by Stuart Woods
“It was the least I could do,” she said, “after I abandoned you in what must have been a very bad week.”
“I think being alone helped me make the adjustment better,” he said, “but I like the way you make up for slights.” The doorman took their names and directed them to the elevator.
When the door had closed, she moved close to him. “I wonder how long we have before the elevator reaches Barker’s floor?” she said.
Stone leaned down and kissed the top of a breast, accessible above the low-cut dress. “Not long enough for what I have in mind,” he said. “By the way, you look spectacular. It’s a wonderful dress.”
She laughed. “You like cleavage, don’t you?”
“The sight of breasts is good for morale.”
“You look pretty sharp yourself. The suit suits you.”
“I had good advice.”
The elevator door opened. A uniformed maid answered the door and took their coats.
“Well, good evening,” Hi Barker said, sweeping into the hall from the living room.
Stone introduced Cary.
“You’re a fine judge of women, Stone,” Barker said, kissing Cary ’s hand.
“Why, thank you, sir,” Cary responded. She turned to Stone. “You didn’t prepare me for this man.”
“How could I?”
Barker ushered them into the living room, where two other couples and a woman waited. “Meet everybody,” he said. “This is Frank and Marian Woodman.”
Stone shook their hands. “Mr. Woodman and I have met,” he said.
“Oh?” Barker said. “You’re better acquainted around town than I thought.”
“All in the line of duty,” Stone said, “just the way I met you.”
“That’s right,” Woodman said. “Sasha Nijinsky was my client, and Detective Barrington came to see me. Or, I should say, Mr. Barrington. My congratulations; I hear that sort of medical retirement is every police officer’s dream.”
“Most of the cops I know would rather serve the thirty years healthy,” Stone said.
“Oh, the penny just dropped,” Mrs. Woodman said. She was a small, handsome woman some years her husband’s junior. “You’re the detective in the papers.”
“I’m afraid so,” Stone said.
“You’ll have to interrogate him later, Marian,” Barker said, pulling Stone and Cary away. “He has other guests to meet.” He took them to the other couple. “This is Abbott Wheeling and his wife, India. Stone Barrington and Cary Hilliard.”
Wheeling was an elderly man, a former editor of the New York Times, now a columnist on the Op-Ed page. He shook hands warmly, and, before Stone had a chance to speak to him, the other woman in the room approached.
“I’m Edith Bonner,” she said, shaking hands with both of them. She was tall, on the heavy side, but quite pretty and elegantly dressed.
“Edith is my date for the evening,” Barker explained.
A waiter approached and took their drink orders. Bonner excused herself, and Cary pulled Stone to the window.
“It’s quite a view, isn’t it?” she said, pointing at the United Nations building.
“I hadn’t seen it at night,” Stone said.
“Do you know who Edith Bonner is?”
“No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She’s a sort of society psychic,” Cary explained. “She’s a wealthy widow who does readings of her friends – strictly amateur – but she has quite a reputation.”
The Wheelings joined them at the window and admired the view. “Your leaving the force at this particular time has caused quite a bit of speculation,” he said to Stone.
“Well, I was scheduled for the physical some time ago,” Stone replied. “It was unfortunate that I was in the middle of an investigation at the time.”
“I don’t mean to interview you, Mr. Barrington…”
“Please call me Stone.”
“Thank you, and you must call me Ab; everyone does. As I was saying, I don’t mean to interview, and this is certainly off the record, but do you think this Morgan woman had anything to do with the Nijinsky business?”
Stone nodded toward Bonner, who was returning to the room. “Maybe we should ask Mrs. Bonner,” he said. “I expect she has just as good an idea about it as anyone assigned to the case.”
Wheeling smiled. “You should have been a diplomat, Stone, or somebody’s press secretary. That was as neat an answer as I’ve ever heard, and I couldn’t quote you if I wanted to.”
The maid entered the room. “Dinner is served,” she said. People finished their drinks and filed into the dining room.
Stone was seated between India Wheeling and Edith Bonner and across from Frank Woodman.
“Stone, what are you going to do with yourself, now that you’re a free man?” Woodman asked in the middle of the main course.
“I’m returning to the law,” Stone said. “It seems to be the only thing I know anything about.” He didn’t mention that he would soon be cramming for the bar exam.
“Your career as a detective makes for an interesting background for a certain kind of lawyer,” Woodman said. “I believe Bill Eggers may have an idea for you.”
“I had a message from him this week,” Stone replied.
“When he’s back from Los Angeles, I hope you’ll listen to what he has to say.”
“Surely. At this point, I’m certainly open to suggestions.”
Edith Bonner, who had been quiet up until now, spoke up. “Mr. Barrington…”
“Stone.”
“Stone. Of course I’m aware of what you’ve been investigating recently. I read the papers like everybody else.”
“Why, Edith,” Woodman broke in, “I didn’t know you had to read the papers; I thought you had a direct line to the central source of all knowledge.”
