New York Dead (Stone Barrington 1)

we have other capabilities, too. You’ll see in a minute.” He took the cassette from Stone, inserted it into a machine, and flipped a number of switches. Snow filled the screen of a large monitor, then the picture snapped on.

“Here we go,” Stone said, sitting down and resting his elbows on the conference table. “Hey, your camera worked pretty well in the low light. Listen.”

The sound of two people making love came faintly from the bedroom. The camera moved slowly, smoothly across the living room to the bedroom door. The moonlight was as Teddy O’Bannion had described it, bright as day. The figure of a woman was clearly visible, and she was moving rhythmically in sync with the noises heard a moment before. She was sitting on a man, who was also clearly visible, though neither of their faces could be made out.

“This is sensational!” Eggers said wonderingly. “Hang on a second.” He picked up a remote control and froze the frame, then he walked to the wall of equipment and turned on another piece of gear. There was a whirring noise, and, a few moments later, a color photograph slid out of the machine. Eggers looked at it approvingly, then handed it to Stone. “Very artful, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re right,” Stone said. “It’s a beautiful shot, but the faces are shadowed.”

“He did turn on the goddamned light, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but later; hang on.”

Eggers started the tape again. The lovemaking was growing in intensity, and the couple’s voices rose with it. Then, at the moment when both seemed to be reaching a climax, the floodlight came on. Instinctively, both the man and the woman threw up a hand to shield themselves from the light. Eggers froze the frame again and made another print.

“This is where the water pistol comes in,” Stone said.

Eggers stopped what he was doing. “Water pistol?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s how my man gets shots of their faces,” Stone replied. “Watch.”

Eggers started the tape again and pressed the slow motion button. A jet of water could be seen to enter the frame and strike the man in the chest. His hand started down. Another jet struck the woman just below the armpit, and her arm followed, too.

“There! That’s it!” Eggers shouted, freezing the frame. “That’s our shot!” He ran to the printer and pressed the button again.

Stone froze to his chair, unable to move, unable to speak. The man’s face had surprised him, but the woman’s rendered him nearly catatonic. The man was Barron Harkness; the woman was Cary Hilliard.

“Perfect, perfect!” Eggers yelled in triumph, shoving the print in front of Stone. “You can have that for your scrapbook.” He pressed the button for another print. “The cat’s out of the bag now, though. I’m sorry for my little subterfuge, but I guess you recognize the guy. His wife is my client.”

Stone was unable to speak. His eyes ran up and down the two forms frozen on the screen. Harkness was clearly furious, Cary terrified. Her breasts shone with sweat in the bright light, the nipples erect; her lips were swollen and her eyes round with fright.

“Let’s see the rest!” Eggers cried. “Here we go!” He started the tape again.

Harkness reared up in the bed, upsetting Cary from her perch atop him.

“Jesus, the guy’s hung!” Eggers said admiringly. “And look at the tits on that broad! Shit, I don’t blame the guy!”

The camera backed out of the room as Harkness rose from the bed and came after it. In the nick of time, the front door closed, and the camera wobbled out of control. Teddy’s hand could be seen applying his latch to the knob and the molding.

“An absolute goddamned Academy Award winner!” Eggers yelled, jumping out of his chair and doing a little dance. “Gotta call my client; she’s waiting on tenterhooks.” He grabbed a phone and started dialing. “Stone, you win the Oscar for best producer,” he was saying.

Stone willed himself to move. He shoved the photograph into his overcoat pocket and got shakily to his feet.

“Hello, Charlotte? This is Bill Eggers. My dear, your settlement is assured!” Eggers crowed into the phone. “I’m going to come over to your house right now and show you the videotape that’s going to do it. Hang on a minute…” Eggers looked up to see Stone leaving the room. “Stone, where are you going?”

Stone didn’t reply. He continued down the hallway to the reception room and straight to the waiting elevator. Riding down in the car, he tore at his collar; he couldn’t seem to get enough air. Ignoring the security guard’s pleas to sign out, he rushed into the street, gulping the cold air, trying to keep his breakfast down. He stumbled through the deep snow, gasping for still more air. After a while, he slowed to a walk; a little while later, he found himself inside his house, leaning against the front door, weeping.

When he had calmed himself a little, he noticed the blinking light on the answering machine. There was only one message.

“Stone, darling,” she said, “I’ve had a little family emergency, and I’m going to have to go to Virginia to see the folks for a few days. I’m leaving this morning, so I’m afraid I can’t see you tonight. I’ll call you when I get back. Take care.”

Chapter 39

The rest of the weekend was awful. Stone felt ill and stayed in bed, getting up only to make soup and bring in the newspapers. He couldn’t concentrate on the papers, and, for the first time in months, the house did not intrude into his thoughts. He thought of nothing but Cary.

He tried to think of something else, but nothing worked. Sunday sports on television were a blur; the news meant nothing; he couldn’t keep his mind on the book review or the Sunday magazine. The crossword puzzle worked for a few minutes, but every time he stopped to think, Cary popped into his head – Cary and the awful photograph in his overcoat pocket.

She had lied to him from the beginning; the married man in her life had always been Harkness; Stone had been just a diversion. As Sunday wore on, Stone began to find a way to deal with his thoughts of her; he hardened himself, belittled the weeks they had had together, made her unimportant. By Monday morning a scab was beginning to form on the wound. He would force it to heal.