by Stuart Woods
“Hospital policy—it’s a liability thing. Don’t move without it.”
Stone got into his clothes, pocketed his phone, and sat on his bed, waiting.
Dino came back into the room. “It didn’t work,” he said. “I tried every finger. The pathologist said it was probably a body temperature thing, and Sam didn’t have any to spare. I mentioned a microwave, but the doctor nixed that. Why are you sitting on your bed? Let’s get out of here.”
“I have to wait for a wheelchair.”
“Hang on.” Dino left the room and came back half a minute later with a wheelchair. “There was one in the hall. Hop aboard.”
Stone got into the chair and was wheeled down the hall at top speed, waving at the nurses. They took the elevator to the ground floor and raced for the emergency exit. A moment later, they were cruising downtown.
“Something I should point out,” Dino said.
“What’s that?”
“We were going to charge Sam Spain with attempted murder for trying to shoot you, but of course he’s dead now.”
“So?”
“Now, since Sam is dead and you’re not, we’ve got an assistant DA who’s thinking of charging you with Sam’s murder.”
“That’s preposterous,” Stone said. “He was trying to shoot me.”
“No witnesses to that,” Dino said.
“I was taped to a chair, for God’s sake, how could I murder him?”
“By hitting him in the head with the cosh. The DA’s got the X-rays and the murder weapon.”
“Stop saying that—it wasn’t murder, it was self-defense.”
“And when the uniforms got there, you weren’t taped to the chair, and you were pointing a gun at Sam Spain.”
“Of course I was!” Stone yelled. “I cut myself loose. I didn’t know if he was playing possum, and his own gun was within his reach.”
“The EMTs said he was unconscious when they got there,” Dino said. “Look, if he charges you, I’ll testify to your good character at your preliminary hearing, but you should know I’d get cross-examined pretty thoroughly, and I can’t lie for you.”
“Who’s asking you to lie?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Where’s my briefcase?” Stone asked.
“On the floor beside you.”
“Got it.” He opened it and found the money and the transparency there.
“Anybody steal anything?”
“Nope, it’s all here.”
Dino handed him Sam’s iPhone. “You can keep working on this. Maybe Bob Cantor can get into it.”
“You remember that case recently where the FBI wanted to get into an iPhone and Apple said even they couldn’t do it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s what we’re up against.”
“Just try, okay? And get Cantor to try.”
Dino dropped him at home and he entered the house through his office entrance.
“Where have you been?” Joan asked. “I’ve been calling everybody, including Dino. He didn’t call back.”
“He’s been very busy,” Stone said. “I took a shot to the head and spent the night in the hospital.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, but I haven’t had breakfast. Ask Helene to bring the usual to my desk, will you?” He went through his phone messages and found nothing very important, except one from Arthur Steele. He called the private line.
“Yes?”
“It’s Stone, no thanks to you.”
“You didn’t really expect me to hand that ape five million dollars, did you?”
“You’re willing to pay me twelve million to recover it. You could have taken it out of my end.”
“Oh, I was going to pay the money, but you didn’t call me back.”
“That’s because the guy was trying to shoot me,” Stone said.
“Well, he didn’t, did he?”
“No, because I hit him in the head. Now he’s dead, and they’re talking about charging me with his murder.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” Arthur replied.
“They should be charging you,” Stone said. “After all, you’re the one who told him to go fuck himself and made him all mad. That’s when he reached for the gun.”
“It all turned out well, didn’t it? You’re okay.”
“And Sam Spain is dead, before he could tell us who he sent the picture to.”
“He sent it to somebody?”
“Yes. It was right there within my reach. If you’d agreed to the five million, we’d have it now.”
“Stone, let’s not drag up the past.”
“It’s the very recent past!”
“I can tell you’re upset. We’ll talk about this later.” Arthur hung up.
Stone sat there fuming, until his breakfast came.
40
WHEN HE HAD FINISHED breakfast Stone called Bob Cantor.
“Now what?” Cantor asked, as if he were in a hurry.
“I’ve got a very important iPhone I’ve got to get into, but no fingerprint to open it.”
“Where’s the fingerprint?”
“In the morgue on a corpse.”
“Cold?”
“Very cold.”
“Then your only shot is the four-digit entry code that comes up when a print doesn’t work.”
“And how do I break that?”
“By entering the code.”
“The code is inside the corpse’s brain.”
“Oh. Then you’re fucked.”
“There’s no way?”
“If you could recall Steve Jobs from the great beyond, maybe he could figure it out. Apple says even they can’t do it.”
“But somebody, some little company, got the FBI into an iPhone, remember?”
“No, I don’t remember and neither does anybody else, because the FBI didn’t mention their name. Maybe the director could point you in the right direction.”
