Stuart Woods - New York Dead

“I’ll see you at six forty-five.” Stone hung up. He really liked her voice. She was probably a dog, though. He’d made the voice mistake before.

Dino had turned on the television, and a doctor was being interviewed on CNN about Nijinsky.

“Doctor, is it possible that Sasha Nijinsky could have survived her fall from twelve stories?”

“Well,” the doctor replied, “as we’ve just seen on the videotape, she obviously survived, at least for a few moments, but it is unlikely in the extreme that she could recover from the sort of injuries she must have sustained in the fall. I’d say it was virtually impossible that she lived more than a minute or two after striking the earth.”

“That still don’t make it a homicide,” Dino said.

“It’s a homicide,” Stone said. “If she’s dead.”

“Whaddaya mean ’if she’s dead’?” Dino asked. “Didn’t you hear the doctor, there? She’s a fuckin’ pancake.”

“Look,” Stone said, “do you know what terminal velocity is?”

“Nope,” Dino replied. Nobody else did either.

“An object in a vacuum, when dropped from a height, will accelerate at the rate of thirty-two feet per second, and continue accelerating – in a vacuum. But in an atmosphere, like the earth’s, there will come a point when air resistance becomes equal to acceleration, and, at that point, the object will fall at a steady rate.”

“But it’ll keep falling,” Dino said, puzzled.

“Sure, but it’ll stop accelerating.” Stone had everyone’s undivided attention now. “I read a piece in the Times a few weeks ago about cats, and how cats have been known to fall from a great height and survive. There was one documented case where a cat fell twenty-six stories, landed on concrete, and survived with only a couple of broken bones.”

“How the fuck could it survive a fall like that?” a detective asked.

“Like this,” Stone said. He held out his hand, palm down. “When a cat starts to fall, he immediately orients himself feet first – you know that cats will always land on their feet, right?”

“Right,” the detective said.

“Not only does he get into a feet-first position, but he spread-eagles into what’s called the flying-squirrel position, like this.” He spread his fingers. “Flying squirrels don’t fly, like birds, they glide, because they have a membrane connecting their front and back legs, and, when they spread out, they’re sort of like a furry Frisbee.”

“But a cat ain’t a flying squirrel,” another detective said.

“No,” Stone agreed, “and he can’t glide like one. But by presenting the greatest possible area to the air resistance, a cat slows down his rate of acceleration and, consequently, his terminal velocity.”

“You mean he falls slow,” Dino said.

“Compared to a human being, anyway. A cat’s terminal velocity is about sixty miles an hour. But a human being’s terminal velocity is a hundred and twenty miles an hour. That’s why a cat could survive a fall from twenty-six stories, when no human could.”

The group digested this for a moment.

“But Sasha Nijinsky ain’t no cat,” Dino said.

“No,” Stone said, “she’s not.” He looked up to see that Lieutenant Leary had joined the group. “But,” he continued, “she fell from twelve stories, not twenty-six. And not onto concrete, but into a large pile of freshly dug earth. And look at this.” He opened the Vanity Fair to its center spread and showed a photograph to the assembled detectives.

The shot was of Sasha Nijinsky, and she seemed to be flying. The earth was thousands of feet below her, and she was wearing a jumpsuit and a helmet and had an unopened parachute strapped to her back. She was grinning at the camera, exposing rows of large, white teeth; her eyes were wide behind goggles.

“Sasha Nijinsky was a sky diver,” Stone said. “An experienced one, too, with more than a hundred jumps. And that” – he thumped the photograph with his forefinger-”was the position she was in when I saw her falling. Also, she was wearing a full-length nightgown and a bathrobe when she fell, and she might have gotten some extra air resistance by the ballooning out of those garments. When she fell, she automatically assumed the position she’d been trained to assume when free-falling. And, by doing that, she slowed down her rate of acceleration and, most important, her terminal velocity.”

No, one spoke for a long time. Finally, Dino broke the rapt silence. “Horseshit,” he said.

“Maybe not,” Stone said.

“Let me tell you something, Stone – I read that lady’s diary, and I say she was suffering from too much fucking, too much fuckin’ ambition, and too much fuckin’ fame, all of it too fuckin’ soon.” Dino closed the magazine and, with his finger, drew an X over her face. “That girl jumped off that terrace. She ain’t no cat, and she ain’t no flying squirrel.”

“I think somebody helped her,” Stone said. “And she may still be alive.”

Dino shook his head slowly. “I’ll tell you what she is. She’s New York Dead.”

The Van Fleet Funeral Parlor had a Gramercy Park address, but it was around the corner, off the square.

“Italians know all about death,” Stone said to Dino. “What do you know about this place?”

Dino shrugged. “It’s not Italian, so what could I know? The location tells us, don’t it? Good address, not so good location. If you don’t want to pay for a first-class funeral at Frank Campbell’s, where the elite meet to grieve, then you go to, like, Van Fleet’s. It’s cheaper, but it’s got all the fuckin’ pretensions, you know?”

Dino parked in a loading zone and flipped down the sun visor to display the car’s ID. They walked back half a block and entered the front door, following a well-dressed couple. They stopped in a vestibule while the couple signed a visitors’ book, presided over by a man in a tailcoat.

“The Wilson party?” the man asked Dino, in unctuous tones.

“The NYPD party,” Dino said, flashing his shield. “Who runs the place?”

The man flinched at the sight of the badge. “That would be Mrs. Van Fleet,” he said. “Please stay here, and I’ll get her. Please remember there are bereaved here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dino said.

“You don’t like the fellow?” Stone said when the man had gone.

“I don’t like the business,” Dino said. “It’s a creepy business, and people who do it are creepy.”

“Somebody’s got to do it,” Stone said. “We’ll do better if you don’t give them a hard time.”

Dino nodded. “You talk to the creeps, then.”

As they waited, Stone looked around. In a large, somewhat overdecorated sitting room to their left, two dozen people talked quietly, while some gathered around an elderly woman who seemed to be receiving the condolences. He looked right and was surprised to see a bedroom. On the four-poster bed, under a lace coverlet, lay a pretty woman in her late thirties. Several people stood around the bed, and one knelt at some sort of altar set at the foot. It took Stone a moment to realize that the woman on the bed was the guest of honor. She appeared to be sleeping.

A door opened at the end of the hallway ahead of them, and a short, thin, severely dressed woman of about sixty approached them. She walked with her hands folded in front of her; it would have been an odd posture anywhere but here.

“Yes?” the woman said, her face expressionless.

“Good afternoon,” Stone said. “I am Detective Barrington, and this is Detective Bacchetti, New York City Police. I believe you have an employee here named Marvin Herbert Van Fleet.”

“He’s not an employee,” the woman said. “He’s a partner in the firm, he’s our chief… technical person, and he’s my son.”