New York Dead

by Stuart Woods

  “I told you that I had seen Ms. Nijinsky many times over the past weeks, often at her apartment. In fact, I think I remember when I could have left that palm print. On our last night together, Sasha and I took our wine out onto the terrace. There was no furniture out there, but it was a nice evening, and there was one break in the surrounding buildings where you could see some city skyline. I got something in my shoe, and I leaned against the sliding door while I shook out the shoe. I’m sure that must be the palm print you’re referring to.”

  Leary, sitting next to Stone, was becoming restive.

  Stone hurried. “Ms. Morgan, when Sasha told you she was seeing a man – at the same time she was making love to you – how did you feel about that?”

  “I didn’t like it much, at first, but, as we became closer, I realized that Sasha’s sexuality was truly dual – not like mine. When you’ve gone through what most lesbian women go through to live their lives openly, you become more tolerant of other people’s desires. There was a part of Sasha that liked sex with men, and I soon knew I couldn’t change that. I told her I understood that, and the subject ceased to be a sore point between us.”

  This simple, rational explanation stopped Stone. He turned to Leary. “Lieutenant, do you have any questions for Ms. Morgan?”

  Leary shook his head slowly. His face was red.

  “Detective Bacchetti?”

  “Yes, I have a question,” Dino replied. His voice was cold and hard.

  Stone wanted to stop him, but he knew he could not.

  “This is the way it happened, Miz Morgan,” Dino spat at her. “You fell madly in love with Sasha Nijinsky, and then you found out she was screwing a man, and that drove you crazy, didn’t it?” He continued before she could answer. “So then, to get back at Sasha, you started blackmailing her, didn’t you? Demanding money not to talk to the tabloids about her swinging both ways. And when she got tired of paying and told you so, there was a fight, and you heaved her off that terrace, didn’t you? Isn’t that the way it happened, Miz Morgan?”

  Hank Morgan leaned forward and looked directly at Dino. “You’re insane,” she said.

  Carlton Palmer spoke up, his deep voice resonating around the room. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I think that will be all.”

  Chapter 22

  Leary kept Stone and Dino in the conference room. His face was very red now. “I thought you told me we were going to get a confession,” he said, glaring at Dino.

  Dino spread his hands. “Boss, how could I know for sure? It felt that way when Palmer said she’d talk to us.”

  “It did feel that way, Lieutenant,” Stone interjected.

  “That’s a completely unusable tape,” Leary said. “Palmer might as well have written and directed it himself.”

  “She’s dirty, Lieutenant,” Dino said. “She did it. I can feel it.”

  “I think so too,” Leary said, “but you’re going to have to fit her up for it.”

  “What?” Stone said, alarmed.

  “I mean, you’re going to have to prove it, get some evidence,” Leary said, correcting himself.

  “We’ll get it,” Dino said firmly. “I mean, shit, Lieutenant, we just got on this bitch. Give us a little time, okay?”

  “Okay,” Leary said. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to come up with one piece of evidence that will put her in Nijinsky’s apartment on that night.”

  “Lieutenant,” Stone said, worried now, “that’s unreasonable. Morgan is a whole new development in this case – a promising one, I’ll grant you, but we’re going to need some time.”

  “You got it,” Leary said. “Twenty-four hours.” He turned and walked from the room.

  Dino flopped down in a chair. “What now?”

  “We’d better get going, don’t you think?”

  Dino nodded. “Okay, I’ll check Nijinsky’s records for the promissory note from Morgan.”

  “I’ll check out Morgan’s address, see if anybody saw her that night. What are you going to do after you check the records? It won’t take you very long.”

  Dino thought for a minute. “Shoot myself, if the note is there,” he said.

  Stone drove downtown faster than he usually drove, resisting the temptation to using the flashing light and siren. He parked in front of a fire hydrant on West Tenth Street and put down the visor to ward off tickets.

  Hank Morgan lived in a handsome brownstone that had been divided into two duplexes; he wondered how she could afford it. Well, hell, he was only a cop and he lived in a whole brownstone in Turtle Bay. Must be her daddy’s money. He rang the second bell, the one that said VINCENT.

  “Yes?” a woman’s voice said over the intercom.

  “Good morning, I’m Detective Barrington, NYPD. May I speak to you for a moment, Ms. Vincent?”

  A pause. “All right, but I want to see a badge through the peephole.”

  “Of course.”

  She buzzed him through the outer door, and he held his badge so she could scrutinize it.

  She opened the door but kept the chain on. “How about some ID with a photograph?” she said warily.

  Stone handed his ID wallet through the opening.

  She closed the door, unhooked the chain, and let him in. “Sorry about that, but you can’t be too careful,” she said.

  Ms. Vincent was a pleasingly plump woman in an apron. “I was just about to have some coffee. Can I offer you some?”

  “Thanks,” Stone said. “I’d like that.” He welcomed the opportunity to stretch out his visit.

  She led him into the kitchen and gestured for him to take a seat at the breakfast table. When she had poured them both a cup, she joined him.

  “What can I do for you?” she said.

