by Stuart Woods
“Didn’t have a clue,” Harkness replied. “I was astonished, to tell you the truth.”
“Mr. Harkness, did you and Sasha Nijinsky ever have a romantic relationship?”
Harkness looked him in the eye. “Stone, I haven’t the slightest intention of answering that.”
The elevator door opened, and they stepped into a vestibule; only two apartments opened onto it, 10-J and 10-K. Harkness opened the door to 10-J and led the way in. There was an entrance hall, then a large living room. Furniture had been dumped here and there, as if the moving men had no instructions, and the boxes Stone had seen at Sasha’s old apartment were piled in the middle of the floor. Every one of them had been opened, and the woman’s belongings were strewn across the floor.
“Now that’s interesting,” Dino said.
Stone picked up a yellow movers’ receipt from the floor and handed it to Dino. “See if there’s a working phone; if not, go down and use the doorman’s. Get hold of the movers’ supervisor and ask him what the hell went on here.”
Dino took the receipt and went in search of a phone. “The one in the kitchen is working,” he called out.
“Do you have any idea who might have opened these boxes?” Stone asked Harkness.
“Not a clue,” Harkness replied. “As I said earlier, she didn’t even own the apartment yet. It would have been like Sasha, though, to have her stuff moved at the moment she would have been closing the sale. She wasn’t a woman who liked to be kept waiting.”
“I want to go through her belongings,” Stone said, “and I may want to remove some things for evidence. Have I your permission to do that?”
Harkness hesitated. “I think maybe I should talk to a lawyer, first. I want to do the right thing, here.”
“Look, Barron,” Stone said, “Sasha trusted you enough to put you in charge of her estate. There may be something here that will help us find out what happened to her, and we’re going to need your cooperation.”
Dino returned from the kitchen. “The supervisor at the movers’ says his guys didn’t open any boxes. I called the doorman on the house phone, and he confirms that they were sealed when he signed the receipt and let the movers out.”
“So,” said Stone, turning to Harkness, “somebody has been in here since the movers left.”
“Don’t look at me,” Harkness said.
“You’ve got a passkey, right?”
“I’m chairman of the cooperative board. Look, I thought the apartment was empty. Why would I want to come in here?”
“Who else besides the doorman has a key to this apartment?”
“The owners would, the people who were selling to Sasha. They live in Connecticut; I’ll get the phone number for you.”
“Who lives in the other apartment across the vestibule, number 10-K?”
“My assistant, Cary Hilliard. You met her the other night.”
Stone nodded. “And would she have a key?”
“No.”
“Did she know that Sasha was moving in here?”
“No. Sasha wanted her change of address kept quiet until she had moved. She liked to control what people knew about her.”
“Where do you normally keep your passkey?”
Harkness held up a gold key ring. “Here, with my other keys. They’re always in my pocket. Always. I lost some keys once, and it was such a pain in the ass that I’ve had a thing about it ever since.”
“Who else knew that Sasha was buying the apartment?”
“The owners; the board of directors, four other people besides me – they had to approve the buyer – the doorman, and, of course, anybody Sasha might have felt like telling.”
Stone remembered Sasha’s change-of-address cards, unmailed. “I want to go through this stuff. Are you going to cooperate, or am I going to have to go to the trouble of getting a search warrant?”
“All right” – Harkness sighed – “do what you have to do, but I’m going to be here while you’re doing it.” He walked across the room and settled his large frame in a chair. “Have at it,” he said.
Nearly two hours later, Stone wrote a receipt and handed it to Harkness. “I want her checkbook and her other financial records – these two boxes here.”
“When do I get them back?”
“When I’ve had a chance to go over them thoroughly, or when Sasha turns up alive, whichever comes first.”
Harkness stared at the two boxes.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Stone asked.
“No,” Harkness replied. “If it will help to find out what happened to Sasha, you’re welcome to the records.”
They parted at the front door of the building, and the detectives lifted the two boxes into the trunk of their car. As they got in, Dino spoke up. “If Harkness keeps his keys in his pocket all the time, then his wife might have gotten to them when he was asleep. If he was fucking Sasha, the lady might have taken an interest in her moving into the building.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Stone said. “I don’t even know if Harkness has a wife.”
“He’s a big guy, isn’t he? Wouldn’t have much trouble tossing a lady off a balcony, he felt like it.”
“I thought of that,” Stone said.
Chapter 14
“If you’re going to start out the evening kissing like that, then we’re never going to make it to dinner,” Stone said, feeling her breasts against him. The front door was still open, and he kicked it shut.
“Couldn’t help myself.” She grinned. “Say, all the way over here, I’ve been wondering where in this house you’re going to offer me a drink. I mean, the place is a wreck.”
“Follow me,” he said, and he led her to the kitchen.
She stood and looked around the room. “it’s beautiful,” she said. “You didn’t do this yourself.”
“I did, with a little help. I didn’t build it, I just restored it, refinishing all the original cabinetwork and fitting in the new appliances. It’s the only room in the house that’s done, except for the floors.”
“It’s like a turn-of-the-century dream,” she said, opening a cabinet. “And you’ve got your aunt’s china, too.”
