New York Dead (Stone Barrington 1)

When he had gone, Stone closed the door. “I’d like to apologize for my partner’s conduct,” he said to her gently. “He’s under a lot of pressure on this case – we both are – and he sometimes gets a little worked up.”

Morgan looked relieved. “I understand,” she said. “It’s been a strain on me, too.”

Has it? Stone wondered. “I take it you knew Sasha quite well,” he said. He had no reason to suppose that; it was a shot in the dark.

Morgan nodded, but did not speak.

“Did…” Stone stopped. Another stab. “Were you in love with her?” he asked softly.

Morgan nodded again, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Stone said. “I know how hard all this must have been for you.” Yet another stab. “Was Sasha in love with you?”

Morgan wiped a cheek and looked directly at him. “Yes,” she said firmly.

“Did she tell you so?”

“She showed me,” Morgan replied.

“How long had the two of you been… seeing each other?”

“A couple of months,” Morgan said, drying another tear. She was composing herself now.

“And when was the last time you saw Sasha?”

“The night before she… disappeared.” She was calm now, and ready to talk.

“Where did you see her?”

“At my apartment. We always met there.”

“Did she stay the night?”

“Most of it. Sasha always left around four. She couldn’t be seen…”

“I understand.”

“Ms. Morgan, do you think Sasha might have been inclined to try to take her own life?”

“I… I don’t know. She was up and down a lot. She’d have these highs, when nothing could get her down; then she’d sink into these depressions. They never lasted long, but they were intense. She could be difficult to be with during those times. Maybe, in the depths of one of those, she might have… impulsively… done something. I just don’t know.”

“Would you characterize these mood swings as manic-depressive?”

“I’m not sure. From what I know about that condition, people who have it are unable to function when they’re depressed. Sasha could always function, and function brilliantly, no matter what her mood. She had a will of iron.”

Stone looked Hank Morgan up and down. She was five nine or ten, a hundred and forty-five, with an athletic, even muscular build. She looked as though she worked out regularly. “Ms. Morgan,” he asked, “where were you after midnight the night Sasha fell?”

“I was at home in bed,” she replied firmly.

“Were you alone?”

Now Morgan looked away. “No.”

“I think I’d better have the name of that person,” Stone said.

“Is it absolutely necessary?”

“I’m sorry, but it is. I want you to know, though, that I’ll do what I can to keep this information from becoming public. I understand your position.”