  “I want to talk with you about your upstairs neighbor,” Stone said.

  Ms. Vincent’s eyebrows went up. “Really? Is Morgan in some kind of trouble?”

  “She’s helping us with an investigation, and the credibility of witnesses is always important. Also, I wanted to see if there was anything you could add to her information.”

  “Sure.”

  He took her back to the night of Sasha Nijinsky’s fall. “Did you see Ms. Morgan at all that evening?”

  Ms. Vincent thought for a moment. “We were in Bermuda,” she said. “My husband’s sister lives there, and we go at least once a year.”

  “Did anyone stay in your apartment while you were gone?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “How well do you know Hank Morgan?”

  “Not very well. We set up this place as condominiums four years ago with some friends. Then the friends got transferred, and they sold the place to Morgan about three months ago.”

  “Did you know Hank Morgan before that?”

  “Nope. Neither did our friends; a real estate agent found her. I was a little worried at first. Shit, I’m still worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Have you met Ms. Morgan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I don’t have to tell you she’s a lesbian.”

  “No. She was quite frank about it.”

  “Well, it’s not just that she’s a lesbian – hell, I don’t have anything against gays in general – it’s that she’s so… involved.”

  “Involved in what?”

  “Well, she’s apparently in two or three organizations about gay rights, and something to do with AIDS – you know those people who did that sit-in in St. Patrick’s Cathedral?”

  “I know the group.”

  “Well, she’s always doing things like that; she’s a real activist, which is, all too often, another way of saying ‘pain in the ass.’”

  “Why does that bother you?”

  “She’s always having meetings upstairs, and, believe me, there are some pretty weird people at those meetings. My God, there have been women in this house who should be playing pro football! It gives me the willies. I’m here by myself a lot; my husband travels in his work.”

&n
bsp; “Have these people behaved oddly toward you?”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m not really afraid of being raped, I guess. It’s just that I’m an Italian girl from Queens, a Catholic, and I’m nervous about things like that. I was brought up to be nervous about things like that.”

  “Did you ever recognize any of Ms. Morgan’s visitors?”

  Ms. Vincent grinned. “Yeah, I recognized Sasha Nijinsky, once.”

  “Was she here for a meeting?”

  “Nope, she was alone. I guess that means Sasha was a dyke, too, huh?”

  “How often did you see her here?”

  “Only once, and then through the peephole. It was her, though. She and Morgan were holding hands.” She gave a little shudder.

  “Do you remember the date you saw her here?”

  Ms. Vincent shook her head. “Not exactly. Must have been a month or so ago.”

  Stone finished his coffee. “Do you know any of Ms. Morgan’s other friends?”

  “Nope. We don’t socialize. I mean, we’re polite to each other, but it’s obvious we have absolutely nothing in common, except this house.”

  “Has Ms. Morgan been doing some work on her place?”

  “I’ll say she has! She’s had builders in the house almost since the day she moved in; she must have done something pretty major to her place. They’ve stopped coming, though; they must be finished.” She paused. “Did I mention that Morgan has a gun?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I saw it when she moved in. I ran into her on the front steps – the first time I’d met her – and she was carrying a cardboard box full of stuff, and right on top was this pretty good-sized pistol in a holster. She made some joke about how you can’t be too careful in New York.”

  Stone stood up. “Well, thank you for your help, Ms. Vincent.”

  “Wouldn’t you like another cup?” She seemed anxious for company.

  “Thanks, but I have a lot to do today.”

  Stone left the building and walked up and down both sides of the street. He checked at a bar, a dry cleaner, and a shoe repair shop; all of them were acquainted with Hank Morgan, but nobody had seen her on the night of Sasha’s disappearance. He checked his notebook for the home phone number of the doorman at Sasha’s old building, called him, and ascertained that Morgan had been there before Sasha’s fall. The doorman hadn’t seen Morgan that night. Discouraged, he drove back to the precinct.

  Dino was at his desk, looking pleased with himself.

  “There wasn’t any promissory note,” he said, grinning. “Morgan lied to us.”

  “Not necessarily,” Stone replied. “Nijinsky might have kept them someplace else.”

  “Nah,” Dino said. “She kept perfect records, and they were perfectly complete. If Morgan had given her a note, that’s where it’d be. What did you come up with?”

  Stone gave an account of his investigation. “The downstairs neighbor was on vacation, like Morgan said. The lady doesn’t like lesbians, but she had nothing to say that would have incriminated Morgan. I had the feeling she wished she’d had something to tell me.”

  “Morgan’s our killer,” Dino said. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I can’t feel it in mine, Dino. I know how bad we need a bust on this one, but Morgan’s just not it. The lady’s clean, except maybe on a weapons charge. The neighbor saw a pistol, but Morgan may have a permit.”

  “I’ll check on that, but, take my word for it, the lady’s no lady,” Dino said. “And she’s dirty.”

  Chapter 23

  On his way home, Stone was stopped in his tracks by a headline in the Post: ARREST IN SASHA CASE! He grabbed a copy.