“Hers and my mother’s. I could feed an army, if I had a working dining room.”
“We’ve got to find a way for you to keep this house, Stone. You deserve to live in it, really you do. I hate to think of your turning it over to some stranger, just for the money.”
“I hate the idea, too, but that’s the way it has to be. What would you like to drink?”
“Scotch.”
They sat at the kitchen table.
“So how’s the Sasha investigation going?”
“Stranger and stranger. Did you know she was going to be your next-door neighbor?”
Cary ’s jaw dropped. “In 10-J? You’re kidding!”
“Barron didn’t tell you?”
“Jesus, no.” She looked thoughtful. “I wonder why not. I know most of what goes on with him, and if he got her into the building, why wouldn’t he tell me that?”
“Did he get you into the building?”
“Yeah. Daddy paid, of course. Dammit, I’ll bet Sasha paid less. The co-op market is soft right now, and I’ve been there two years; I bought in at the top.”
“Did you know the people who lived there before?”
“The Warrens? Sure. I mean, they had me in for a drink when I moved in, and I had them in for a drink in return, and after that I just saw them in the elevator. The place was just a pied-à-terre for them; they live in Westport. He was in a Wall Street law firm, and he just retired.”
“Did you have a key to 10-J?”
“No.”
Stone told her about the day’s events.
“Spooky!” she said. “And you wondered if I went through her stuff?”
“Had to ask.”
“Did you talk to the Warrens?”
“I tried. The maid said they’re in London. That lets them out, I guess.”
> “The painters have been in and out of there, but I guess they finished up before Sasha’s stuff arrived. Anyway, the doorman would have let them in and locked up after them.”
“Well, enough shoptalk. How was your day?”
It was nine before they reached the Tribeca Grill, riding in the inevitable black Lincoln. The headwaiter knew Cary and gave them a good table.
“Neat place,” Stone said. “I’ve read about it. Is De Niro in here much?”
“From time to time. Sometimes I think a third of the people in here came just to catch a glimpse of him.”
“Like those two couples,” Stone said, nodding at a table in a less desirable part of the restaurant. They watched as one of the men, dressed in a silk suit and a pearl gray tie, offered the headwaiter money and had it refused.
“Tourists,” Cary said.
“Not your ordinary tourists,” Stone replied. “They’re wise guys.”
“Mafia? You know them?”
“I know the look. The suits, the women’s clothes. Just about everybody else in here is casual, but they’re dressed to kill. Here’s how it goes: the wise guys like places they’re known, where they’re known to be connected; they’re treated like princes – the best tables, the best wines on the house. Tonight, though, the ladies wanted to break out, wanted to come to De Niro’s restaurant and see him up close. The guys went for it, because De Niro is Italian, he’s their hero, and they’re already regretting it. They got the worst table in the house, and the headwaiter won’t be bought. They’ll sulk all through dinner, and it’ll be the last time for a while the ladies will get to go to a new restaurant.”
Cary laughed. A wonderful sound, Stone thought. “Do you deal much with Mafia guys?”
“Not unless there’s a homicide. My partner, Dino, grew up with them, though. Dino says that everybody he was in school with is either dead, in prison, or has his phones tapped by the FBI.”
“I’d like to meet Dino.”
“He’ll charm you right out of your pants,” Stone said.
She leaned close. “Only you can do that.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
They dined well, and Cary pointed out the regulars to him, told him who the producers and directors were. When coffee came, she was quiet for a while.
“That’s really strange, Barron not telling me that Sasha and I were going to be next-door neighbors,” she said finally.
“It really seems to bother you,” Stone said.
“It does. During the time I’ve been with Barron, he’s come to trust me on just about everything, I think, and then, when there’s something you’d think he would just naturally tell me about, he clams up. If Sasha’s stuff hadn’t got moved in there, I’d never have known about her buying the place.”
“Is Barron married?”
“Sure. He and Charlotte celebrated their twentieth anniversary last year. Now, that could have something to do with it. Maybe he didn’t want Dolly to know – but hell, that doesn’t make any sense either. How could he move her into the building and expect to keep it from Dolly? And why would he think I would tell her, anyway? I’ve never told her about anything else he’s done. I hardly know her.”
“What’s Charlotte like?”
“Straight arrow; utterly conventional. They were college sweethearts, and she worships the ground he slithers on.”
“Now, that is the first hard word I’ve heard you say about him. He slithers, does he?”
“Oh, I guess I’m just mad because he didn’t tell me about Sasha’s moving into the building.”
“Was Barron fucking Sasha?”
She turned and looked at him. “Are you on the job, Stone, or is this a personal conversation?”
He didn’t blink. “Every cop is always on the job. There are times when I can’t separate my work from my personal life. This is one of them.”
She didn’t blink either. “If you want to interrogate me about my boss, see me at my office. And I might lie to you.”
“You should never lie to a policeman,” he said.
“I will if I feel like it,” she replied evenly.
The evening suddenly turned cool.
Later, when her black car stopped in front of the Turtle Bay house, she declined to come in with him.
Before he got out, he turned to face her. “I’m sorry. I apologize. I stepped over the line, and I’ll try not to do it again.”
