Stuart Woods - New York Dead

“May I see them?”

Stone took her up in the old elevator. “I keep meaning to get this thing looked at,” he said over the creaking of the machinery, “but I’m afraid they’ll tell me it needs replacing.”

She stood in the bedroom and looked around. “This is going to be wonderful,” she said. “I hope to God you’ve got decent taste.”

“I’m not all that sure that I do,” he lied. “I could use some advice.”

“You may get more of that than you want; doing interiors is almost my favorite thing.” She walked across the room and stood before the three Matilda Stones. There were two views of West Ninth and West Tenth streets, and an elevated view of Washington Square. “These are superb,” she said. “You could get half a million for the three, I’ll bet, but don’t you dare.”

“Don’t worry. They’re a permanent fixture.”

“They belong in a house like, this,” she said, “and so do you. Can’t you think of some way to hang on to it? Go on the take, or something?”

“I have this fantasy,” he said. “I’m living in this house; it’s in perfect condition; there are servants in the servants’ quarters, a cook in the kitchen, and money in the bank. I don’t dare let myself dwell on it; it’s never going to happen, I know that.” He turned from the pictures and looked at her. “You said interior decorating was almost your favorite thing. What’s your favorite?”

She stepped out of her heels and turned to face him. “I’m five-eleven in my stocking feet; does that turn you off?”

Stone looked her up and down – the luxuriant, dark hair; the chiseled face; the full breasts under the black cashmere; the long legs finishing in slender feet. He hooked an arm around her narrow waist and pulled her to him.

She smiled and rubbed her belly against his. “Apparently not,” she said, then kissed him.

Stone slid down a long, velvet tunnel of desire, made no attempt to slow his fall. Their clothes vanished, and they found the bed. Stone made to move on top of her, then cried out when his swollen knee took his weight.

She pushed him onto his back, kissed the knee, kissed his lips and his nipples, kissed his navel and his penis, took him in her mouth, nearly swallowed him, brought him fully erect, then slid him inside her.

Stone looked up at the long body, the firm breasts, freed from the cashmere, the lips parted in ecstasy, the glazed eyes. She sucked him inside her again and again. When he thought he would come, she stopped and sat still, kissing his ears and his eyes, then she began again. Half an hour seemed to stretch into weeks, until, bathed in sweat, his face buried between her breasts, he came with her, and their cries echoed around the underfurnished room.

They lay in each other’s arms, spent, breathing hard, caressing.

“You never told me what your favorite thing was,” Stone said.

“That was it,” Cary replied, kissing him.

Stone woke to broad daylight, and she was gone. A card was propped on the mantelpiece. There were phone numbers for home and work and an address: 1011 Fifth Avenue.

Stone arrived in the detectives’ squad room of the 19th Precinct feeling rested, refreshed, fulfilled, and in an extremely good mood. The good mood was tempered somewhat by the rows of empty desks in the room. Twenty-four hours earlier, they had been filled with detectives doing his bidding, chasing down every lead on the Sasha Nijinsky disappearance, leaving only to interview her co-workers and acquaintances, again at his bidding. He had the sickening feeling that his time at the head of the investigation had come to an end.

Dino was in Lieutenant Leary’s glassed-in office at the end of the large room. Stone rapped on the glass and joined them. “Where is everybody?” he asked Dino as he pulled up a chair.

“On the cabdriver thing,” Dino said.

Stone turned to Leary. “Lieutenant, you’re not going to pull my guys off this investigation and put them on a cabdriver murder, are you?”

“Yeah,” Leary said, “but it’s three murders.”

“The cabdriver and who else?” Stone asked.

“The cabdriver and two other cabdrivers,” Leary said. “Don’t you watch TV or nothing?”

“I got a late start this morning,” Stone said. “You mean three cabdrivers on the same day?”

“On the same night, all within an hour of each other,” Leary said. “We got a fucking wildcat cabdrivers’ strike going, you know that? Park Avenue is a parking lot. There’s two thousand cabs just sitting there. You didn’t notice?”

“ Park Avenue isn’t on my way to work,” Stone said.

“You’re lucky you and Bacchetti are still on Nijinsky,” Leary said. “The mayor wasn’t interested personally, you wouldn’t be. What’ve you got on the lady?”

“Zip,” Dino said.

“Some ideas,” Stone said, shooting Dino a glance.

“What ideas?” Leary asked.

“We want a search warrant on Van Fleet,” Stone said.

“Dino’s been telling me about him,” Leary replied. “I like him for this. You got enough for the warrant?”

“The letters ought to do it. We can demonstrate his undue interest in Nijinsky.”

“See Judge O’Neal,” Leary said. “She’s got a hair up her ass about anything to do with any crime against women. She’ll buy the letters.”

“Right.”

“What else you got?”

“Zip,” Dino replied.

Stone shrugged. “It’s not as though the effort hasn’t been made. Every single co-worker has been interviewed; every hospital, clinic, and funeral parlor in the city, Long Island, and New Jersey has been contacted. I want to go through all her stuff today, just as soon as we’ve searched Van Fleet’s place.”

“I buy the effort,” Leary said. “It’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

“It is,” Dino agreed. “I never knew of nobody going up the pipe like this broad. It’s spooky.”

“I’ll call the chief this morning; he’ll talk to the mayor. I’ll tell’em we need more time.”

“We do,” Stone said.

“Go to it.” Leary put his feet on his desk and picked up the telephone.

Stone followed Dino out of Leary’s office. “You call Judge O’Neal’s secretary for an appointment. I’ve got a call to make.” He sat down at his desk, dug out Cary ’s card, and called her direct line. He got her on the first ring.

“ Cary Hilliard.”

“Morning.”

“Well, good morning to you!” She was laughing.

“How are you?”

Her voice moved nearer the phone, and she whispered. “I’m sore as hell, and I feel great!”

“Same here” – Stone laughed – “but I’m not sure great describes it; it’s somewhere above that.”

“I’m free this evening,” she said.

“No you’re not; you’ve got a dinner date.”

“I’ll be done here by seven forty-five. Have you been to the Tribeca Grill?”

“Is that De Niro’s new place?”

“That’s it. Shall I book us a table?”

“Come to my house first, for a drink.”

“You’re on. I’ll book for nine o’clock. See you at eight.”

“You betcha.”

When Stone hung up, Dino was looking at him.

“You got laid, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” Stone dissembled.

“I can tell.” Dino batted his eyes rapidly. “You’re just glowing all over.”

“Jesus Christ! Do I have to take this shit from my own partner?”

“You betcha,” Dino said, imitating Stone.

“What about Judge O’Neal?”

“Half an hour.”

“What are we going to do for some help with the search?” Stone asked. “Nobody here.”

“Well, shit,” Dino replied, “if you and me between us can’t find a corpse in a funeral parlor, we ought to turn in our papers.”