Stuart Woods - New York Dead

“You’re welcome.”

Dino stood looking up at him. “Stone, I gotta know what you’re going to do.”

Stone stopped painting and looked down at his partner. “Dino, I swear to you, I just don’t know.”

Dino looked down at the floor and shook his head. He set the untouched drink on the floor and left without another word.

Stone heard the front door close. He kept painting, smooth and even strokes. He kept sipping the bourbon.

Stone woke at seven and turned on The Morning Show . Nothing on the national news. He waited impatiently for twenty-five minutes past the hour and the New York affiliate’s news. Nothing. Surprised, he got out of bed and dressed.

His decision had been made while he slept. Over an English muffin, he reflected that he had always wondered what would happen if he had to choose between the right thing and the department. His choice surprised him.

He picked up a Daily News at the corner newsstand, expecting another headline about the arrest of Hank Morgan. Nothing. Suddenly, for some reason, the leaks in the precinct had dried up.

The squad room was filling up with the morning shift of detectives, and Dino was already at his desk.

“Hi,” he said. “Leary wants to see you.”

“I figured,” Stone said.

“You decide?” Dino asked.

“Yeah.” He turned away and started for the lieutenant’s cubicle; he’d let Dino stew for a while before he told him. He knocked on the glass door, and Leary waved him in.

Stone sat down and waited. He’d make Leary ask him.

Leary looked at him for a long time before he spoke. He reached into a large, yellow envelope and extracted a letter. “Stone,” he said finally, “the results of your physical came in.”

Stone was surprised. “The doctor said it’d be next week.”

“It’s today.”

“Great. The sooner I’m officially back on full duty, the better.”

“You’re officially retired, for medical reasons.”

Stone stopped breathing, stared at Leary, unable to speak.

Leary handed him the letter.

Stone read it.

Detective Barrington has suffered severe, perhaps irreparable damage to his left knee as a result of a gunshot wound received in the line of duty. In spite of extensive surgery and physiotherapy, the knee has not responded to treatment sufficiently to permit a return to active police duty. The prognosis is unfavorable. It is therefore recommended that Detective Barrington be retired from the force with immediate effect and with full line-of-duty disability benefits.

Stone dropped the letter and stared at Leary’s desktop, his eyes unfocused.

“You can ask for a reexamination after a year,” Leary said, “and, if the results are favorable, apply for reinstatement. Of course, if you were reinstated, that would mean a transfer to other duty and probably a loss of seniority.”

That was clear enough to Stone. Don’t come back. In a flash, he saw himself floundering through a series of unsuccessful appeals.

“There’s no point in appealing this,” Leary said, reading his mind. “You’re out, and that’s it.”

“I see,” Stone said, for lack of anything else to say.

“Let me have your ID card,” Leary said.

Mechanically, Stone removed it from his wallet and handed it over.

Leary took some sort of stamp from a desk drawer, imprinted the card, and handed it back. The word retired had been punched into the card. “You can keep your badge, and you’re entitled to carry your gun, like you were off duty.” He handed Stone a thick envelope. “Here are your papers. Fill out the insurance forms and send them in; you’ll still be covered under the department medical plan for life. Your pension will be three-quarters of your highest grade pay, tax free. That’s a good deal. There’s a check in the envelope for the first month.”

Stone couldn’t think of anything to say, and he couldn’t seem to move.

Leary leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “Look, Stone,” he said, not without sympathy, “you’re a good investigator, but you’re a lousy cop. What you have never understood is that the NYPD is a fraternal lodge, and you never joined. You always bothered people. Being whitebread didn’t make it any better; I mean, just about everybody on the force is micks, guineas, yids, spics, or niggers. They got that in common. But you’re fuckin’ J. Stone Barrington, for Christ’s sake. That sounds like a brokerage house, not a cop, and you never even let anybody call you Stoney. A lot of the men respect you – I do; but nobody trusts you, and nobody’s ever going to. You were never really a cop; you were always a college boy with a law degree and a badge.”

Stone took a deep breath and struggled from the chair.

Leary started shuffling papers. “Good luck,” he said.

“Thanks,” Stone managed to say as he turned for the door.

“And Stone,” Leary said.

Stone turned and looked at him.

“Stay out of the Nijinsky thing, you hear me? I don’t want to read any of your theories in the papers.”

Stone left, closing the door behind him. Numbly, he walked back to his desk. Dino was gone. On top of Stone’s desk was a cardboard box containing his personal effects. He looked around the place; everybody was busy doing something.

Stone picked up the cardboard box and walked out of the squad room. Nobody looked at him.

The phone was ringing as Stone walked into the house. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“Detective Barrington?”

“Yes?”

“This is Jack Marcus at the Post . We’re doing a follow-up on the Nijinsky story; does your leaving the force have anything to do with your dissatisfaction with the way the investigation is being conducted?”

Stone was taken aback for a moment. The precinct was leaking again. “I’m leaving the force for medical reasons,” he said.

“Weren’t your superiors happy about the arrest of Henrietta Morgan?”

“You’ll have to ask them about that.”

“Do you think Hank Morgan pushed Sasha off that terrace?”

“I don’t have an opinion about that. I’m a civilian.” He hung up the phone. It rang again immediately.

“It’s Cary. It just came over the AP wire.”

“That’s pretty fast reporting. I only heard myself an hour ago.” He had walked home from the precinct.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m okay. Let’s have dinner tonight.”

“I wish I could. Barron’s doing a prime-time special on murder in New York for Friday night. He’s shooting every day, and we’re editing every night.”

“Come over here when you finish tonight.”

“I wish I could, Stone; God knows, I’d rather be with you, but you have to understand about my job. I’ll be working fifteen-hour days all this week.”

“I’m sorry I pressed you; I know the job’s important.”

“It is, but I’ll see you Saturday night for dinner at Barker’s.”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you relax for the rest of the week? Do some work on the house.”

“I don’t have anything else to do.”

“We’ll talk about that Saturday. I’ve got to run now.”

“See you.”

“Take care.”

Stone put down the phone. He could hear the noise of sanding coming from the study. The shelves would be ready to varnish again by late afternoon.

He went upstairs to his bedroom and stood looking at himself in the mirror over the chest of drawers. Nothing seemed different. He unstrapped the gun from his ankle, took the badge wallet from his pocket, and put them both in the top drawer, at the back, under his socks and underwear. As always, he felt naked when he wasn’t carrying them. He would have to get used to feeling naked.