by Stuart Woods
Stone thanked Poluci and he and Bob Cantor left. Outside, Stone stopped and handed the FedEx box to Cantor, his hand inside it. “Bob, I know this is a long shot, because a lot of people may have handled it, but I’d like for you to go over this box very, very carefully, see if you can find any legible prints, and if you do, run them against every database you’ve got.”
“Okay, I’ll go back to the office and start on it now,” Cantor said. “I’ll try to have something for you late this afternoon.”
The two men shook hands, and Stone sent Cantor on his way. He decided to walk back to Turtle Bay; it was thirty blocks or so, but the exercise wouldn’t kill him. He began thinking his way through the steps of assembling and sending a FedEx package. You had to put stuff inside, then you had to fill out a waybill or print one from your computer. You’d seal it, then it would begin its journey through the system. Finally, it would be received at the front desk of the building and delivered to the recipient. Except this one wasn’t delivered, because the recipient was dead. It apparently didn’t get to Morgan or her housekeeper, either. It was emptied and the box placed in a locked storage cabinet in a locked apartment storage unit.
The last thing to happen would be for the FedEx box to be discarded, but that hadn’t happened. Someone had opened two locks in order to place it in a steel cabinet, to save it as if it were important. Why? It couldn’t be reused, and it didn’t make any sense to save it.
By the time he got home his feet were hurting, and so was his head.
• • •
STONE SAID TO JOAN as he passed her desk, “Hold my calls, will you, please?” He took off his jacket, stretched out on the leather sofa in his office, and dozed.
• • •
SOMEBODY TOOK HOLD of Stone’s shoulder and shook him gently. “Bob Cantor’s on the phone,” Joan said. “He said you’d want to hear from him.”
Stone sat up and reached for the phone on the coffee table. “Bob?”
“Hey. I got your package done.”
“What did you find?”
“I got four legible prints off it—two of them were FedEx employees, who would have handled it in the course of business. One was a Margaretta Fernandez, who, according to her Social Security records, is employed as a housemaid for one Mark Tillman. The other is Pio Farina. This one had a juvie record of being a suspect in several burglaries, but no charges were brought. That’s it.”
“Thank you, Bob, that’s very helpful. Send me your bill.”
“Okay. Call when you need me.”
Stone hung up the phone. Pio’s print made perfect sense: he would have handled it on the way to the FedEx store to send it. The maid? She might have received it from one of the doormen. Not Gino, because someone else had signed his name; probably not Ralph, because he had had a chance to pick up $10,000 and didn’t. Certainly it was someone who had a key, not just to the storage units, but to the steel file cabinets, as well. Morgan? She fit the bill. So did the maid, who might have known where the key would be kept in the household.
Stone picked up the phone and called Morgan.
“Hello, there,” she said. “It’s been forever.”
“It was the day before yesterday.”
“In my book, it’s forever. What can we do about that?”
“Let’s have dinner tonight,” Stone said.
“I am agreeable to that. Why don’t I cook something for us?”
“I was not aware that you possessed that skill set.”
“My dear, I am a certificated graduate of Cordon Bleu—London, not Paris. I was sent to the forty-day bride’s course, created for young women of good family who are unacquainted with the concept of boiling water.”
“And how did you do?”
“Top of my class,” she said.
“Then I’ll risk it. What time?”
“Say, seven o’clock?”
“You’re on.”
“Please wear tearaway clothing,” she said. “Cooking makes me amorous.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
29
STONE TURNED UP on time and, in addition to a kiss from Morgan, was welcomed by an inviting aroma from the kitchen. She sat him down on a living room sofa and brought them both a drink from the bar. “Now,” she said, tapping his glass with hers, “tell me about your day.”
“Did you learn that at Cordon Bleu?” Stone asked.
She laughed. “As a matter of fact, I did. We had a few side lectures to the cooking course, one of them attuned to one’s conduct with the gentleman who is the recipient of the evening meal one has just prepared.”
“Aha. I thought it must be something like that.”
“But I really would like to know about your day,” she said, kissing him on an ear. “I can’t imagine what it is you do when you’re not with me.”
Stone decided it was time to be frank with her. “Well, I spent a good part of my day rummaging around in a storage room, looking for something.”
“One, what were you looking for? Two, and in whose storage room?” she asked.
“One, a Federal Express box,” he replied. “Two, yours.”
Her brow wrinkled. “My what?”
“Your storage room.”
She sat back and looked at him as if he were a naughty child. “Are you perfectly serious?”
“Perfectly.”
“Tell me what this is about, and I may not punish you.”
He set down his drink, took her by the shoulders, and pushed her into the sofa cushions. “All right. It’s not a simple story, and I’d like you to wait until I’ve finished before you ask any questions.”
“That level of restraint is not in my character,” she replied, “but I’ll do the best I can.”
