Stuart Woods - New York Dead

“What’s that?”

“I feel that you are, or will be, in some sort of jeopardy, resulting from your connection with Sasha.”

“Jeopardy? How?”

“I don’t know. I only know that you are at risk, and, if you are not very careful indeed, this thing with Sasha could destroy you.”

“Some would say it already has,” Stone said. “At least with regard to my career as a police officer.” He was near to confiding in her, now, and it surprised him.

“I mean destroy you entirely – mortally. In fact, I have the very strong feeling that your chances of surviving this crisis are poor – certainly, you will not come through without help, and you may not get it.”

Stone pushed away the chill that threatened to run through him. “Edith,” he managed to say, “I appreciate your concern for me, but please don’t worry too much. It’s my intention to stay just as far away as I can from the Nijinsky case or anything to do with it.”

“You won’t be able to do that,” Bonner said. She looked away from him. “I’m sorry.”

Stone was awakened in the best possible way. “You’re going to kill me,” he said.

“Mmmmmmm,” she replied, concentrating her efforts. “It’s only fair; you nearly killed me last night.”

“I couldn’t think of anything else to do,” he gasped.

Sunlight streamed into the room, and his blurring vision made the sparsely furnished chamber seem somehow heavenly. A moment later, everything came into sharp focus, and he closed his eyes and yelled.

“You’re noisy,” she said.

“It’s your fault. You made me.”

“I want some breakfast.”

“You just had breakfast, and I’m not sure I can walk.”

She got up and went into the bathroom. Stone heard the water running, and he had nearly dozed off when she came back. She crawled into bed, and, suddenly, there was something icy on his belly.

He yelled again and leapt out of bed. “Jesus Christ, was that your hands?”

“ New York City tap water gets very cold in the wintertime,” she said. “As long as you’re up, could I have an English muffin, marmalade, orange juice, and coffee?”

“I suppose if I get back into bed you’ll just attack me with the iceberg hands again.”

“Right. But they’ll warm up while you’re fixing breakfast.”

Defeated, Stone got into a bathrobe and went downstairs to the kitchen. He stuck the muffins into the toaster oven, got coffee started, and went to the front door. He peeked up and down the street, then tiptoed out onto the frosty stoop and retrieved the Sunday Times . He was back inside before he registered all that he had taken in. He cracked the door again and looked up the block. A plain green, four-door sedan was parked on the other side of the street, and two men inside it were sipping coffee from paper cups. He didn’t know them, but he knew who they were.

He went back to the kitchen, got the breakfast together, loaded it onto a cart, and wheeled it into the old elevator, which made the usual creaking noises on the way up.

Cary was asleep, sprawled across the bed, the sunlight streaming across her naked body. He stopped and looked at her for a moment, that length of delicious woman, the flat belly, the swelling breasts with their small, red nipples, the dark hair strewn across the pillow. Slowly, quietly, he sneaked onto the bed and carefully set a glass of chilled orange juice onto a nipple.

“Oooooo,” she said without moving. “What a nice way to wake up. Could I have something on the other one, please?”

“You’re unsurprisable,” he said, setting the orange juice on her belly and returning for the rest of the breakfast. He put the tray on the bed between them while she struggled into a sitting position and fluffed up the pillows.

“I like the sun in the morning,” she said. “It’s better than blankets.”

He drank his juice and reached for the Times .

“I get the front page,” she said, snatching it away.

He settled for the book review and munched on a muffin.

“Oh, shit,” she said suddenly.

“What is it?”

She clutched the front page to her breast. “You aren’t at fault here,” she said. “You have to get that through your head. This is not your fault.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He tugged at the newspaper, and she gave it up reluctantly.

SUSPECT IN NIJINSKY CASE IS APPARENT SUICIDE

Henrietta Morgan, a makeup artist for the Continental Network who police sources say was implicated in the fall of television anchorwoman Sasha Nijinsky from the terrace of her East Side penthouse apartment, last night apparently took her own life in her Greenwich Village apartment.

Ms. Morgan, who was known as “Hank” and who was active in gay and lesbian rights issues in the city, had been questioned about Ms. Nijinsky’s fall, then last week was arrested and charged with possession of an unlicensed pistol. She had been released on bail, but sources in the New York Police Department had told the press that Morgan was the chief suspect in the Nijinsky case.

In a late-night statement from City Hall, Deputy Police Commissioner Lawrence Waldron announced that the death of Ms. Morgan had effectively closed the investigation into Ms. Nijinsky’s fall. Waldron said that Ms. Nijinsky’s disappearance after an ambulance collided with a fire truck while on her way to a hospital was still being investigated by the F.B.I., who are treating her incident as a kidnapping, which is a federal crime.

Stone felt ill. He rubbed his face briskly with his hands and tried to fight back the nausea.

“It’s not your fault,” Cary said again, rubbing the back of his neck.

He got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and splashed cold water onto his face. Then he thought about the unmarked car downstairs. He went back into the bedroom and got back into his robe. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

He trotted downstairs to the main hall, retrieved a flashlight from the utility closet, and unlocked the basement door. It took him a minute or so to find the main telephone junction box, and only seconds to find the wires leading from it to a small FM transmitter a few feet away. Angrily, Stone ripped out the wires, then smashed the transmitter with the heavy flashlight. He walked back up to the main floor, then took the elevator up-stairs.

“What’s the flashlight for?” Cary asked. “It’s broad daylight.”

“I needed it to find the phone tap,” Stone said.

“Somebody’s tapped your phone?”

“ New York ’s Finest,” Stone said. “Two of them are sitting out in the street in an unmarked car, waiting either to follow me wherever I go or to record my telephone conversations.”

“Why?”

“Because they think that when I hear about Hank Morgan’s death, I might start talking to the press.”

“Stone, I’m confused. If you want me to understand what you’re talking about, then you’d better fill me in.”

Stone took a deep breath. “This is not something you can discuss with anybody at work.”

“Of course not,” she said indignantly.

He went back to his and Dino’s initial questioning of Hank Morgan and told her everything that had happened since.

“I see,” she said when he had finished. “So you think Hank had nothing to do with Sasha’s fall.”

“Nothing whatever.”

“But the NYPD and the DA’s office were going to try and railroad her for it?”

“Not exactly; they knew they would never get a conviction. They just needed a strong suspect to take the heat off the department. Somebody’s been telling a reporter or two that Morgan really did it, but they didn’t have enough evidence against her for a conviction.”