“Thanks, Bob, you’ve been a big help,” Stone said, then hung up. He plugged Sam’s phone into the charger on his desk; it was 66 percent charged. He tried turning it on, but only the keypad for entering the code came up. He tried to think: What numbers might be associated with Sam Spain?” He had no clue, of course, having met the man only twice before he hit him with the cosh.
He tried emptying his mind, which wasn’t hard, but nothing came to him. He examined Sam’s iPhone, but it was the standard thing, white in color. He got up and started pacing, his hands in his pockets, then he felt a card in his trouser pocket and fished it out.
It was Sam’s business card; the address on 125th Street was a four-digit number. He grabbed the phone, turned it on, and entered the number. Nothing. He threw the card into the trash can; he wouldn’t be needing that anymore.
Stone slumped into his chair, but something was nagging at his mind. He picked up the trash can, found the card, and turned it over. On the back was a cell phone number. He picked up Sam’s phone, turned it on, and entered the last four digits of the number.
The phone came to life.
• • •
DINO’S PRIVATE LINE RANG, and he picked it up. “Bacchetti.”
“It’s Stone,” he said. “I’m calling from Sam Spain’s phone.”
“You got in?” Dino asked incredulously.
“I did. His entry code was the last four digits of his cell phone number.”
“Not very secure,” Dino said.
“Thank God for that.”
“How the hell did you get his cell phone number?”
“It was on a card I found in Manolo Fernandez’s pocket.”
“Manolo, the stiff who took the dive?”
“One and the same.”
“That’s brilliant, Stone!”
“Now I’ve
got a list of numbers that Sam called during the last week. There are a couple of dozen.”
“Give them to me, and I’ll check them out.”
“I’ve already e-mailed them to you. Just find out who the numbers belong to. Don’t start calling them, you might frighten somebody, and we don’t want that.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Dino said, then hung up.
• • •
STONE WENT THROUGH the numbers carefully. Many of them had names attached that meant nothing to him; then he saw one he had missed. The name was Nellie Fineman. “That’s gotta be Sol Fineman’s wife,” he said aloud to himself.
Joan buzzed him. “Dino’s on one.”
“That was fast,” Stone said.
“No, actually it was a little slow. We’re still running the numbers, but I forgot to tell you that the morgue called this morning and reported a floater in the East River yesterday, up at Hell Gate.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Yep, one Ralph Weede, a doorman at 740 and the chief suspect in the murder of Manolo Fernandez.”
“Well, that will save everybody a lot of trouble,” Stone said.
“Who do you like for Ralph’s little swim?”
“Oh, Sam Spain, of course. The last time anybody reported seeing Ralph it was me, when I saw him going into Sam’s bar. In fact, come to think of it, I know how he ended up in the East River.”
“What do you mean, how?” Dino asked. “He took a long walk off a short pier.”
“Yeah? How was he feeling at the time?”
“Like a guy with two slugs in his head, in the best tradition.”
“Well, he got into the river from Sam Spain’s office.”
“That’s a longer pier than I imagined.”
“Sol Fineman told me there’s a river running under Sam’s bar that leads to the East River. He suggested that I might be exploring it soon.”
“Ah, that all fits together, doesn’t it?”
“I almost forgot, in going over the phone calls that Sam made or received, I found one listed under the name of Nellie Fineman.”
“Sol has a wife?”
“In fact, he mentioned her, said she ran up his cosh on her sewing machine. Accessory after the fact in Sam’s death maybe?”
“You mean, she was your accomplice?”
“Stop it!”
“Something I forgot to tell you—an assistant DA named Aaron Milestone would like to speak to you, preferably in his office. I’ll give you his number so you can make an appointment.”
“Okay, I’ve got his number, but I have no intention of calling him.”
“Want a tip?” Dino asked.
“Sure.”
“Call him.”
“I don’t have to.”
“No, you don’t, but it would be in your interest to talk to him before he sends somebody to look for you. It would look better.”
“Look better to whom?”
“His boss.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll call him. I assume you’ve already got an APB out for Sol Fineman?”
“Since yesterday.”
“Oh, good. I think Sol might be a very good chief suspect in the death of Ralph Weede, since you no longer have Sam Spain to kick around, and it’s the sort of work he did for Sam. And you can always name Nellie as an accessory in the attempted murder of me, just to turn up the heat. Also, it would be a lot of fun to get a look at Nellie’s cell phone.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Dino said, and hung up.
41
IT HAD BEEN maybe ten minutes since Dino hung up, when Joan buzzed. “A Mr. Milestone on one.”
Stone picked it up. “Stone Barrington.”
“Mr. Barrington,” a deep voice said, “this is Assistant District Attorney Aaron Milestone speaking.”
“Good day, Mr. Milestone. How can I help you?”
“I’d like you to come downtown for a little chat, in the matter of the death of a Mr. Samuel Spain.”