  Henrietta “Hank” Morgan, 32, a makeup artist at the Continental Network and a leading activist in lesbian-rights demonstrations, was taken in handcuffs to the 19th Precinct this morning and questioned for more than three hours about the disappearance of TV anchorwoman Sasha Nijinsky. In what a police source described as a “breakthrough” in the investigation, Morgan is reported to have given a detailed statement on videotape, while her lawyer, Carlton Palmer, was present. While the NYPD has not disclosed the contents of the tape, a source has said, “This all but wraps up the investigation.” The source would not reveal what the NYPD thinks has become of Sasha.

  Ace criminal trial lawyer Palmer said, in a telephone interview at press time, “My client is innocent of any wrongdoing, and the police know that. This entire episode is a perversion of justice.”

  Morgan, the daughter of a prominent Pennsylvania manufacturer, has been in and out of a dozen makeup jobs in the film and television industry over the past ten years and is known to have been Sasha Nijinsky’s personal choice as her makeup artist at the Continental Network.

  The story made Stone grind his teeth. The precinct seemed to be leaking from every pore, and whoever had given the Post the story had either not known what he was talking about or had deliberately misled the newspaper. There was going to be hell to pay.

  The phone was ringing as he entered the house, tripping over a number of boxes in the hallway. The dentist in the professional suite downstairs received packages for him when he was at work and put them inside the front door.

  Dino was on the phone. “Leary wants us downtown at the DA’s office tomorrow morning at nine.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  A thought struck Stone. “I’m scheduled for a department physical tomorrow morning.”

  “If you want, I’ll do the meeting, you get checked out.”

  Stone thought for a moment. “I’d better be there, I think. I don’t much like the sound of it.”

  “You seen the Post?”

  “Yeah. Who do you think is leaking to the press?”

  “Could be anybody.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Dino hung up.

  Stone turned his attention to the boxes in the front hall. A glance at the labels told him what they were. Shit, he had intended to cancel the clothes orders. How could they have gotten them here so fast? Furious at himself and annoyed by being called to the DA’s office for no apparent reason, he ripped through the day’s mail and nearly threw away an invitation, thinking it some sort of classy junk mail. It was for dinner on Saturday, at the apartment of Hiram Barker. That should be an interesting evening, he thought. He rang the number, got an answering machine, and accepted, adding that he would bring a date, if that was all right. Well, he thought, sighing, at least he’d be able to dress well for the occasion.

  They were at Elaine’s, at a small table all the way in the back. It was a crowded night, as usual, and Lauren, the singer-piano player, was straining to be heard above the din.

  “Want to go to dinner at Hi Barker’s on Saturday night?” he asked Cary.

  She nearly choked on her scotch. “No kidding?”

  “No kidding. The invitation came in today’s mail.”

  “You’re really coming up in the world. Dinner at Barker’s is a hot ticket.”

  “I interviewed him about Sasha, and he said come to dinner sometime. I thought it was just the usual chat.”

  “I am definitely available,” she said. “Now, what am I going to wear?”

  “I don’t have any problem about what to wear,” he said. “All that stuff we ordered came today. You know what you made me spend?”

  She waved away his question. “My daddy always said, ‘Buy the things you want, and then figure out how to pay for them. Debt is a great motivator.’”

  Stone laughed. “Well, I guess I’d better get motivated.”

  “Come on, sweetheart, that’s what credit cards are for. How do you think everybody else in this town dresses?”

  “I never did it that way. I never bought anything on a credit card that I couldn’t pay for at the end of the month.”

  “A very stuffy attitude.”

  “A very necessary one, when you’re on a cop’s salary.”
r />   “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  “About my salary?”

  “About making a lot more money than you are. You’ve got a law degree, after all; why don’t you use it?”

  “I never took the bar exam.”

  “How about a-”

  “I know, a cram course. You’re as bad as Elaine. She’s been at me about that.”

  “She’s right. You’re a highly intelligent man, and a highly handsome one, too, I might add. That counts for more than you might think, and not just with women.”

  “So, I could just quit the force and live on my looks?”

  She laughed. “If it were up to me, you could. Does the practice of law repel you so much?”

  “Look, I’m thirty-eight years old. I can’t just get in line at the big firms with this year’s grads and expect to get taken on. ‘So, Mr. Barrington, what have you been doing with yourself in the fifteen years between getting your law degree and passing the bar?’ ‘Oh, I’ve been arresting drug dealers and investigating murders and other sordid crimes.’ ‘Wonderful, that experience will stand you in good stead in our estate planning department. Will a hundred thousand a year be enough?’”

  She laughed again. “There are other facets of the law besides estate planning, you know.”

  “Sure there are. You know which ones I’d be qualified for? I’ll tell you; I’d be qualified to hang around the criminal courts picking up burglary defenses, drug busts, and drunk driving cases. That’s what ex-cops who are lawyers do – they go to night school, get a law degree, and, when they retire, they pick up an extra income by leaning on their old buddies on the force and in the DA’s office to go easy on the scum they’re defending.”

  “You underestimate yourself,” she said. “Still, that’s an endearing quality in a world where overconfidence is a way of life.”