by Stuart Woods
“How long did you actually live with him?”
“Less than a month. On our last day together, I hit him in the head with a cast-iron skillet and left him on the kitchen floor for dead. He had a harder head than I thought.”
“Remind me never to make you angry,” Stone said.
Dolce looked at him sweetly. “Never make me angry,” she said. “Consider yourself reminded.”
Stone opened a bottle of white wine and poured himself a glass, sniffing it first.
“Can I try it?” she asked.
He handed her the glass.
She swirled it, sniffed it, tasted it. “It’s lovely; is it Italian?”
“It’s a Mondavi Reserve Chardonnay ’94. Not everything good is Italian.”
“Mondavi is an Italian name,” she said smugly. “By the way, speaking of Italians, Papa would like you to come to dinner in Brooklyn tomorrow night.”
“I’d love to. Who else is coming?”
“Mary Ann will be there; I’m not sure about Dino. Pick me up at the house at six?”
“Sure.”
“What is this grand-jury thing tomorrow? What are you testifying to?”
“I’m testifying that I didn’t murder a young woman.”
“Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good.”
They dined on fettucini with a sauce of prosciutto, peas, and cream. Stone liked her cooking, and he was liking her more and more. There were times when she seemed steely hard, but here, in his kitchen, she was soft and funny and lovely. And God, could she cook!
“Would you like some of Aunt Rosaria’s cheesecake?” she asked when they were finished with their pasta.
“Yes, if you could call for an ambulance first,” Stone replied. “What with the pasta sauce and the dessert, I might as well just take the cholesterol straight into a vein.”
After dinner he led her upstairs. She gave the bedroom the same inspection she had given the living room. “It’s very masculine,” she said.
“A person of the masculine persuasion lives here,” Stone reminded her.
“I am aware of that,” she said, unbuckling his belt and letting his trousers drop to the floor.
“I don’t appear to be wearing any pants,” he said.
She pulled his shorts down to his ankles, and he stepped out of them. “Just the way I like you,” she replied.
“I don’t think I’m going to have any, ah, problems tonight,” he said, unbuttoning her blouse and kissing her breasts.
“I know,” she said.
59
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING, STONE MET Bill Eggers on the courthouse steps, and together they walked to the corridor outside the grand-jury room. “We’ll ambush Marty Brougham here,” Eggers said. They took a seat on a bench in the hallway.
“You’re sure this is the best way to do this?” Stone asked.
“He wouldn’t take my phone call yesterday,” Eggers replied, “so, as far as I’m concerned, it’s the only way.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I had lunch with Eduardo Bianchi yesterday,” Eggers said, “and he asked a lot of questions about you.”
“Oh? What kind of questions?”
“The kind that might be construed as coming from a prospective father-in-law,” Eggers said.
Stone didn’t reply to that, but he felt a little queasy.
“He wanted to know about your upbringing and education; how you’re doing financially; what your prospects are.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“The truth, of course. He’s not the sort of man you lie to.”
“And how did he react?”
“It’s funny, but I’ve known Eduardo for a while, and I’ve never heard him express a favorable opinion of anyone until yesterday. Of course, he’s a very reserved man, and polite, and I’ve rarely heard him express an unfavorable opinion, either, but I have to say, I was surprised.”
“That someone would have a favorable opinion of me?”
Eggers laughed. “Not someone; Eduardo. He’s not easy to impress.”
Stone was about to inquire further about this conversation when a hubbub arose down the hallway, and he looked around to see Martin Brougham walking slowly down the hallway, surrounded by half a dozen reporters. As he approached, Eggers stood up; Stone remained seated.
“Good morning, Marty,” Eggers boomed, apparently oblivious to the press. He stuck out his hand, and Brougham was forced to shake it.
“Morning, Bill; if you’ll excuse me…”
“Marty, I heard that you were interested in subpoenaing Stone Barrington, so I’ve saved you the trouble and brought Stone down here for you to question before the grand jury,” He beckoned to Stone.
