New York Dead (Stone Barrington 1)

“Why do they look so… unhappy?”

“Because their most beautiful daughter got knocked up by a cop, that’s why. The old man’s really pissed off. If I wasn’t Italian, I’d be at the bottom of Sheepshead Bay with a concrete block stuck up my ass.”

“Dino, you better be very, very good to that girl,” Stone said gravely.

“Don’t worry.” Dino took an envelope from his inside pocket. “Here’s your report on the letter,” he said. “I don’t want to hear about it again, okay?”

Stone put the envelope in his pocket. “Okay.”

“Guess who sent us a real nice piece of silver?” Dino said.

“Who?”

Dino nodded. “The very beautiful lady over there,” he said.

Stone followed Dino’s gaze and found Cary standing on the opposite side of the dance floor.

“See you later, pal,” Dino said, and vanished.

Stone stood and watched her make her way across the dance floor toward him. Under the mink coat, she was wearing a very short silk dress that made her legs seem longer than he remembered. Stone’s mouth went dry.

She took his hand and led him onto the floor; the band was playing something romantic and Italian; he followed her dumbly. They began to move together; she laid her head on his shoulder and kissed him on the neck.

“God, but I’ve missed you,” she said.

Stone was unable to say anything; he put his hand inside the coat and pulled her to him. The familiarity of those curves pressed against his body made him light-headed, and he lost himself in the music and the feel of her. Her cool hand was on the back of his neck, her fingers in his hair, her tongue played at his ear. The music continued – a medley – and she seemed to become more and more a part of him. Suddenly, she stopped dancing.

“Come with me,” she said, tugging at his hand.

He followed her across the dance floor, through the crowd, along a wall to a door. She opened it, looked in, then pulled him inside with her. They were in a small office – only a desk, a chair, and an old sofa. She closed the door and locked it.

“Where have you-”

“Shhhh,” she whispered, throwing the mink coat onto the sofa and snaking an arm around his neck. “Don’t say anything.” She was unzipping his trousers; in a moment, she had him in her hand.

After that, things happened effortlessly. They were on the sofa, on the luxurious coat, his trousers around his knees, her legs around him. She wasn’t wearing underwear. They both gave themselves to the moment, made it last, then came with a roar of blood in the ears, her cries mixing with the music, loud through the thin walls.

They lay limp in each other’s arms for a few minutes, then Cary found a toilet off the office, and Stone tried to make himself presentable again. She was a long time in the john, and, when she came out, Stone was reading the lab report.

“What’s that?” she asked, putting a hand at the back of his neck and reading over his shoulder.

Stone handed her the letter without comment.

She read it, and her eyes went wide. “Sasha’s alive?” she asked, stunned.

“It would seem so,” Stone said, reading the report. “An expert says it’s almost certainly her handwriting, and her fingerprints are on the letter.” He read on. “They were very clear, because she had olive oil on her fingers – extra virgin olive oil, according to this.”

“It doesn’t seem possible,” she said, incredulously.

“No, it doesn’t,” he replied. “Nevertheless…”

She walked over to the sofa and retrieved her coat, seemingly lost in thought. “That means she’s going to be able to identify whoever pushed her off that balcony, doesn’t it?”

“I hope so. I wonder why she hasn’t done it already.”

Cary slipped into her coat and walked to the door, unlocking it.

“You’re leaving? When can I see you?”