New York Dead (Stone Barrington 1)

“I don’t know; Waldron seemed to be on our side. Said we’d done a first-class job, remember?”

“You trust Waldron?” Dino asked incredulously. “You’re so fucking naive sometimes, Stone.”

“Look, among the deputy commissioners, Waldron is the best of a bad lot. I mean, we could have drawn that guy who was in advertising before the mayor made him a DC.”

“Waldron’s a politician, and that makes him dangerous. And I can tell you Delgado is not happy with us for being involved in something that gets Waldron’s attention – plus, he blames us for the FBI.”

“Come on, Dino, how can he blame us for that? We’re lucky we got this far in our investigation without the feds stepping in. Delgado knows that.”

“Delgado’s Italian, like me,” Dino said. “When there’s bad news, Italians shoot the messenger, remember? Right now, ‘Messenger’ is tattooed right across your forehead and mine, buddy.”

Stone shook his head. “I think you’re overreacting. If we’d made some huge blunder in the investigation, then I think we really would be in trouble, but we haven’t done that; we’ve run it by the book – well, mostly by the book – and we’ve covered all the bases.”

“Well, we haven’t covered our asses,” Dino said. “The only way we can do that is by making a bust.”

“By the way,” Stone said, “where are we going?”

“To the network,” Dino said, handing him the manila file. “Out of all the interview reports, this is the only one that looked worth doing again.”

“Hank Morgan,” Stone read from the file. “Makeup artist.”

“Look down at the bottom of the sheet.”

Stone read the last line. “Subject was nervous, wary, and gave only the briefest answers to questions, without elaboration.” Most innocent people, Stone knew, tended to blabber to the cops when questioned, not clam up. There were those who didn’t like cops, who were short with them, but this was interesting. “Did you call to say we were coming?” Stone asked.

“Nope,” Dino replied.

“Good.”

Hank Morgan was casually but elegantly dressed: Italian loafers, brown tweed trousers, a striped silk dress shirt open at the throat, a green cashmere sweater draped over the shoulders, the arms hanging loose. The hair was carefully barbered, the skin tan, the teeth white and even. A handsome character, Stone thought. And a woman, though just barely.

“I’

ll be the bad cop,” Dino said through his teeth, as Morgan led them down the hall. “I hate dykes.”

Morgan led them into a room lit by rows of small bulbs around a large mirror. A barber’s chair was the only furniture.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, her eyes blinking rapidly.

“We’re investigating the Sasha Nijinsky matter,” Stone said. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

“I’ve already talked to two policemen,” Morgan said combatively. “I don’t feel much like talking anymore.”

Dino was on her like a tiger. “Well, we didn’t like your answers, lady,” he snarled at her, “and I don’t much care if you feel like talking or not.”

“Dino…,” Stone began.

“This is an investigation into the disappearance, maybe the death of a human being that you knew and worked with, and we intend to find out what you knew about it,” Dino continued, unabated. “We can do it up at the precinct, if you like.”

Morgan appeared to wither under this barrage.

Stone tugged at an earlobe.

Dino caught the signal. “Where’s the men’s room?” he said to Morgan.

“Down the hall to your left,” she replied.

“I thought you’d know,” Dino shot back as he left the room.