Black Dog

Sixty

Clarissa held up the will. “That being said, I think this one is bogus.”

“Why?” Stone asked.

“I’m still thinking about that,” she said.

“Have a look at these,” Stone said, handing her Junior’s begging letters.

“These are juvenile,” she said immediately.

“You haven’t even read them yet.”

“Oh, all right, if you insist.” She read them. “This person wrote the will,” she said. “I take it they’re by Eddie Sr. as a youngster.”

“No, they’re by his son, Eddie Jr.”

“That does it for me,” she said. “Eddie Jr. forged the will.”

“Pretend we’re in court. Make your case.”

“The overall shape of the letters in the will is too wide, by a hair; he picked up on the slanted T crosses and the strange R’s, but he would have written this sort of document too carefully to miss that. He would have stuck strictly to the Palmer Method. Eddie Jr.’s letters show excessive care to impress his father. Eddie Sr.’s will is too carefully written. Eddie Sr. would have dashed it off, as he did the letters in his correspondence file.”

“If the top five handwriting experts in New York were given the will, how many would say it’s a fake?”

“Three,” she said. “Four, if I were one of them. The other two are too dense to see the subtleties.” She examined her fingernails. “I’m also more persuasive. A smart judge would accept my opinion more readily.”

“Write me the best opinion you can produce,” Stone said. “Joan will give you a computer and a printer. Address it ‘To whom it may concern.’ ”

When Clarissa was done, Stone handed it to Joan. “Ask Fred to go over to Sixty-Sixth and Sixty-Seventh streets and find Eddie’s mailbox. Have him put Clarissa’s report inside. I want Eddie to see it.”

“Why?” Joan asked.

“Because if we can convince him we’re on to his forgery, it will no longer be in his interests to kill you.”

“Why don’t I do that instead of Fred?”

“Because he might see you before he sees the report and be moved to act immediately.”

“Got it,” she said. She stuffed the letter into an envelope, addressed it, and went to deliver it to Fred.

Eddie Jr. sat in his car and phoned Bryce Newcomb.

“Yeah?”

“They’re gone. Meet me at my place in five.”

“Right.”

They both hung up and arrived at the building’s doorstep simultaneously.

“Let’s go make a plan,” Eddie said, opening the inside door.

“You’ve got mail,” Bryce said, taking the letter from the mailbox and handing it to him. “Hand delivered, too. No stamp.”

Eddie took the envelope and led the way to his apartment. Inside, he tossed his car keys and the envelope on the entrance hall table, then hung up his coat.

Eddie Jr. poured Bryce a drink, and they both sat down. “Now,” Eddie said, “you’re going to have to do the shooting.”

“Why me?” Bryce asked.

“Because everybody in that house knows my face or has seen a photograph of it. Nobody there knows you. While you’re doing it, I’ll be establishing a stainless-steel alibi.”

“And what will that be?” Bryce asked.

“I’ll get into a fight at P. J. Clarke’s.”

Bryce grinned. “What a great idea! You’ve already got a reputation there. Now give me some motivation.”

“Fifty grand. And I’ll do the planning, map it out for you. I’m good at that.”

“That’s right, you are,” Bryce said. “A hundred grand.”

“Seventy-five, but I’ll give you a sweetener. I’ll kill Sandy Beech for you.”

“Done,” Bryce said, offering his hand. “When and where?”

Eddie Jr. shook it. “That remains to be seen.”

“Aren’t you going to open the mysterious letter?”

Eddie picked up a legal pad and began to make notes. “Later. First, I have to plan two murders.”