by Stuart Woods
“There! That’s it!” Eggers shouted, freezing the frame. “That’s our shot!” He ran to the printer and pressed the button again.
Stone froze to his chair, unable to move, unable to speak. The man’s face had surprised him, but the woman’s rendered him nearly catatonic. The man was Barron Harkness; the woman was Cary Hilliard.
“Perfect, perfect!” Eggers yelled in triumph, shoving the print in front of Stone. “You can have that for your scrapbook.” He pressed the button for another print. “The cat’s out of the bag now, though. I’m sorry for my little subterfuge, but I guess you recognize the guy. His wife is my client.”
Stone was unable to speak. His eyes ran up and down the two forms frozen on the screen. Harkness was clearly furious, Cary terrified. Her breasts shone with sweat in the bright light, the nipples erect; her lips were swollen and her eyes round with fright.
“Let’s see the rest!” Eggers cried. “Here we go!” He started the tape again.
Harkness reared up in the bed, upsetting Cary from her perch atop him.
“Jesus, the guy’s hung!” Eggers said admiringly. “And look at the tits on that broad! Shit, I don’t blame the guy!”
The camera backed out of the room as Harkness rose from the bed and came after it. In the nick of time, the front door closed, and the camera wobbled out of control. Teddy’s hand could be seen applying his latch to the knob and the molding.
“An absolute goddamned Academy Award winner!” Eggers yelled, jumping out of his chair and doing a little dance. “Gotta call my client; she’s waiting on tenterhooks.” He grabbed a phone and started dialing. “Stone, you win the Oscar for best producer,” he was saying.
Stone willed himself to move. He shoved the photograph into his overcoat pocket and got shakily to his feet.
“Hello, Charlotte? This is Bill Eggers. My dear, your settlement is assured!” Eggers crowed into the phone. “I’m going to come over to your house right now and show you the videotape that’s going to do it. Hang on a minute…” Eggers looked up to see Stone leaving the room. “Stone, where are you going?”
Stone didn’t reply. He continued down the hallway to the reception room and straight to the waiting elevator. Riding down in the car, he tore at his collar; he couldn’t seem to get enough air. Ignoring the security guard’s pleas to sign out, he rushed into the street, gulping the cold air, trying to keep his breakfast down. He stumbled through the deep snow, gasping for still more air. After a while, he slowed to a walk; a little while later, he found himself inside his house, leaning against the front door, weeping.
When he had calmed himself a little, he noticed the blinking light on the answering machine. There was only one message.
“Stone, darling,” she said, “I’ve had a little family emergency, and I’m going to have to go to Virginia to see the folks for a few days. I’m leaving this morning, so I’m afraid I can’t see you tonight. I’ll call you when I get back. Take care.”
Chapter 39
The rest of the weekend was awful. Stone felt ill and stayed in bed, getting up only to make soup and bring in the newspapers. He couldn’t concentrate on the papers, and, for the first time in months, the house did not intrude into his thoughts. He thought of nothing but Cary.
He tried to think of something else, but nothing worked. Sunday sports on television were a blur; the news meant nothing; he couldn’t keep his mind on the book review or the Sunday magazine. The crossword puzzle worked for a few minutes, but every time he stopped to think, Cary popped into his head – Cary and the awful photograph in his overcoat pocket.
She had lied to him from the beginning; the married man in her life had always been Harkness; Stone had been just a diversion. As Sunday wore on, Stone began to find a way to deal with his thoughts of her; he hardened himself, belittled the weeks they had had together, made her unimportant. By Monday morning a scab was beginning to form on the wound. He would force it to heal.
On Monday morning a gossip columnist in the News had the story:
The Barron Harknesses are calling it a day, after more than twenty years together and two children. We hear the ice age crept up on the marriage long ago, and the split is just a final acknowledgment of reality.
Insiders say that Barron is being uncommonly generous, that Charlotte Harkness is getting both the house in Easthampton and the ten-room Fifth Avenue digs, where Barron has long been chairman of the cooperative’s board.
We hear, too, that as part of their agreement, a certain other apartment owner has to leave the building immediately, surely a new wrinkle in divorce settlements.
Since Barron has never been seen squiring ladies around town, speculation on his paramour centers on the Continental Network – insiders figure it must be somebody at the office. Watch this space.
Stone threw the newspaper at the wall, then concentrated on forming the scab again. The phone rang.
“Hi, it’s Bill. I just wanted to let you know that the outcome of Friday night’s little opus has been most satisfactory for my client.”
“I read the item in the news,” Stone said. “I’m happier than you know that it worked out so well for her.” He did his best to mean this.
“Woodman is delighted, too. He was very, very nervous about your being involved in something like this, and it’s unlikely he’ll want to do it again soon, but he asked me to express his gratitude.”
“Tell him I was glad to be of help.”
“I’ve got nothing on my plate at the moment that I might need you for, so take it easy for a while. Why don’t you take a vacation? The islands or someplace?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a lot more work to do on the house; I’ll use any free time for that. I have to get an office together, too.”