Stone stood up and offered his hand to Brougham. When the man took it, Stone hung on. “Good morning, Mr. Brougham,” he said, loudly enough for microphones to pick up. “I’ve come down here voluntarily to answer any questions you may have about my relationship with Susan Bean and my actions on the night she was murdered. Do you think you could take me first this morning?”
Brougham was flustered but tried not to show it. “I’ll, uh, see what I can do, Mr. Barrington,” he said. “And I appreciate your volunteering to testify.”
“I absolutely insist on testifying,” Stone said, still hanging on to the man’s hand. “You’ll remember that I told you some time ago that I’d be glad to cooperate in any way I can.”
“Yes, Yes,” Brougham said, wresting his hand from Stone’s grasp. “If you’ll just have a seat, Mr. Barrington, I’ll try to get to you soon.”
Eggers spoke up again. “Marty, could I speak to you privately for a moment? I have some information that might bear on this case, and I’d like to convey it to you before you convene the grand jury.”
“Sorry, Bill, I don’t have time right now; maybe later today.” He turned and started into the jury room.
“I did try to reach you by phone yesterday,” Eggers called after him. The door closed behind Brougham.
The reporters crowded around Eggers. “What information do you have for the DA, Mr. Eggers?” one of them asked.
“I think I’d better convey it to Mr. Brougham before I discuss it with you,” Eggers said to the man. “Please excuse me.” He sat down next to Stone. “He’s going to have to call you to testify, now,” he whispered. “If he doesn’t, the press will practically assassinate him.”
Stone sat quietly and waited. Other witnesses for the grand jury filed into the hallway and took seats. Stone exchanged greetings with a uniformed sergeant from the Nineteenth Precinct, Tim Ryan, whom he had known for years. As they were chatting, Stone’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me, Tim,” he said to the cop. He walked to the end of the corridor and took out the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s Dino.”
Stone could hear him grinning. “What’s up?”
“We went into Tom Deacon’s apartment an hour ago, and guess what we found?”
“The murder weapon, I hope.”
“We weren’t quite that lucky, but we did find Susan Bean’s diary.”
“Oh, that’s good!” Stone said. “Have you read it?”
“You bet I have; it’s telegraphic, but it lays out her knowledge of the doctored tapes in the Dante trial.”
“Does the diary implicate-Brougham?”
“Not directly, but it’s hard to see how, if Bean knew about the tape, Marty didn’t. Anyway, it’s a first-rate motive for Deacon; the very fact that he had possession of the diary is incriminating. It makes him our number one suspect and Mick Kelly an accessory after the fact. At the very least, I can get Kelly bounced from the force for not reporting Deacon’s presence near the scene of the murder.”
“Have you picked up Deacon?”
“Not yet, but we’re looking for him; Kelly, too. I haven’t put out an APB yet; I don’t want to spook either of them.”
“That’s great news, Dino, and it comes at a very good time f
or me.”
“Have you testified, yet?”
“I’m waiting to go in, now.”
“Give Brougham hell for me.”
“You bet I will; can I use what you’ve told me?”
“Go right ahead. See you later.”
“You coming to Bianchi’s for dinner tonight?”
“I’ve been invited,” Dino said.
“See you there.” Stone hung up and returned to the bench.
“What’s up?” Eggers asked.
“You’re not going to believe…” Stone was interrupted as the door to the grand-jury room opened and a bailiff stuck his head out.
“Call Stone Barrington!” he yelled.
Stone stood up. “Right here.”
The man opened the door and ushered Stone inside the grand-jury room.
Stone walked quickly to the stand and sat down. He was faced with the members of the grand jury, ordinary-looking people seated on raised tiers before him. Martin Brougham stood, looking confident, his hands folded before him. The bailiff swore in Stone.
“State your name and address for the record,” Brougham said.
Stone did so. He added, “I would like to state for the record that I have not been subpoenaed but have volunteered to appear before this panel.”