Bonner smiled. “You’ll have to excuse Frank; he’s a very bright man, but his curiosity extends only to the literal – what he can see and hear and touch.”
“That’s right, Edith,” Woodman said.
“What Frank doesn’t understand is that some of us see and hear and touch things that are not quite so literal. Do you see what I mean, Stone?”
“I believe I do, Edith, but I have to tell you that my experience as a police officer has made me not unlike Frank. I tend to put my faith in what I can see and hear, and I don’t have your gifts with the less than literal.”
“I believe I might be able to tell you something about what happened to Sasha Nijinsky,” Bonner said.
All conversation ceased at the table.
“Would this be something material, or would it be more… ephemeral?” Stone asked, trying to keep the tone light.
Bonner smiled. “I believe you might think it ephemeral,” she said, “but I assure you it is material to me. I would not speak if I didn’t feel quite certain about what I want to tell you.”
“I’m all ears,” Stone said.
“I feel strongly that two persons are responsible for what happened to Sasha Nijinsky,” Bonner said.
“Well, since two things happened to Sasha – her fall and her disappearance – it seems quite possible that two people could be involved.”
“I was referring to Sasha’s fall from her terrace,” Bonner said, “and only one of these persons was present when she… fell.”
“That’s very interesting,” Stone said. It’s not very interesting at all, he thought. So much for ESP.
“I warn you, Stone,” Barker said, “Edith does not make such statements lightly. You should take her seriously.”
“Unfortunately,” Stone replied, “I’m no longer in a position to do so, and I have no reason to believe that anyone assigned to the case would be interested in hearing from me about any theory whatsoever. Edith, if you feel strongly about this, perhaps you should contact Lieutenant Leary, who is commander of detectives at the 19th Precinct.”
Bonner shook her head. “No,” she said, “he wouldn’t listen to me. I’ve done
what I can, now; I’ll have no more to say on the subject.” She returned to her dinner and her silence.
Soon the party moved back to the living room for coffee and brandy. Stone chatted at some length with Frank Woodman and found that he liked the man.
Later, when people made a move to leave, Bonner appeared at Stone’s elbow. “There’s something I didn’t want to mention at the table,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Sasha Nijinsky is not finished with you.”
“Well, I’m afraid the NYPD has finished with me.”
“But not Sasha. There’s a connection between the two of you that you don’t seem to know about.”
“A connection?”
“A… well, a spiritual connection.”
“But I never knew her.”
“Do you think it was a coincidence that you were there when she fell from that balcony?”
“It couldn’t be anything else.”
“It was no coincidence. You and Sasha are bound together, and you won’t be released until she is found and you know what happened to her.”
“Edith, I’m going to do everything I can to put Sasha out of my mind permanently.”
Bonner smiled. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that.” Then her expression turned serious. “There’s something else,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I feel that you are, or will be, in some sort of jeopardy, resulting from your connection with Sasha.”
“Jeopardy? How?”
“I don’t know. I only know that you are at risk, and, if you are not very careful indeed, this thing with Sasha could destroy you.”
“Some would say it already has,” Stone said. “At least with regard to my career as a police officer.” He was near to confiding in her, now, and it surprised him.
“I mean destroy you entirely – mortally. In fact, I have the very strong feeling that your chances of surviving this crisis are poor – certainly, you will not come through without help, and you may not get it.”
Stone pushed away the chill that threatened to run through him. “Edith,” he managed to say, “I appreciate your concern for me, but please don’t worry too much. It’s my intention to stay just as far away as I can from the Nijinsky case or anything to do with it.”
“You won’t be able to do that,” Bonner said. She looked away from him. “I’m sorry.”
Chapter 30
Stone was awakened in the best possible way. “You’re going to kill me,” he said.
“Mmmmmmm,” she replied, concentrating her efforts. “It’s only fair; you nearly killed me last night.”
“I couldn’t think of anything else to do,” he gasped.
Sunlight streamed into the room, and his blurring vision made the sparsely furnished chamber seem somehow heavenly. A moment later, everything came into sharp focus, and he closed his eyes and yelled.
“You’re noisy,” she said.
“It’s your fault. You made me.”
“I want some breakfast.”
“You just had breakfast, and I’m not sure I can walk.”
She got up and went into the bathroom. Stone heard the water running, and he had nearly dozed off when she came back. She crawled into bed, and, suddenly, there was something icy on his belly.
He yelled again and leapt out of bed. “Jesus Christ, was that your hands?”
“ New York City tap water gets very cold in the wintertime,” she said. “As long as you’re up, could I have an English muffin, marmalade, orange juice, and coffee?”
“I suppose if I get back into bed you’ll just attack me with the iceberg hands again.”
“Right. But they’ll warm up while you’re fixing breakfast.”
Defeated, Stone got into a bathrobe and went downstairs to the kitchen. He stuck the muffins into the toaster oven, got coffee started, and went to the front door. He peeked up and down the street, then tiptoed out onto the frosty stoop and retrieved the Sunday Times. He was back inside before he registered all that he had taken in. He cracked the door again and looked up the block. A plain green, four-door sedan was parked on the other side of the street, and two men inside it were sipping coffee from paper cups. He didn’t know them, but he knew who they were.