“Right, whatever you say. I’ll let you know when I have something else for you.”
Stone hung up and glanced out the window. A moving van had pulled up outside, and furniture was being loaded into it. Feldstein was moving out of the downstairs professional suite. That suited Stone fine; he’d need the space now.
For the rest of the week, Stone turned his attention to the study. When the books had all been unpacked, dusted, and arranged on the shelves, he waxed the floor, then unrolled the beautiful Aubusson carpet that had come back from cleaning. He got the old desk, now refinished, back in its place, then hung two of his mother’s paintings, along with some of his great-aunt’s pictures. By Saturday, the room gleamed, but it looked as though someone had always lived in it.
Stone spent a month on the professional suite, ripping out the partitions Feldstein had installed for his treatment rooms, hiring a plumber to replace the old pipes, ducting the new central heating into the space, and stripping and refinishing the original oak paneling. He finished up with a reception room and two offices, plus a storeroom for a copying machine and supplies. He had a discreet brass plate made for the front door that read THE BARRINGTON PRACTICE. He would install it when news of his passing the bar exam came.
He began thinking about a secretary, but, before he could place an ad, Bill Eggers came up with someone who wanted to return to Woodman amp; Weld after raising children. She was a plump, motherly woman named Helen Wooten, very bright and capable, and she suited his needs perfectly. Not having much else for her to do yet, he put her in charge of his personal finances and the construction costs on the house. She began saving him money immediately.
Bill Eggers arranged a three-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage on the house that let him pay off his old bank loan and gave him the funds to complete work and furnish the house and office.
Three months passed. Cary never called.
Every couple of weeks he had dinner with Dino, usually at Elaine’s. Elaine liked Dino; he made her laugh.
“Stone,” Dino said one evening, “you’re not going to believe this.”
“What?”
“I’m thinking of getting married.”
“You’re right, I don’t believe it.”
&nbs
p; “A girl from the neighborhood. We know each other since grammar school.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Mary Ann Bianchi, a good Italian girl.”
Stone turned to Elaine. “He’s hallucinating.”
“I think you’re right,” Elaine said. “It must be the Sambuca; he’s had too much.”
“I kid you not,” Dino said. “Will you stand up for me, be my best man?”
“I know what this is,” Stone said to Elaine, “it’s an elaborate practical joke. I’ll turn up for the wedding, and the whole 19th Precinct will be there, laughing like hell, because I believed this ridiculous story.”
“Stone, I swear to God, I’m doing it. We already got the church booked. I bought her a ring, for Christ’s sake.”
“You stole it from the evidence room.”
Dino looked wounded. “I paid cash money. I know a guy in the Diamond District.”
“This means you can’t bring any more girls in here, Dino,” Elaine said.
“Don’t worry, Mary Ann would kill me in my sleep. She’s Sicilian.”
“You’re in a lot of trouble,” Stone said, “but sure, I’ll stand up for you.”
“It’s a week from Sunday,” Dino said.
“That’s moving pretty quick,” Elaine said.
Dino shrugged. “So, it’ll be a seven-month kid, so what? Happens all the time in my neighborhood.”
Elaine waved at a waiter. “Bring a bottle of champagne, the good stuff. Dino’s got a lot to celebrate, here.”
They celebrated.
Elaine looked at Stone closely. “You’re looking almost human these days,” she said. “A few weeks ago you looked like death.”
“Hard work on the house,” Stone said. “I’m getting used to it.”
“He’s getting over the broad,” Dino said.
“Ahhhh,” Elaine said.
“You’re right,” Stone agreed, “I am.” And he was, except for an occasional spear through the heart, when he thought about her. He had stopped thinking at all about Sasha Nijinsky and Hank Morgan.
On the Friday morning before Dino’s wedding, Stone received a letter. He recognized the handwriting immediately.
Dear Stone,
Please pardon the familiarity, but, although we’ve never met, our lives have been so intertwined that I feel you are a friend.
I’m sorry that my problems at least indirectly resulted in your leaving the police force, but I understand that you are now doing well. I saw your name in the Times, on the list of those who had passed the bar exam.
I think, perhaps, the time is coming when we should meet. Maybe you would come to dinner sometime soon? It would be so nice to meet you, at last.
I’ll be in touch.
Best,
S.
Chapter 40
They sat at a table in the little room in back of the bar at Clarke’s. The mirror behind the bar had been replaced; everybody seemed to want to forget the incident, and Dino was obviously welcome.
“You’re looking better,” Dino said. “You put the girl behind you for good?”
“What else can I do?”
“We’ve all been there, Stone, believe me. Thank God that’s all over for me.”
“I’d like to think so, Dino.”
“Believe me, it’s over. When you marry a Sicilian, it’s for life, and that can be short if you fool around.”
“How are things at the office?”
“Looks like we got two serial killers on our hands.”
“The taxi killings, I guess.”
“That’s one of them. It’s the most trouble, too, because every time another cabbie gets greased, the rest of them go bananas and block a major artery for the day.”
