Stuart Woods - New York Dead

Stone led the way out. “She’s still alive, Dino. I can feel it.”

“When I can feel her , I’ll believe it,” Dino called after him, hustling to keep up.

Judge O’Neal was youngish, blonde, and extremely good-looking. She sat in her high-backed, leather chair, her robes thrown open and her legs crossed, and contemplated Stone.

Stone contemplated right back. The woman had been wearing an engagement ring during the year since he had first come across her, or he would have asked her out.

“The letters are enough for me,” O’Neal said, “even if he doesn’t talk dirty. A thousand letters is weird enough for a warrant. Nobody’s going to overrule.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Stone said. “By the way, we’ve included his place of work in the warrant.”

“Off the record, Detective, for my own curiosity, what do you think happened to this woman?”

“Off the record, Judge, I am completely baffled, but I think she may still be alive.”

O’Neal’s eyebrows went up. “Get serious.”

Stone explained his terminal velocity theory.

O’Neal shook her head vigorously, and the blonde hair swirled around her shoulders. “ That ,” she said, “is the wildest theory I ever heard.”

“It may not be plausible, but it’s possible.”

Judge O’Neal uncrossed her legs and leaned on her desk, resting her chin in her hand. “I’ve got a hundred bucks says she’s stone dead – you should excuse the expression.”

Stone laughed. “I’ll take your bet, but the loser buys dinner.”

O’Neal pursed her red lips for a moment, then smiled. “You’re on,” she said, signing the warrant.

In the car, Dino looked sideways at Stone while dodging a bicycle messenger. “Jesus, Stone, why didn’t you just fuck her right there on the desk? I’d have been happy to watch.”

“Come on, Dino.”

“She’s got the hots for you, I’m telling you.”

“She’s wearing an engagement ring.”

“So what the fuck? She was wearing a wedding ring, that’s maybe cause for pause, maybe. A diamond ring is an open door. Anyway, you got a dinner date, just as soon as we find Sasha, dead or alive.”

Stone glanced at his watch. “Van Fleet should be at the funeral parlor by now. We’ll serve him there, then do the apartment.”

Herbert Van Fleet’s mother didn’t like it. Stone and Dino waited quietly while Mrs. Van Fleet called her lawyer.

She returned grim faced. “All right, how do you want to go about this?”

“We’d like to see every room in the building,” Stone said.

“What are you looking for?” she demanded.

“Anything that might help us in our investigation,” Dino said, none too politely.

Seething, the woman took them through the building. Stone saw nothing out of the ordinary – at least, out of the ordinary for a funeral parlor. They finished up in the embalming room, where Herbert Van Fleet was working on a corpse. A tube ran from the man’s stomach to a pump, and the machine whirred quietly. Stone looked away.

Van Fleet looked up without surprise. “Well, well, look who’s back. I’m not answering any further questions, gentlemen, except in the presence of my lawyer.”

Stone handed him the warrant, and, while Van Fleet read it carefully, he went to a row of large drawers.

“I’ll do this,” Stone said to Dino. “I wouldn’t want you to faint on me.”

Two elderly men were the only occupants of the refrigerated storage drawers. Stone and Dino had a look in an adjacent storage room, then returned.

“All right,” Van Fleet said, “when do you want to go to my apartment?”

“Immediately,” Stone replied.

Van Fleet turned to his mother. “But what about Mr. Edmonson?” he asked plaintively, gesturing toward the corpse on the table.

“Just pop him in the fridge,” Dino said. “He’ll keep.”

“You’d better go with them,” Mrs. Van Fleet said to her son. “They’ll wreck your place if you’re not there.”

Van Fleet nodded, went to a sink, washed his hands, removed his rubber apron, revealing that he was dressed in a three-piece suit, and said to the officers, “I’m ready.”

Van Fleet didn’t speak on the way downtown. His building was in SoHo, near the river, and the street seemed to have been missed in the gentrification of the area. A sign on the dusty windows of the empty ground floor read WEINSTEIN’S FINE GLOVES. Van Fleet unlocked a steel door and led them into a vestibule and onto a freight elevator.

“Who else lives in the building?” Stone asked.

“Nobody,” Van Fleet replied genially. “My mother and I bought it as an investment last year. I had planned to renovate the rest of the building and rent lofts, but I ran out of money. Maybe next year.”

“Did the glove factory occupy the whole place?”

“No, there was a kosher meat-processing plant and a piecework sewing business, and offices on the top floor, where I live.”

The elevator stopped. Van Fleet pushed back the gate and unlocked another large steel door.

“It’s sort of like a fortress, isn’t it?” Dino said.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you what a problem burglary is in this city,” Van Fleet said. Inside the door, he tapped a code into a keypad. “I’ve got a very decent alarm system, too.”

Stone watched him.

Van Fleet led them into a large, open space. A kitchen had been built in a corner at the far end and a bedroom in the other corner. These rooms were separated from the rest of the loft by a framework of lumber that had not yet had plasterboard applied to it. “I’m doing most of the work on the place myself,” Van Fleet said.

Light flooded the loft from three sides; the other abutted another building.

“Nice place, Herb,” Dino said admiringly.

“You may call me Mr. Van Fleet,” Van Fleet said, almost sweetly. He turned to Stone. “ You may call me Herbert, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Herbert,” Stone said. “I feel for you, doing your own remodeling. I’m doing the same, myself.” He said this while walking the length of the highly polished oak floor, the expanse of which was broken only by an occasional Oriental rug. A sofa, two chairs, a lamp, and a television set had been placed on one rug, an island of a living room surrounded by hardwood. The two detectives went methodically through the place, but there was hardly anywhere to hide anything. Van Fleet’s desk rested against one wall. Stone opened the drawers and found nothing he wouldn’t have seen in his own desk drawers: bills, stationery, office supplies.

“Let’s see the rest of the building,” Stone said to Van Fleet. His warrant did not cover the whole building, but he hoped the man wouldn’t notice.

Van Fleet didn’t. He went to a kitchen drawer and retrieved a large key ring, which jangled as he led them to the elevator. They walked through the building a floor at a time. Van Fleet may not have had the money to complete his development project, but he had cleaned out the building; it was as empty as any place Stone had ever seen.

“Anything else?” Stone said to Dino.

Dino shook his head.

“Can we offer you a lift uptown, Herbert?”

“Thank you, no,” Van Fleet replied. “As long as I’m here, I’ll have my lunch and get a cab later. Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” he said sweetly.

“You’ve been very helpful, Herbert,” Stone said, “and we appreciate your cooperation.”

“Have you found out anything else about Sasha?” Van Fleet asked.

“I’m afraid we can’t discuss an investigation in progress,” Stone said.

“The papers said you’re making no progress at all,” Van Fleet said, walking them to the front door.