“Here we go. I have learned that early on the afternoon of Mark’s death, he was visited by Pio Farina and Ann Kusch, at his invitation. He gave them a drink, they chatted for a while, and as they left, he asked them to drop off a package at the Federal Express store on Second Avenue, which was on their way to the tunnel. They did so, depositing it in the box outside the store.”
Morgan raised her hand, like a schoolgirl.
“Not yet,” Stone said.
She pouted, then lowered her hand.
“Subsequent investigation by the police revealed that Mark had addressed the box to himself, for third-day delivery.
“Not yet,” Stone said.
She rolled her eyes.
“The box arrived downstairs on the Wednesday following Mark’s death.”
“The day of his cremation,” she said.
“I’m not finished. Someone signed for the package, using Gino Poluci’s name, but it wasn’t Gino. Subsequent to that—I’m not sure when—the package was opened, the contents removed, and the empty box was placed in a locked steel cabinet inside the storage unit of Apartment 15A, where I found it today.”
She raised a hand again.
“What?”
“I have a list of questions before you continue.”
Stone sighed. “All right, go ahead.”
She held up a finger. “One, why would Mark send a package to himself?”
“Because he knew this apartment would be searched, and he didn’t want the contents of the package found.”
She held up two fingers. “What was in the package?”
“I can’t be certain, but I believe it was the missing van Gogh.”
Her jaw dropped.
“Do you have any further questions?”
“Yes, but I forgot what they were. Continue, please.”
“I had the box checked for fingerprints,” Stone said, “and four were found and identified. Two belonged to FedEx employees, one belonged to Pio Farina, and . . . one belonged to Margaretta Fernandez.”
Morgan stared at him. “Why .
. .”
“Be specific.”
“Why was Margaretta’s fingerprint on the package?”
“Because at some point she handled it. Perhaps a doorman delivered it to her while you were out.”
“And did you say you found the empty box in my storage unit?”
“I did, inside a steel cabinet, which was locked and to which the doorman did not have a key.”
“Back up a step,” she said. “How did you get into my storage unit?”
“Simple—I bribed a doorman.”
“Which one?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“All right then, how did you get into the steel cabinet without a key?”
“I engaged a person with a deep knowledge of locks, and he picked it.”
“One more question,” she said. “Where is the painting now?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to ask Margaretta that question. Would she have access to the key to the steel cabinet?”
“All my keys are in a drawer in the hall table,” she said.
“And does Margaretta know that?”
“Yes.”
“Anyway,” Stone said, “that’s how I spent my day, and now I’m hungry.”
“Come with me, you have to help.”
Stone followed her into the kitchen. She poured the contents of a saucepan into a double boiler, already simmering, and handed him a rubber spatula. “That is béarnaise sauce. Please stir it until it thickens.”
Stone took the spatula and started stirring.
Morgan turned on three eyes on the gas range and dropped two boned chicken breasts into a small skillet with some butter and olive oil. She sautéed them quickly on both sides, then put them on two plates and added haricots verts and new potatoes from the other two pans, then held out the plates. “Now pour the béarnaise onto the two plates.”
He did so.
“Now turn off the stove and follow me.” She led him around a corner to a small dining nook, where two places had been elaborately set and a bottle of wine decanted. Stone set down the plates and pulled her chair out for her, then he sat down.
He picked up the wine bottle. “Haut-Brion ’59. Wherever did you get that?”
“From the gigantic wine cupboard in the kitchen, which you failed to notice. There’s a lot like that in there.”
They raised their glasses and drank, then began to eat.
“Wonderful,” Stone said.
“I’ll have more questions when we’re finished,” she said.
30
MORGAN DID NOT consider them finished until they had left the dinner table, gone upstairs to the bedroom, and made love twice.
“Now,” Stone panted, “do you have any further questions?”
“Not at the moment,” she said. “I am unable to organize my thoughts just yet.”
“Organize this,” Stone said. “I’m going to need to ask Margaretta some questions when she arrives tomorrow.”
“I think I understand the necessity of that,” Morgan said, “but not until we have finished breakfast. I don’t want to throw her off her stride.”
“She does make very good scrambled eggs,” Stone said, and they were soon asleep.
• • •
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, when they were awake, Stone said, “I have another question for you, and it’s a very important one.”
“Go ahead, I think I can handle it now.”
He took the remote controls, sat up both their beds, and turned to look her in the eye. “I once asked, if you had to choose between the van Gogh or sixty million, which you would pick. Does your answer still stand?”
“It does,” she said.
“You’re absolutely certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re going to have to sign a document to that effect,” he said.
“Gladly. Do you have it on you?”
“No, I’m naked at the moment, but I will produce it in due course, when we have the picture back.”
“How are we going to get it back?”