“Yes, yes,” Brougham said irritably. “Mr. Barrington, how do you earn your living?”
“I’m an attorney-at-law,” Stone replied.
“You were once a police officer, were you not?”
“I was. I served fourteen years with the NYPD, finishing as a detective second grade.”
“And what were the circumstances of your leaving the department? Why didn’t you serve until you could take retirement benefits?”
“I was wounded in the line of duty and, as a result, discharged from the department for medical reasons—with full pension and benefits.” This seemed to bring Brougham up short. Apparently, Stone thought, he hadn’t been prepared for this answer.
“I see,” Brougham said, recovering himself. “Were you acquainted with a Susan Bean before her death?”
“I was,” Stone replied. “I met her at your home.” He gave the date.
Brougham grimaced; he clearly hadn’t wanted that in the record. “And you knew her previous to that date, didn’t you?”
“I once defended a client in whose prosecution she assisted, but I have very little memory of her from that time. When I met her in your home I had no recollection of ever having met her before; nor did she mention any previous meeting.”
“Is it not a fact that, some years ago, you met Ms. Bean in a bar, picked her up, took her home, and seduced her?”
“I have already given you my entire recollection of my acquaintance with Ms. Bean. I have nothing to add to that.”
“Did you seduce her?”
“Asked and answered.”
Brougham turned his body so that he could face the grand jury while asking Stone his next question. “Is it not a fact, Mr. Barrington, that in a moment of blind rage, you murdered Susan Bean?”
“It is not a fact; I did not murder Susan Bean or harm her in any way,” Stone replied calmly, addressing his answer to the jury.
Brougham took a deep breath, rose on his toes, and raised his voice. “Is it not a fact…”
“It is a fact,” Stone said, interrupting Brougham, “that I was informed just a few minutes ago in a telephone conversation with Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, who heads the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct, that there is a new prime suspect in the murder of Ms. Bean, and that he is now being sought by the police.”
Brougham expelled a lungful of air in a strangled grunt. “What did…?”
“Lieutenant Bacchetti tells me that the prime suspect is one Thomas Deacon, who heads the investigative division of the District Attorney’s Office.”
Now Brougham was speechless. He stood facing the grand jury, his mouth open, his face drained of color. He took another deep breath. “You are excused, Mr. Barrington.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know about the evidence against Deacon, Mr. Brougham?” Stone asked.
“You are excused!” Brougham all but shouted.
Stone got up and left the grand-jury room. Bill Eggers stood up and approached him.
“That was quick,” he said. “How did it go?”
Stone was about to answer him when he looked past Eggers and saw Tom Deacon and Michael Kelly coming down the hallway toward them. “Excuse me a minute, Bill.” He turned to Tim Ryan, who was standing nearby “Tim,” he said, “can I borrow your cuffs?”
Without a word, Ryan reached behind him and produced a pair of handcuffs.
“I’m about to make an arrest,” Stone said to the cop. “You want to assist me?”
“Sure, Stone,” Ryan replied.
“You know Deacon and Kelly there?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take Deacon; you make sure Kelly doesn’t shoot me.”
“Okay.”
Stone, the handcuffs in his left hand, headed straight for Deacon, his right hand out. “Hello, Tom,” he said.
Deacon looked puzzled, but reacted by reaching for Stone’s hand.
Stone took hold of Deacon’s hand and held it while he snapped a cuff onto his wrist. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Susan Bean,” he said, and, before Deacon could react, Stone twisted Deacon’s arm behind his back, pushed him against the wall and cuffed his hands behind him. Then he spun Deacon around, ripped the pistol from his shoulder holster and removed his police identification from his inside pocket. “You’re not going to be needing this anymore,” he said.
There was a thud behind Stone, and he turned to see Mick Kelly, spread-eagled on the marble floor with Tim Ryan’s knee in his back, being handcuffed. “Take his gun and his badge, Tim,” he said, “and read them both their rights. I’ll call it in.”
He shoved Deacon onto a bench, reached for his cell phone, and called Dino.
