Stuart Woods - New York Dead

“You say you know where the money is?”

“I said I knew about it,” Woodman replied. “Sasha told me a few months ago that she had cashed in her chips after having done well in the market for several years. She showed me a cashier’s check made out to Cash for two million.”

“I thought you said she was secretive.”

“She was, but we were having a drink in the Oak Bar of the Plaza one evening, and I guess she’d had a couple, and she showed me the check.”

“Did she say what she was going to do with it?”

“Only that she was Federal Expressing it to a bank in the Cayman Islands the following morning. She said she was making an investment with a friend.”

“She didn’t say who the friend was?”

“No.”

“Have you any idea who it might have been?”

“None.”

“Is there some way I might trace the money?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Cayman Islands banks are a lot like their Swiss counterparts, in that their transactions are held secret. It’s said there’s a lot of drug money down there. Even if I knew the name of the bank, and I do not, they wouldn’t give you the time of day. They won’t even give the IRSthe time of day.”

“It appears from her records that she had paid the taxes on her profits in the market,” Stone said.

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Woodman replied. “Sasha was punctilious in her financial dealings. But when people put large sums of money into Swiss or Cayman banks, they’re often trying to avoid paying taxes on the income from that investment. That she may very well have been trying to do, although I would have advised her against it, if she had asked me.”

“Do you know how Sasha had planned to pay for her new apartment?”

“What new apartment?” Woodman asked, surprised.

“You didn’t know that she was moving?”

“She never mentioned it to me,” Woodman said. “Oh, a couple of years back she called me about the availability of mortgages on co-ops in the city, and I told her I would be happy to help her with an application, but, as far as I know, she never applied for a mortgage. Certainly, she had the income to raise one, if she had wished.”

“Was Sasha the kind of client who might have been lured into a fast-buck investment by a friend?” Stone asked.

Woodman thought about that. “Yes,” he said. “Sasha loved money, loved making it. But she would only have taken that sort of plunge if she had checked it out carefully, and if she trusted the friend implicitly.” Woodman’s eyebrows went up. “I find myself speaking of her in the past tense,” he said. “Of course, I did read the papers this morning.”

“Is that why you let Barron Harkness know that Sasha had appointed him executor of her estate?”

“I did that before I saw today’s papers. When I heard about her fall and when I was unable to locate her, I wrote to Harkness simply as a precautionary step. It seemed the prudent thing to do.”

Stone stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Woodman,” he said. “If you think of anything else that might help me, I’d appreciate a call, day or night.” He gave Woodman a card.

“Of course,” the lawyer said. “Do you think you can find your way back to reception? I’d like to rejoin my meeting.”

“Sure, thanks,” Stone replied. The two men shook hands, and Stone turned back toward the front of the office.

Halfway there, someone called his name. Stone stopped and backtracked a few steps to an open office door. A grinning man was rising from a desk.

Stone struggled for a name. “Bill Eggers?” he managed finally.

Eggers stuck out a hand. “Haven’t seen you since graduation day,” he said, “although I’ve seen your picture in the paper from time to time.”

“So what have you been doing with yourself for all these years?” Stone asked. He remembered Eggers as a companionable fellow; they’d had a few beers after class more than once.

Eggers spread his hands. “This,” he said. “I joined a downtown firm after law school, but I’ve been here for the past eight years.”

“What sort of law are you practicing?”

“Oh, I’m the general dogsbody around here,” Eggers said. “I do whatever needs doing – some personal injury, a little domestic work, the odd criminal case, when one of the firm’s clients crosses the line.”

“Sounds interesting.” Stone looked around the plush office. Looked as though Eggers had done well at it too.

“More interesting than you would believe.” Eggers laughed. “You seeing Woodman about Sasha?”

“Yeah.”

“I wondered when you’d get around to him.”

“It took me a few days; I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Funny you turning up here; I’ve been thinking about you lately.”

“Kind thoughts, I hope.”

“The kindest, I assure you.” Eggers looked at his watch. “I’ve got a client coming in any second, but I’d like to buy you a drink sometime, chew over some things.”

“Sure,” Stone said, fishing out a card. “Give me a week or two, though. The Sasha thing is taking a lot of time.”

“Of course,” Eggers said, extending his hand again. “We’ll make it dinner, when you’ve got the time.”

On his way home, Stone reflected on Bill Eggers’s prosperous appearance, the handsome office, the prestigious law firm. Was it possible that Woodman amp; Weld might need someone with his background?

When he got home, there was a notice from the NYPD: his return-to-duty physical had been scheduled. Stone flexed the knee. Not bad; he’d begun to forget about it. He tried a couple of half knee bends. It was sore, but he could ace the physical.

“Can I buy you breakfast?” her low, pleasing voice said on the phone. “It’s the first real day of autumn outside, and we’ll have a walk in the park, too.”

“Oh, yes.” Stone exhaled. He was pitifully glad to hear from Cary. Their last, uncomfortable evening had been eating at him, and, in spite of her parting words, he had been unsure of his reception, should he call her.

“There’s a little French place called La Goulue, on East Seventieth, just off Madison. I’ve got a table booked in half an hour.”

“You’re on.”

They sat in the warm, paneled restaurant, a pitcher of mimosas between them, and drank each other in.

“I don’t know when I’ve been so glad to see anybody,” Stone said.

“I’m glad it’s me you’re glad to see,” she replied. She slipped off her shoe, and, under the tablecloth, rested her foot in his crotch. “Oh, you are glad to see me, aren’t you?” She rolled her eyes.

“That’s not a pistol in my pocket.” He grinned.

Her eyebrows went up. “You’re supposed to wear a gun all the time, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you wearing one now?”

He nodded.

“So that could be a pistol in your pocket.”

He laughed. “It could be, but it isn’t.”

“Where are you wearing it?”

“Strapped to my ankle.” He hated the bulge under his coat, hated being careful about inadvertently revealing the weapon.

“You have a badge, too, I guess.”

“That’s right. I wouldn’t be a policeman without a badge, would I?”

“Let me see it.”

Stone produced the little leather wallet and laid it on the table.

She flipped it open and ran a finger around the badge. “It’s gold,” she said.

“A detective’s badge is always gold. It’s what every cop wants, a gold badge.”

The waiter came and refreshed their mimosas from the pitcher, leaning over, eyeing the badge.

Stone flipped the wallet shut and put it back in his pocket.