“I read about it. Any suspects?”
“Negative.”
“What’s the other case?”
“That one’s even weirder. We got two men and two women in the past seven weeks who just went poof. Right off the street.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere. All over Manhattan.”
“No bodies?”
“No nothing.”
“What do they have in common?”
“Fuckall. The women were twenty-six and thirty-two; the men were thirty-seven and thirty-nine. The guys were a stockbroker and a Porsche salesman; the women were an advertising art director and a VP at a cosmetics company.”
“No ransom notes?”
“Nope. They only got one thing in common I can see.”
“What’s that?”
“They’re good looking, all of them. Good dressers, real prime-time yuppies.”
“Where were they last seen?”
“Leaving work; restaurant; leaving exercise class; jogging in Battery Park.”
Stone shrugged. “Good luck, Dino.”
“I’m going to need it. What’re you working on at the law firm?”
“A fairly juicy one. A client – chairman of an electronics firm – is accused of beating up a high-class hooker in the Waldorf Towers. Looks like it’ll go to trial, and I’ll assist in the defense.”
“They’re not giving you nothing to try yourself, huh?”
“Not yet. I think they expect me to come up with my own. Any ideas?”
“I’ll keep it in mind, tell a couple of the guys. You never know.”
Stone took the letter, in a plastic envelope, from his pocket. “I’ve got something to show you.” He handed it over.
Dino read it and stopped chewing his salad. Then he started again and swallowed. “So? Who’s ‘S’?”
Stone stared at him, unbelieving. “Come on, Dino, you read her diary; don’t you recognize the handwriting?”
“Can’t say that I do,” Dino said, concentrating on the salad. “I never had much memory for handwriting.”
“I didn’t expect this.”
“Expect what? You expect me to recommend reopening the investigation based on this?” He tossed the letter back across the table.
“I didn’t expect you to stonewall me.”
“I ain’t stonewalling you, Stone. You come up with something substantial, and I’ll go with you on it.”
“Substantial? A letter from a dead woman isn’t substantial?”
“Where was it mailed?”
“Penn Station.”
“Any prints? I know you checked.”
Stone held the plastic holder at an angle and pointed. “Three. Will you run them against what we found in her apartment?”
Dino looked skeptical, then shrugged. “Okay, I’ll do that. It may take a few days; the records have probably left the precinct.”
“As soon as you can. And will you have the handwriting analyzed?”
“Against what?”
“The diary, the other stuff in evidence.”
“The case has been cleared. I expect all that stuff has gone back to her estate, to her family, by now.”
“Dino, if I can get a good analysis done, and the prints turn out to be hers, will that be enough for you to reopen?”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t know. I’d have to go to Delgado; he’d have to go to Waldron; he might even have to go to the mayor. The thing is, even if an analyst says it’s her handwriting, even if the prints are hers, what have we got to go on? We can’t trace the letter. It looks like pretty ordinary stationery to me; it was mailed in the biggest post office in the city. What could we do?”
“We’d know she’s alive.” He pushed the letter back across the table. “That’s a start.”
Dino laughed and shook his head. “You still got a hair up your ass about that, ain’t you? All that crap about cats bouncing off concrete and walking away. You know, if I had come to you with that kind of a theory, you’d have kicked my ass.”
Stone laughed. “I don’t know, Dino, I think I’d have given your idea a hearing.”
“I gave your idea a hearing,” Dino said.
“For about fifteen seconds.”
“That was all
I needed.”
“Okay, okay, but will you have the lab look at the paper and anything else they can find?”
“All right, but I’ll have to get somebody to do it on his own time. If word got around about this, I’d be pounding a beat, pronto.”
“Thanks, Dino.”
“I’ll owe somebody a favor, too.”
“I’ll owe you one.”
They paused outside the restaurant.
“One forty-five, Sunday, at the church?” Dino said. “You got the address?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Tuxedo. I’ll pick up the rental.”
“I own one.”
“We’re coming up in the world, aren’t we?”
“I’ve actually used it a couple of times. A firm party, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll see if I can have something for you on the letter by then. Otherwise, it’ll have to wait till after the honeymoon.”
“Where you going?”
“Vegas – where else?”
“Sounds great. I’ll see you Sunday.”
“You ever been to an Italian wedding?”
“No.”
“You got an experience coming.”
Dino turned out to be right.
Chapter 41
Frank Woodman was at his desk, dictating something into a recorder, but, when he saw Stone at the door, he waved him in. “How are you, Stone?” he said, pointing at a chair.
Stone sat down. “I’m fine, Frank. There’s something I want to ask you about.”
“First,” Woodman said, “there’s something I want to say to you, and I’m sorry I didn’t seek you out and say it sooner. Stone, only Bill Eggers, Charlotte Harkness, and I have seen that tape, and I’m the only one who knows you knew Cary Hilliard. I want you to know that it won’t go any further than that.”
Stone nodded. He couldn’t think of anything to say.