“I’d be happy to chat with you, Mr. Milestone, but I’m afraid I’m in the middle of a busy day, playing catch-up, having spent some time in the hospital with a concussion, as a result of a conversation with Mr. Spain and a colleague of his.”
“How about first thing tomorrow morning?”
“Can’t do that, either,” Stone replied. “Tell you what, why don’t you come up to my office and let’s chat here? I’ll make time for you.”
Milestone took a deep breath and let it out. “Oh, all right,” he said. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“That’s good for me, and, Mr. Milestone?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t bring a stenographer or any colleagues—that might put a damper on my freedom of speech.”
Milestone hung up.
• • •
THE ASSISTANT DA made it in forty-five minutes, and Stone moved to the sofa and waved him to a chair. He was tall, thin, and in his twenties. “We sell good coffee around here,” Stone said.
“Thank you, black, please.”
Joan, who was lingering in the doorway, sprang into action.
Milestone clearly liked his coffee. He produced a steno pad and a silver pen. “Ready?”
“One moment,” Stone said. “This will be strictly informal and off the record. You will observe that I’m not represented by legal counsel.”
“You’re an attorney,” Milestone pointed out.
“Not when I’m being interrogated about an alleged murder.”
Milestone raised his pen. “All right. When did you first meet Samuel Spain?”
Stone waggled a finger. “No, no, that’s a record.” He pointed at the steno pad.
Milestone capped his pen and tossed the pad onto the coffee table. “All right. I have an excellent memory.”
“I thought so,” Stone said. “Now, back when I was on the NYPD I caught sight of Mr. Spain a few times, but we were not formally introduced until a couple days ago.”
“And by whom were you introduced?”
“The New York City commissioner of police.”
“How’s that?”
“We had entered Mr. Spain’s bar, along with Lieutenant Arturo Masi, who leads the NYPD art squad, to discuss with him the disappearance of a painting, and Spain was known to deal in that sort of thing—or anything else, really, if there was a buck to be turned.”
“You’re saying Spain was a fence?”
“Well known in the industry. He also had a reputation with a knife.”
“You make him sound like an unsavory character.”
“Oh, all right, he was a pillar of the community—the community of thieves, junkies, and murderers. Just this morning, someone came across a corpse in the East River that Sam Spain almost certainly placed there.”
“Whose corpse?”
“Fellow named Ralph Weede, a doorman at a ritzy Park Avenue apartment house. Not to worry, his death solved the murder by Mr. Weede of one Manolo Fernandez, a young junkie who had recently stolen the painting from his mother, who stole it from her employer. Manolo sold it to Sam Spain, who probably laid it off on an unscrupulous art dealer.”
“You’re making me dizzy.”
“You’ve gotten lucky twice—if Spain had lived, you would have had to charge him with kidnapping and attempted murder.”
“Whose kidnapping and murder?”
“That of yours truly,” Stone said, pointing his thumb at himself, “and if I hadn’t managed to pick up the cosh his man hit me with and hit Spain with it, Ralph Weede and I would have been holding hands in the East River when they found him.”
“This is crazy,” Milestone said.
“How long have you been on the job, Aaron?”
“Three weeks.”
“Let me give you a tip. Nine times
out of ten, the cops will do your work for you, and do it well. You should listen to them before you start investigating. The one out of ten will be the really interesting case, where the cops may have gotten it wrong, and you can knock yourself out on that one.”
“One thing—was the picture an important one?”
“It’s very likely a fake van Gogh, but its owner would like to have it back anyway.”
“So all this is about a fake picture?”
“More than likely.”
Milestone stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Barrington. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
Stone stood and shook his hand. “It’s Stone. Call me if you need advice.”
Milestone nodded and took his leave.
Stone called Dino.
“Yeah?”
“I have disposed of Mr. Milestone, the ADA.”
“You want me to pick up the body?”
“The body is on its way back to its office.”
“He’s not going to charge you?”
“I told him he should believe what you tell him ninety percent of the time.”
“What about the other ten percent?”
“Those are the times your people screw up and finger the wrong man.”
“We never do that.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“So you got off the hook by bad-mouthing us?”
“I told him to believe you.”
“Yeah, but only ninety percent of the time?”
“I was feeling generous.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I suppose I could have mentioned the number of innocent people the department has sent to their deaths who were later exonerated?”
“Prosecutors and juries send people to their deaths.”
“Based on evidence provided by the NYPD.”
“Well, nobody’s perfect,” Dino said.
“And on that confession, I will bid you good day.”
“Dinner tonight?”
“Sure, Patroon at seven.”
“Okay.” Dino hung up.
42
THE FORMER SOL FINEMAN, born Carl Blankenship, arrived at his apartment, a second-floor walk-up on West 125th Street, and let himself in with his key. His wife, Nellie, née Cynthia Preston, could be heard in the kitchen, whistling loudly.