He went back to the kitchen, got the breakfast together, loaded it onto a cart, and wheeled it into the old elevator, which made the usual creaking noises on the way up.
Cary was asleep, sprawled across the bed, the sunlight streaming across her naked body. He stopped and looked at her for a moment, that length of delicious woman, the flat belly, the swelling breasts with their small, red nipples, the dark hair strewn across the pillow. Slowly, quietly, he sneaked onto the bed and carefully set a glass of chilled orange juice onto a nipple.
“Oooooo,” she said without moving. “What a nice way to wake up. Could I have something on the other one, please?”
“You’re unsurprisable,” he said, setting the orange juice on her belly and returning for the rest of the breakfast. He put the tray on the bed between them while she struggled into a sitting position and fluffed up the pillows.
“I like the sun in the morning,” she said. “It’s better than blankets.”
He drank his juice and reached for the Times.
“I get the front page,” she said, snatching it away.
He settled for the book review and munched on a muffin.
“Oh, shit,” she said suddenly.
“What is it?”
She clutched the front page to her breast. “You aren’t at fault here,” she said. “You have to get that through your head. This is not your fault.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He tugged at the newspaper, and she gave it up reluctantly.
SUSPECT IN NIJINSKY CASE IS APPARENT SUICIDE
Henrietta Morgan, a makeup artist for the Continental Network who police sources say was implicated in the fall of television anchorwoman Sasha Nijinsky from the terrace of her East Side penthouse apartment, last night apparently took her own life in her Greenwich Village apartment.
Ms. Morgan, who was known as “Hank” and who was active in gay and lesbian rights issues in the city, had been questioned about Ms. Nijinsky’s fall, then last week was arrested and charged with possession of an unlicensed pistol. She had been released on bail, but sources in the New York Police Department had told the press that Morgan was the chief suspect in the Nijinsky case.
In a late-night statement from City Hall, Deputy Police Commissioner Lawrence Waldron announced that the death of Ms. Morgan had effectively closed the investigation into Ms. Nijinsky’s fall. Waldron said that Ms. Nijinsky’s disappearance after an ambulance collided with a fire truck while on her way to a hospital was still being investigated by the F.B.I., who are treating her incident as a kidnapping, which is a federal crime.
Stone felt ill. He rubbed his face briskly with his hands and tried to fight back the nausea.
“It’s not your fault,” Cary said again, rubbing the back of his neck.
He got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and splashed cold water onto his face. Then he thought about the unmarked car downstairs. He went back into the bedroom and got back into his robe. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
He trotted downstairs to the main hall, retrieved a flashlight from the utility closet, and unlocked the basement door. It took him a minute or so to find the main telephone junction box, and only seconds to find the wires leading from it to a small FM transmitter a few feet away. Angrily, Stone ripped out the wires, then smashed the transmitter with the heavy flashlight. He walked back up to the main floor, then took the elevator up-stairs.
“What’s the flashlight for?” Cary asked. “It’s broad daylight.”
“I needed it to find the phone tap,” Stone said.
“Somebody’s tapped your phone?”
“ New York ’s Finest,” Stone said. “Two of them are sitting out in the street in an unmarked car, waiting either to follow me whe
rever I go or to record my telephone conversations.”
“Why?”
“Because they think that when I hear about Hank Morgan’s death, I might start talking to the press.”
“Stone, I’m confused. If you want me to understand what you’re talking about, then you’d better fill me in.”
Stone took a deep breath. “This is not something you can discuss with anybody at work.”
“Of course not,” she said indignantly.
He went back to his and Dino’s initial questioning of Hank Morgan and told her everything that had happened since.
“I see,” she said when he had finished. “So you think Hank had nothing to do with Sasha’s fall.”
“Nothing whatever.”
“But the NYPD and the DA’s office were going to try and railroad her for it?”
“Not exactly; they knew they would never get a conviction. They just needed a strong suspect to take the heat off the department. Somebody’s been telling a reporter or two that Morgan really did it, but they didn’t have enough evidence against her for a conviction.”
“So everybody would think Hank did it, even though they couldn’t prove it?”
“Right. Except it worked out even better than they had planned. They didn’t know that she wouldn’t be strong enough to handle the suspicion and the publicity; they couldn’t predict that she would finally break and kill herself.”
“So what happens now?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“The investigation into Sasha’s fall is over. Hank’s suicide was as good as a confession.”
“But they still don’t know what happened to her, do they?”
“No, but the FBI very kindly stepped in and took responsibility for that part of the investigation, so the department is out of it.”
“Are you going to do anything about it?”
“What can I do?”
“Go to the press. I can arrange for you to talk with one of our investigative reporters.”
“It wouldn’t work. There’s just enough substance to the evidence against Morgan to justify the department’s actions. I mean, I can’t prove that she didn’t do it.” He picked up the bedside phone and dialed a number.