Stuart Woods: New York Dead

“Daughter of the Russian novelist Georgi Nijinsky, who was expelled from the Soviet Union more than twenty-five years ago, Sasha was six years old when she came to this country with her parents. She already spoke fluent English.” There were shots of a bearded man descending from an airplane, a surprised-looking little girl in his arms.

“Sasha distinguished herself as an actress at Yale, but not as a student. Then, on graduation, instead of pursuing a career in the theater, as expected, she took a job as a reporter on a New Haven station. Four years later, she came to New York and earned a reputation as an ace reporter on the Continental Network affiliate. She spent another three years here, on The Morning Show , where she honed her interviewing skills, then she was sent to Moscow as the network’s correspondent in the Soviet Union for a year, before being expelled in the midst of spy charges that she has always maintained were fabricated.”

“On returning to this country, she further enhanced her growing reputation, covering both national political conventions before the last election. Then her Sunday morning interview show, Newsmakers , pitted her against the nation’s top political figures. She proved to be as tough as ever in those interviews, and it was said in Washington that nobody wanted to go on her show, but everyone was afraid not to.

“Earlier this month, the industry was not surprised when it was announced that Sasha Nijinsky would join anchorman Barron Harkness as co-anchor on the network’s evening news, which, although still the leading network newscast, had recently slipped in the ratings. Harkness, an old colleague of Sasha’s on The Morning Show , could not be reached for comment, as he is not due back until today from assignment in the Middle East.”

Stone switched off the set. Make a note to talk to Harkness, he told himself, then he put the case from his mind. He thought, as he always did when he wanted to clear his head, about the house and his plans for it. It was in terrible condition.

He turned his thoughts to plumbing fixtures. In minutes, he was asleep.

Stone arrived at the station house at one o’clock sharp. The squad room was abuzz with detectives on the phone. He raised his eyebrows at one, and the man gave a huge shrug. A moment later, he hung up.

“Gather round,” Stone said to the group. “Any luck?” he asked when they had assembled.

“Zilch. She’s nowhere,” a detective said.

“How many more places to check?” Stone asked.

“Not many.”

“Add all the funeral parlors in the city to your list,” Stone said. “Start with the ones in Manhattan. What else we got?”

“We got a suspect,” Detective Gonzales said. He referred to a sheet of paper. “One Marvin Herbert Van Fleet, male Caucasian, forty-one, of a SoHo address.”

“What makes him a suspect?” Stone asked.

“He’s written Sasha Nijinsky over a thousand letters the past two years.” Gonzales held up a stack of paper.

Stone took the letters and began to go through them. “I want you all to myself,” he quoted. “Come and live with me. I’ve got a nice place… You and my mother will get along great.” He looked up. “This is pretty bland stuff. Not even anything obscene. He doesn’t so much as want to sniff her underwear.”

“Nijinsky wanted him arrested, but apparently he didn’t do anything illegal. She finally got a civil court order, preventing him from contacting her.”

“What else have we got on him?”

“Interesting background,” Gonzales said. “He went to Cornell Medical School, graduated and all, but never completed his internship.”

“Where?”

“At Physicians and Surgeons Hospital.”

“Pretty ritzy. Why didn’t he finish?”

“File says he was dropped from the program as ‘unsuited for a medical career.’ There have been some complaints about him posing as a doctor, but since he apparently never actually treated anybody, there was nothing we could do. He worked at the Museum of Natural History for a while.”

“What’s he do now?”

“He’s an embalmer at Van Fleet Funeral Parlor.”

Stone felt a little chill. “Pick him up for questioning.”

“Here’s a photograph.”

Stone looked at the picture of Marvin Herbert Van Fleet. “Hang on, this guy’s got an alibi.”

“How do you know that? We haven’t asked him yet.”

“Because I saw him at the bar at Elaine’s twenty minutes before Nijinsky fell.”

There was a brief silence. “Twenty minutes is a long time,” Gonzales said.

“You’re right,” Stone agreed. “I left and walked down Second Avenue. He could have taken a cab and gotten there before I did. Pick him up. No, give me that address. Dino and I will talk to him.”

Dino arrived, waving a magazine. He tossed it onto Stone’s desk. “I had to wrestle two women for this,” he said. “It just hit the newsstands this morning, and this must be the last copy in the city.”

Stone picked it up. The new issue of Vanity Fair , and Sasha Nijinsky was on the cover. SASHA! BY HIRAM BARKER, WITH PHOTOGRAPHS BY ANNIE LEIBOVITZ, a headline read. Stone laughed. “Now, that’s timing. You read it yet?”

“Not yet,” Dino said. “Be my guest.”

The tone of the piece reeled back and forth between sycophancy and bitchiness. Nijinsky’s career was recapped briefly, but a lot of space was devoted to her social and sex lives. All the unflattering stuff came from unnamed sources, including a report of a secret affair between Nijinsky and her old colleague on The Morning Show , and new co-anchor on the evening news, Barron Harkness. “They were never seen together in public,” the source said, “and a lot of the staff thought they were screwing in her dressing room. She would never go into his.”

Stone finished the piece and added Hiram Barker to his list of interviewees. He picked up the phone, dialed the Continental Network, and asked for Barron Harkness.

“Mr. Harkness’s office,” an interesting female voice said.

“This is Detective Stone Barrington of the Homicide Division, New York City Police Department,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Harkness.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Harkness is on an airplane somewhere over the Atlantic,” the woman said. “This is Cary Hilliard, his assistant. May I help you?”

Stone remembered the television report that the anchorman had been on assignment in the Middle East. “I want to speak to Mr. Harkness regarding the…” (What was it? Not a homicide – not yet, anyway.) “…about Sasha Nijinsky. Can you tell me what time his plane is due in?”

“He won’t be in the office before about five thirty,” the woman said. “And he’ll be going on the air at seven o’clock, on the evening news.”

Stone liked the woman’s voice. “I’d like to know the airline and flight number, please. It’s important.”

The woman hesitated. “What was your name again, please?”

“Detective Stone Barrington. I’m in charge of the Nijinsky case.”

“Of course. He’s due in on an Alitalia flight from Rome at four twenty, but he’ll be met and helicoptered in. You’d do better to see him here. I know he’ll want to talk to you. He’s very fond of Sasha.”

“At what time?”

“It’ll be hell from the moment he arrives until the newscast is over. Come at a quarter to seven, and ask for me. I’ll take you up to the control room, and you can talk to Barron as soon as he’s off the air.”

“Six forty-five. I’ll see you then.”

“Oh, we’re not in the Continental Network building. We’re at the Broadcast Center, at Pier Nineteen, at the west end of Houston Street.”