“We’re going to start by my questioning Margaretta.”
There was a knock at the door and Margaretta entered, wheeling their breakfast on a cart. Greetings were exchanged, breakfast was served, and she left them.
• • •
AFTER BREAKFAST, Stone shaved, showered, and dressed, and Morgan slipped a cashmere dressing gown on over her nightie. “All right,” she said, “let’s go see Margaretta.”
They went downstairs; Morgan retrieved Margaretta from the kitchen and invited her to sit down on the sofa opposite them. “Margaretta,” Morgan said, “Mr. Barrington needs to ask you some questions, and it’s important that you give him honest answers.”
Margaretta looked alarmed. “Did I do something wrong, Mrs. Tillman?”
“I hope you didn’t,” Morgan replied, but Margaretta did not look less alarmed.
“Margaretta,” Stone began, “on the Wednesday after the Saturday Mr. Tillman died, was a package from Federal Express delivered to this apartment?”
Tears appeared in Margaretta’s eyes and began to roll down her cheeks. Morgan got up and gave her a box of tissues, then sat down.
“Yes,” Margaretta said.
“Who delivered the package?”
“One of the doormen.”
“Which one?”
“Ralph.”
“Did Ralph sign for the package when Federal Express delivered it?”
“Yes, but not his name.”
“Whose name?”
“Gino.”
“Do you know why Ralph signed Gino’s name?”
“Ralph didn’t want anybody to know he signed it.”
“When you received the package, had it been opened, or was it still sealed?”
“It was open,” Margaretta said. “Ralph opened it.”
“Do you know why he opened it?”
“I think maybe he thought it was something valuable, and since Mr. Tillman had died . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“What was inside the package?”
“A picture,” she said, then pointed at the wall. “The one that used to be over there.”
“What did you do with the picture?”
“Ralph said I should take it home,” she said.
“Why did he say that?”
“He said it would look pretty in my living room, and Mr. Tillman wouldn’t need it anymore. So I took it home, and I bought a frame at the store, and I hung it on my wall.”
“Did Ralph say anything to you about the value of the picture?”
“No. He just said I deserved to have a pretty picture.”
“What did you do with the Federal Express box?”
“I took it downstairs to the storage room and locked it in a gray cabinet.”
“Why did you keep the box?”
“Because if anybody asked about the picture, I wanted to put it back in the box, like it was delivered.”
“Margaretta,” Morgan said, “where was I when the box was delivered?”
“At your hairdresser’s, ma’am.”
“Ah, yes, it was Wednesday, wasn’t it?”
“Ma’am,” Margaretta said, sniffling, “am I in any trouble?”
“Stone,” Morgan asked, “is Margaretta in any trouble?”
“No,” Stone said.
“Oh, thank God,” Margaretta said.
“Not if we get the picture back.”
Margaretta began to cry again.
“What’s wrong, Margaretta?” Morgan asked.
She kept crying, and Morgan went and sat next to her on the sofa and consoled her. Finally, she got herself under control.
“Now, Margaretta,” Stone said, as gently as
possible, “is the picture still on your wall? All we have to do is go and get it, then you won’t be in any trouble.”
Margaretta began to cry again.
Stone looked at Morgan and shrugged helplessly.
“Margaretta, please answer Mr. Barrington,” Morgan said.
Margaretta continued to sob.
Stone was beginning to get a very bad feeling. “When you’re ready, Margaretta,” he said.
Morgan went to the bar, poured a glass of sherry, and returned to the sofa. “Here, Margaretta, drink this, it will make you feel better.”
Margaretta sipped the drink, then took a bigger sip.
“When you’re ready,” Stone said again.
Finally, she made the effort. “No, Mr. Barrington, it is not still on my wall.”
“Where is it, Margaretta?”
“The picture was stolen.”
“What?”
“Two days ago,” she said.
“Do you know who stole it?”
Margaretta nodded. “Yes, I think.”
“Who?”
“Manolo.”
“Who is Manolo, Margaretta?”
Morgan held up a hand to stop him. “Manolo is her son,” she said, “and Manolo has a drug problem.”
“He steals things to get money for drugs,” Margaretta said.
“Do you think he thought the picture was valuable?”
“I think he thought he could sell it for enough to buy drugs. He needs drugs every day.”
31
MARGARETTA WAS CRYING nonstop now, so Stone put his questions to her through Morgan, as it seemed to work better.
“Margaretta, does Manolo live with you?”
Margaretta nodded, then shook her head. “Sometimes,” she said.
“Would he be there now?”
She shook her head. “He has been gone for two days.”
“Margaretta, what is Manolo’s cell phone number?”
Every junkie had a cell phone.
Morgan handed her a pad of paper and a pen. “Just write down the number, Margaretta.”
“Will you hurt him?” she asked, handing the pad back to Morgan.
