New York Dead (Stone Barrington 1)

“We’ll get it,” Dino said firmly. “I mean, shit, Lieutenant, we just got on this bitch. Give us a little time, okay?”

“Okay,” Leary said. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to come up with one piece of evidence that will put her in Nijinsky’s apartment on that night.”

“Lieutenant,” Stone said, worried now, “that’s unreasonable. Morgan is a whole new development in this case – a promising one, I’ll grant you, but we’re going to need some time.”

“You got it,” Leary said. “Twenty-four hours.” He turned and walked from the room.

Dino flopped down in a chair. “What now?”

“We’d better get going, don’t you think?”

Dino nodded. “Okay, I’ll check Nijinsky’s records for the promissory note from Morgan.”

“I’ll check out Morgan’s address, see if anybody saw her that night. What are you going to do after you check the records? It won’t take you very long.”

Dino thought for a minute. “Shoot myself, if the note is there,” he said.

Stone drove downtown faster than he usually drove, resisting the temptation to using the flashing light and siren. He parked in front of a fire hydrant on West Tenth Street and put down the visor to ward off tickets.

Hank Morgan lived in a handsome brownstone that had been divided into two duplexes; he wondered how she could afford it. Well, hell, he was only a cop and he lived in a whole brownstone in Turtle Bay. Must be her daddy’s money. He rang the second bell, the one that said VINCENT.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice said over the intercom.

“Good morning, I’m Detective Barrington, NYPD. May I speak to you for a moment, Ms. Vincent?”

A pause. “All right, but I want to see a badge through the peephole.”

“Of course.”

She buzzed him through the outer door, and he held his badge so she could scrutinize it.

She opened the door but kept the chain on. “How about some ID with a photograph?” she said warily.

Stone handed his ID wallet through the opening.

She closed the door, unhooked the chain, and let him in. “Sorry about that, but you can’t be too careful,” she said.

Ms. Vincent was a pleasingly plump woman in an apron. “I was just about to have some coffee. Can I offer you some?”

“Thanks,” Stone said. “I’d like that.” He welcomed the opportunity to stretch out his visit.

She led him into the kitchen and gestured for him to take a seat at the breakfast table. When she had poured them both a cup, she joined him.

“What can I do for you?” she said.

“I want to talk with you about your upstairs neighbor,” Stone said.

Ms. Vincent’s eyebrows went up. “Really? Is Morgan in some kind of trouble?”

“She’s helping us with an investigation, and the credibility of witnesses is always important. Also, I wanted to see if there was anything you could add to her information.”

“Sure.”

He took her back to the night of Sasha Nijinsky’s fall. “Did you see Ms. Morgan at all that evening?”

Ms. Vincent thought for a moment. “We were in Bermuda,” she said. “My husband’s sister lives there, and we go at least once a year.”

“Did anyone stay in your apartment while you were gone?”