the ambulance collision occurred only minutes later.”

“It’s possible,” Delgado said, glaring at Stone.

“All that matters to me, gentlemen,” Everett said, “is that she may have been alive when she was taken. Kidnapped. Kidnapping, in the United States of America, is a federal crime.”

“Granted,” Waldron said. “But, surely, you see our position in treating this as a homicide?”

Everett nodded. “I’m not here for a jurisdictional dispute, Commissioner; honestly, I’m not. But your own chief of detectives has just admitted that Nijinsky may have been alive when she was taken, so I’m calling it kidnapping, for the purposes of investigation, and the FBI is, from this moment, on it. Any objections?”

No one said anything.

Everett stood up. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, my purpose here is accomplished. I have an investigation to conduct.” He shook hands with those on his side of the table, nodded to the two detectives, and left.

When Everett had gone, Delgado turned to Stone. “Nice going,” he said. “Now we’ve got the feds on our backs.”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” Stone said, “I’m glad to have them in. Maybe they’ll stumble on something we haven’t.”

“That’s all we need.”

Waldron spoke up. “I’m inclined to agree with Detective Barrington,” he said to Delgado. “If this case isn’t solved, we can share the, uh…credit.” He turned back to Stone and Dino. “Detectives,” he said seriously, “I think you’ve done a first-class job on this, and I want you to know you have my support. Is there anything you need for your investigation? Anything at all? Just name it.”

“We need a break,” Dino said.

Chapter

19

D
ino snatched a file off his desk. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Stone.

Stone waited until they were in the squad car before speaking. “What do you think?”

“I think we’re in the shit,” Dino said.

“I don’t know; Waldron seemed to be on our side. Said we’d done a first-class job, remember?”

“You trust Waldron?” Dino asked incredulously. “You’re so fucking naive sometimes, Stone.”

“Look, among the deputy commissioners, Waldron is the best of a bad lot. I mean, we could have drawn that guy who was in advertising before the mayor made him a DC.”

“Waldron’s a politician, and that makes him dangerous. And I can tell you Delgado is not happy with us for being
involved in something that gets Waldron’s attention—plus, he blames us for the FBI.”

“Come on, Dino, how can he blame us for that? We’re lucky we got this far in our investigation without the feds stepping in. Delgado knows that.”

“Delgado’s Italian, like me,” Dino said. “When there’s bad news, Italians shoot the messenger, remember? Right now, ‘Messenger’ is tattooed right across your forehead and mine, buddy.”

Stone shook his head. “I think you’re overreacting. If we’d made some huge blunder in the investigation, then I think we really would be in trouble, but we haven’t done that; we’ve run it by the book—well, mostly by the book—and we’ve covered all the bases.”

“Well, we haven’t covered our asses,” Dino said. “The only way we can do that is by making a bust.”

“By the way,” Stone said, “where are we going?”

“To the network,” Dino said, handing him the manila file. “Out of all the interview reports, this is the only one that looked worth doing again.”

“Hank Morgan,” Stone read from the file. “Makeup artist.”

“Look down at the bottom of the sheet.”

Stone read the last line. “Subject was nervous, wary, and gave only the briefest answers to questions, without elaboration.” Most innocent people, Stone knew, tended to blabber to the cops when questioned, not clam up. There were those who didn’t like cops, who were short with them, but this was interesting. “Did you call to say we were coming?” Stone asked.

“Nope,” Dino replied.

“Good.”

*  *  *

Hank Morgan was casually but elegantly dressed: Italian loafers, brown tweed trousers, a striped silk dress shirt open at the throat, a green cashmere sweater draped over the shoulders, the arms hanging loose. The hair was carefully barbered, the skin tan, the teeth white and even. A handsome character, Stone thought. And a woman, though just barely.

“I’ll be the bad cop,” Dino said through his teeth, as Morgan led them down the hall. “I hate dykes.”

Morgan led them into a room lit by rows of small bulbs around a large mirror. A barber’s chair was the only furniture.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, her eyes blinking rapidly.

“We’re investigating the Sasha Nijinsky matter,” Stone said. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

“I’ve already talked to two policemen,” Morgan said combatively. “I don’t feel much like talking anymore.”

Dino was on her like a tiger. “Well, we didn’t like your answers,
lady
,” he snarled at her, “and I don’t much care if you feel like talking or not.”

“Dino…,” Stone began.

“This is an investigation into the disappearance, maybe the death of a human being that you knew and worked with, and we intend to find out what you knew about it,” Dino continued, unabated. “We can do it up at the precinct, if you like.”

Morgan appeared to wither under this barrage.

Stone tugged at an earlobe.

Dino caught the signal. “Where’s the men’s room?” he said to Morgan.

“Down the hall to your left,” she replied.

“I thought you’d know,” Dino shot back as he left the room.

When he had gone, Stone closed the door. “I’d like to apologize for my partner’s conduct,” he said to her gently. “He’s under a lot of pressure on this case—we both are—and he sometimes gets a little worked up.”

