New York Dead (Stone Barrington 1)

“In my opinion, yes; definitely,” Weaver replied.

“Anything else you can tell us?” Woodman asked.

“That’s about it, I think, though I would like to see the original of the second letter.”

Woodman escorted the man to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Weaver, and please send me your bill.” Woodman came back to his desk and sat down. “This is the goddamndest thing I ever heard,” he said.

“Frank, are you certain that Sasha, herself, wrote you this letter?”

Woodman went back to his file and extracted a small sheet of paper. “I watched her write this,” he said. “She was sitting where you are now.”

Stone picked up the paper. It was the address and phone number of Sasha’s new, Fifth Avenue apartment. He compared the note with the first letter, then the second. “The handwriting seems identical to me,” he said, handing Woodman the papers.

“Me, too,” Woodman said, poring over them.

“Now, why would Weaver think the writer was a man?”

“Well,” said Woodman, “for a lady, Sasha always had incredible balls.”

At home, Stone built a fire in the study, poured himself a drink, and stretched out on the leather sofa before the fireplace. He sipped the drink and cast his mind back over the events surrounding Sasha Nijinsky’s dive from the terrace, letting them run though his mind without hindrance, comparing one event with another, listening to fragments of conversation from people he had interviewed. Something nagged at him, something he should be remembering. The phone rang.

He reached out to the extension on the coffee table. “Hello?” he said.

“Hello.”

Stone tightened his grip on the phone. Images flew before his eyes – a breast, a wrist. He felt her body against his, her hair in his face, her legs locked around him, her mouth on his penis.

“I want to see you,” she said.

Stone wanted to speak, but his throat tightened.

“I want to see you tonight,” she said.

He made a huge effort to control himself, to make his voice work, to tamp down the rage and hurt inside him. It didn’t work. He hung up the phone.

He lay on the sofa through what should have been dinner, until past midnight, waiting for a knock on the door or another call. Neither came.

Chapter 42

Dino Bacchetti and Mary Ann Bianchi were married at San Gennaro’s Church in Little Italy on Sunday. Stone had never worn a tuxedo at two o’clock in the afternoon, but he stood as best man for Dino, and he was impressed with the elaborate and somber Roman Catholic ceremony. Dino kissed his bride, and the wedding party began moving back down the aisle, the happy couple leading the bridesmaids and groomsmen.

Near the back of the church, Stone glanced to his right and stopped in his tracks. Cary Hilliard was sitting in the back pew, bundled in a mink coat. Somebody behind Stone stepped on his heels, and he moved on with the wedding party. Stone was trapped on the front steps of the church as the party posed for photographs, then the group was bundled into limousines and driven to a restaurant for the reception, so he did not see

what became of Cary.

The restaurant was not large, and two hundred happy people were crammed into it, singing, dancing, and generally raising hell. The only non-Italians, besides Stone, were the Irish, Puerto Rican, and black cops who worked with or for Dino. Stone kissed the bride and was surprised at the enthusiasm with which she responded.

He shook Dino’s hand. “Well, you did it,” he said, laughing.

Dino looked supremely happy. “You goddamned right I did, paisan.”

“Speaking of paisans,” Stone said, nodding at a group of severe-looking people across the room, “who’s that?”

“That’s Mary Ann’s people,” Dino replied. “Her old man’s a capo in the Bonanno family. Well respected.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding.”