She nodded, but didn’t say anything.
He kissed her on the cheek, got out of the car, and closed the door.
She rolled down the window. “Stone,” she called after him.
He turned and walked back to the car, leaned down close to her.
“Barron was fucking Sasha,” she said. “Secretly, regularly, and for a long time. And I think I’m falling in love with you.” She rapped on the back of the front seat and the car drove away, leaving Stone standing in the street.
Chapter 15
When Stone arrived at the precinct, a well-dressed, obviously irritated man was sitting next to Dino’s desk. Dino, unaccountably in the station house early, was interviewing him.
“Look, I’ve already explained,” he said, looking uncomfortably around him. A very dirty, handcuffed black man was sitting at the next desk, admiring the man’s clothes.
“Mr. Duncan, this is my partner, Stone Barrington. Stone, this is Mr. Evan Duncan, who has something interesting to tell us.”
“How do you do, Mr. Duncan,” Stone said, extending his hand. He stepped between Duncan and the black man.
“Would you please tell Detective Barrington what you saw, Mr. Duncan?” Dino asked politely.
Shielded from the black man and seeming to take confidence from the presence of Stone, who probably looked like most of the people he knew, Duncan nodded. “I’m an investment banker,” he said. “My office is in Rockefeller Plaza.” Having established that he was a person worthy of belief, he went on. “Last evening, about six thirty, a friend and I were leaving the Harvard Club, on West Forty-fourth Street. We had ordered a car from the club’s service, and a black car pulled up and let a man out. I looked at the number on the window and thought it was car number twelve, which was the number on the slip the steward had given me, so I opened the door and started to get into the car.” He paused, as if uncertain as to whether he should continue.
“Go on, Mr. Duncan,” Stone said, nodding reassuringly.
“Well, there was a woman in the backseat. She turned to me, surprised that someone was getting into her car. I apologized and began backing out, and she said, ‘Don’t worry about it, all these cars look alike.’ I closed the door and checked the number again, and it was number twenty-one, not twelve.” He stopped and looked to Stone as if for approval.
Stone wondered if he had missed something. “Mr. Duncan…”
“You didn’t tell him, Mr. Duncan,” Dino said to the man.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I quite missed the main point, didn’t I?” Duncan chuckled.
“Yes,” Dino said.
“What is the main point?” Stone asked, baffled.
“Oh, well, the woman was Sasha Nijinsky,” Duncan replied, as if Stone should have known it all along.
The hairs stood up on the back of Stone’s neck. Here was an obviously solid citizen with a close-up sighting. “Why did you think it was Sasha Nijinsky?” Stone asked, hoping against hope that the man was not simply some upper-class fruitcake.
“Well, I’ve seen her on television several hundred times.”
“Sometimes people on television look different in person,” Stone said.
“And I sat across the table from her at a dinner party less than two weeks ago,” Duncan said firmly.
Stone looked at Dino. Dino made a how-about-that face.
“Did she recognize you?” Stone asked.
“I don’t think so, and I was in and out of the car so fast that I never really engaged her in conversation. But it was Sasha Nijinsky, I’m absolutely certain of it. I wouldn�
��t really have come in here about this, but my wife said it could be important, since Sasha is missing.”
“Missing?” Stone asked. Nobody knew she was missing. The press still thought she was in some hospital or other.
Dino held up a fresh copy of the Daily News. SASHA VANISHES, a headline screamed.
Stone picked up the paper and opened it. “A source in the New York City Police Department confirmed last night that, since her fall from the terrace of her East Side penthouse apartment, Sasha Nijinsky has been missing, and no one knows if she is alive or dead.” He didn’t read the rest. Somebody, probably somebody in this room, was talking to a reporter.
“You did the right thing, Mr. Duncan,” Stone said. “Now the car number was twenty-one, the time was about six thirty, you said?”
“That’s right, just about exactly six thirty. That was the time I had ordered the car for.”
“And the name of the car service?”
“Minute Man. I use them all the time.”
Stone held out his hand. “Thank you very much for this information, Mr. Duncan,” he said. “You may be sure that we’ll check this out thoroughly.”
Dismissed, Duncan retrieved his trench coat from Dino’s desk and made his way out of the room, giving the leering black man a wide berth.
“Cat’s out of the bag, huh?” Stone said to Dino.
“I think a more appropriate description of the situation is that the shit has hit the fan,” Dino said. “Leary wants to see us.”
“At least we’ve got some sort of lead,” Stone said. “Let’s call Minute Man first.”
After a long wait for the information, Stone was told that a Minute Man car had picked up a Ms. Balfour at the Algonquin Hotel at six thirty and had delivered her to an East Sixty-third Street address. Stone scribbled it down. “The Algonquin is right down the block from the Harvard Club; the car must have been stopped in traffic when Duncan mistook it for his.”
“Sounds good to me,” Dino said.
Armed with their new information, the two detectives faced Leary, who was an unhappy man. “I hope to God this is no fuckin’ wild-goose chase,” he said, when he had heard their story. “The chief of detectives has already been on the phone this morning, and I’m expecting a call from the mayor any minute.”