Morgan looked relieved. “I understand,” she said. “It’s been a strain on me, too.”

Has it? Stone wondered. “I take it you knew Sasha quite well,” he said. He had no reason to suppose that; it was a shot in the dark.

Morgan nodded, but did not speak.

“Did…” Stone stopped. Another stab. “Were you in love with her?” he asked softly.

Morgan nodded again, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Stone said. “I know how hard all this must have been for you.” Yet another stab. “Was Sasha in love with you?”

Morgan wiped a cheek and looked directly at him. “Yes,” she said firmly.

“Did she tell you so?”

“She showed me,” Morgan replied.

“How long had the two of you been…seeing each other?”

“A couple of months,” Morgan said, drying another tear. She was composing herself now.

“And when was the last time you saw Sasha?”

“The night before she…disappeared.” She was calm now, and ready to talk.

“Where did you see her?”

“At my apartment. We always met there.”

“Did she stay the night?”

“Most of it. Sasha always left around four. She couldn’t be seen…”

“I understand.”

“Ms. Morgan, do you think Sasha might have been inclined to try to take her own life?”

“I…I don’t know. She was up and down a lot. She’d have these highs, when nothing could get her down; then she’d sink into these depressions. They never lasted long, but they were intense. She could be difficult to be with during those times. Maybe, in the depths of one of those, she might have…impulsively…done something. I just don’t know.”

“Would you characterize these mood swings as manic-depressive?”

“I’m not sure. From what I know about that condition, people who have it are unable to function when they’re depressed. Sasha could
always
function, and function brilliantly, no matter what her mood. She had a will of iron.”

Stone looked Hank Morgan up and down. She was five nine or ten, a hundred and forty-five, with an athletic, even muscular build. She looked as though she worked out regularly. “Ms. Morgan,” he asked, “where were you after midnight the night Sasha fell?”

“I was at home in bed,” she replied firmly.

“Were you alone?”

Now Morgan looked away. “No.”

“I think I’d better have the name of that person,” Stone said.

“Is it absolutely necessary?”

“I’m sorry, but it is. I want you to know, though, that I’ll do what I can to keep this information from becoming public. I understand your position.”

“Her name is Chelsea Barton. She’s a set designer here.”

“I’ll have to speak with her.”

“Her office is the other side of the reception area, on this floor.”

Dino came back into the room.

“I think we’re about finished here,” Stone said. “Thank you, Ms. Morgan. I very much appreciate your cooperation.” Dino stepped back into the hall, and Stone followed, then stopped. He turned back to the woman. “Ms. Morgan, was Sasha seeing anyone else that you know of?”

Morgan flushed. “Yes, she was. A man. She would never tell me who, but I had the feeling it had been going on for a long time.”

“Do you think it might have been someone she worked with?”

“I honestly don’t know. Sasha didn’t give much away.”

“Thank you again.”

On their way down the hall, Stone filled Dino in on his conversation with Hank Morgan.

Dino whistled. “So Sasha swung both ways, huh? How about that?”

“There was nothing in her diary to indicate it,” Stone said.

“She had a lot to lose,” Dino replied. “She wouldn’t have written that down.”

They found the office of Chelsea Barton. A rather dumpy young woman looked up from her desk as they knocked.

Stone started to introduce himself.

“Yes,” Barton said, interrupting him. “I was with Hank Morgan. All night. Anything else?”

“Thank you,” Stone said, “no.”

Back in the car Dino turned to Stone. “So, if Morgan is in love with the gorgeous Sasha, what’s she doing in the sack with Miss Beanbag the very next night?”

“That crossed my mind,” Stone said.

“I think Morgan looks good for it. Pansies are always bashing each other’s heads in with hammers, and all for love.”

“Lesbians don’t fit that mold.”

“Still, you see the build on that bitch? Sasha was little, compared to her. I think Morgan could have tossed her, no problem.”

“I think so, too. But how are you going to break that alibi? Miss Beanbag looked pretty tough to me.”

“She was on the interview list, so we’ve got her address. I think I’ll do a little checking into her whereabouts that night,” Dino said. “Maybe I can place her somewhere else.”

“You do that, and we might have something for Deputy Commissioner Waldron.”

Chapter

20

T
he phone was ringing as Stone reached his desk. He picked it up. “Hello.”

“Detective Barrington?” a husky voice said.

“Yes, speaking.”

“This is Hank Morgan.”

“Yes, Ms. Morgan. Did you think of something else?”

“I…I lied to you, I’m afraid.”

“How so?”

“I was at home alone the night Sasha fell. Chelsea wasn’t with me. She said that to protect me, but I realize this is serious, and I don’t want to involve her. I hope you’ll for get that I didn’t tell you the truth the first time; I’m telling you the truth now.”

“All right, we’ll forget your first statement and leave Chelsea out of it.”

“Thank you.”

“What time did you get home that night?”

“I worked on the evening news, so it would have been about eight thirty.”

“Did anyone see you? The doorman, maybe?”

“I live in a walk-up in the West Village. There’s no doorman.”