“Hello?”
“It’s Stone. I’ve just made a citizen’s arrest.”
60
J EFF BANION WAS STANDING AT HIS POST IN front of the apartment building in the evening light, when he saw Howard Menzies’s big Mercedes coming down the block, with two men in the front seat. As it pulled to a halt at the awning, Jeff watched as a familiar-looking man got out from behind the wheel and came toward him. It took him a moment to recognize Mr. Menzies’s nephew, Peter Hausman, because Hausman had somehow acquired a very full head of hair.
“I am coming back after a moment,” the young man said in his heavily accented English. “No need to announce; Mr. Menzies is expect me.”
“Fine,” Jeff replied. He looked up the block and saw a uniformed traffic officer coming down the block, writing tickets. He opened the door of the Mercedes and got in. “Excuse me, sir” he said to the other man, whom he did not recognize. “I have to move the car; there’s a cop giving out tickets.”
“Good idea,” the man said. “Pretty nice car, huh?”
Jeff maneuvered the car to a space at the curb. “Sure is,” he said. “Let me just wait until this cop passes.”
“Like to buy it?” the man asked.
“Sure.” Jeff laughed. “Just take it out of my paycheck.”
“I don’t understand this guy Menzies,” the man said. “We only sold it to him less than two weeks ago, and now he’s sold it back.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m just here to drive Menzies to Kennedy and then take the car. It cost him a year’s depreciation on the car to sell it back like that.”
Jeff saw the cop turn the corner and got out. “Well,” he said to the man, “people do crazy things.” He went back to his post, wondering why Menzies would sell his new car. The house phone rang. “This is Jeff,” he said into the phone.
“Jeff, it’s Howard Menzies; could you come upstairs and help me with some luggage, please?”
“Of course, Mr. Menzies; I’ll be right up.” Jeff stopped at the de
sk. “Ralph, watch the door, will you? I’ve got to give Mr. Menzies a hand.” He rode up in the elevator to the sixteenth floor and found the Menzies door open. “Hello?” he called out.
“Come in, Jeff,” Menzies called back. “I’m in the study.”
Peter Hausman passed him, carrying bags, headed for the elevator.
Jeff went into the study. “There are some more bags in the bedroom,” Menzies said.
“Going on a trip, Mr. Menzies?” Jeff asked.
“Just for a few days,” Menzies replied, holding up a large briefcase. “Peter and I are taking my wife’s ashes back to her homeland for burial. A sad task.”
“Yes, it is; I’m very sorry about her death; I’ll get the other bags.” Jeff went into the master bedroom and found two cases on the bed. As he leaned over the bed to pick them up, his foot bumped against something, and he bent down to see what it was. He lifted the skirt of the bedspread and found an automatic pistol in a holster. Oh, well, he supposed some people were paranoid about living in New York City. He picked up the bags and took them to the elevator.
He rode down with Menzies and his nephew, both of whom said nothing on the ride. He thought of asking about the sale of the Mercedes, but it was none of his business, so he didn’t bring it up. When the elevator reached the lobby, he loaded the bags into the car’s trunk, which was so full, he had to rearrange it to close the lid.
Menzies held out his hand. “Thank you for all your help, Jeff,” he said. “I’ll see you…ah, the middle of next week.”
“Have a good trip, Mr. Menzies,” Jeff replied. There were folded bills in Menzies’s hand, and when Jeff had a chance to look he was surprised to find two hundred-dollar bills. He watched as the Mercedes drove down Fifth Avenue, then turned east.
Jeff walked back into the building, thinking about what had just occurred. It didn’t add up: Hausman with hair; the resale of the Mercedes; the heavy tip. He had the very strong feeling that he wouldn’t be seeing Howard Menzies again.
For the tenth time, he took the newspaper clipping from his pocket and read it. Seven murders, it said. He put the clipping back into his pocket and made a decision. “Ralph,” he said to the desk man, “will you watch the door for a minute? I’ve got to use the phone in the package room.”
