New York Dead

Chapter 16

Stone was impressed with Sasha’s records. She kept the kind of system that he kept meaning to set up for himself.

Her checkbook was the large, desk model, and every stub was fully annotated; she kept a ledger of the bills she received and paid; there was no preparer’s signature on her tax returns, so she must have done them herself. It seemed that Sasha Nijinsky had never been late on a payment for anything, and, periodically, there was a large check written – usually between twenty-five and a hundred thousand dollars – to a brokerage account. The lady had been making a lot of money for years, and she knew how to save it.

Stone was surprised, then, when her most recent brokerage statement showed the value of her holdings was only thirty-seven thousand dollars and change. He began back-tracking through the brokerage statements, which were bundled by year and secured with strong rubber bands. They made good reading. Figuring roughly, Stone estimated that Sasha had saved just under eight hundred thousand dollars during the past five years and that, through shrewd trading, this had grown to just over two million during that time. Then, eight months back, an even two million had been withdrawn, paid by the broker with a cashier’s check made out to Cash.

Having an easily negotiable instrument of that size in her possession seemed at odds with Sasha’s character as revealed in her records, Stone thought; the consequences of losing it would have been catastrophic for her, and he could find no record of the sum having been placed in any other of her accounts. Two million dollars was just gone. Furthermore, at the time she had disappeared, Sasha had been about to close a substantial real estate transaction which, according to her records, she had no ready funds to cover. And there was no record of a mortgage application or commitment letter. Strange.

“Dino, you keep at the interview reports,” Stone said. “I think I’m going to pay Sasha’s lawyer a visit.”

“You find something?”

“No, I’m missing something. Or rather, Sasha is.”

It was five o’clock when Stone presented himself at the midtown law offices of Woodman amp; Weld, and the receptionist fled her desk, clutching her coat, as soon as she had announced him.

“I’m Frank Woodman,” a tall, athletic man in his fifties said, extending his hand. “Come on back to the conference room; there’s a meeting still going on in my office.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time,” Stone said, following Woodman down a plushly carpeted hallway.

“Not at all,” Woodman said over his shoulder. “I’m happy to do anything I can to help Sasha.” He led the way into an elegant conference room, which was furnished in English antiques, and sat down at the head of the table.

Stone took a chair. “Mr. Woodman, to get right to the point, two million dollars seems to be missing from Sasha’s brokerage account.”

Woodman nodded. “I know about that,” he said, “but only because Sasha mentioned it in passing. I should tell you that, even as her sole attorney, I know less about Sasha’s affairs than most lawyers in my position would know. She was… well, secretive, I guess I’d have to say.”

“You say you know where the money is?”

“I said I knew about it,” Woodman replied. “Sasha told me a few months ago that she had cashed in her chips after having done well in the market for several years. She showed me a cashier’s check made out to Cash for two million.”

“I thought you said she was secretive.”

“She was, but we were having a drink in the Oak Bar of the Plaza one evening, and I guess she’d had a couple, and she showed me the check.”

“Did she say what she was going to do with it?”

“Only that she was Federal Expressing it to a bank in the Cayman Islands the following morning. She said she was making an investment with a friend.”

“She didn’t say who the friend was?”

“No.”

“Have you any idea who it might have been?”

“None.”

“Is there some way I might trace the money?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Cayman Islands banks are a lot like their Swiss counterparts, in that their transactions are held secret. It’s said there’s a lot of drug money down there. Even if I knew the name of the bank, and I do not, they wouldn’t give you the time of day. They won’t even give the IRS the time of day.”

“It appears from her records that she had paid the taxes on her profits in the market,” Stone said.

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Woodman replied. “Sasha was punctilious in her financial dealings. But when people put large sums of money into Swiss or Cayman banks, they’re often trying to avoid paying taxes on the income from that investment. That she may very well have been trying to do, although I would have advised her against it, if she had asked me.”

“Do you know how Sasha had planned to pay for her new apartment?”

“What new apartment?” Woodman asked, surprised.

“You didn’t know that she was moving?”

“She never mentioned it to me,” Woodman said. “Oh, a couple of years back she called me about the availability of mortgages on co-ops in the city, and I told her I would be happy to help her with an application, but, as far as I know, she never applied for a mortgage. Certainly, she had the income to raise one, if she had wished.”

“Was Sasha the kind of client who might have been lured into a fast-buck investment by a friend?” Stone asked.

Woodman thought about that. “Yes,” he said. “Sasha loved money, loved making it. But she would only have taken that sort of plunge if she had checked it out carefully, and if she trusted the friend implicitly.” Woodman’s eyebrows went up. “I find myself speaking of her in the past tense,” he said. “Of course, I did read the papers this morning.”

“Is that why you let Barron Harkness know that Sasha had appointed him executor of her estate?”

“I did that before I saw today’s papers. When I heard about her fall and when I was unable to locate her, I wrote to Harkness simply as a precautionary step. It seemed the prudent thing to do.”

Stone stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Woodman,” he said. “If you think of anything else that might help me, I’d appreciate a call, day or night.” He gave Woodman a card.

“Of course,” the lawyer said. “Do you think you can find your way back to reception? I’d like to rejoin my meeting.”

“Sure, thanks,” Stone replied. The two men shook hands, and Stone turned back toward the front of the office.

Halfway there, someone called his name. Stone stopped and backtracked a few steps to an open office door. A grinning man was rising from a desk.

Stone struggled for a name. “Bill Eggers?” he managed finally.

Eggers stuck out a hand. “Haven’t seen you since graduation day,” he said, “although I’ve seen your picture in the paper from time to time.”

“So what have you been doing with yourself for all these years?” Stone asked. He remembered Eggers as a companionable fellow; they’d had a few beers after class more than once.

Eggers spread his hands. “This,” he said. “I joined a downtown firm after law school, but I’ve been here for the past eight years.”

“What sort of law are you practicing?”

“Oh, I’m the general dogsbody around here,” Eggers said. “I do whatever needs doing – some personal injury, a little domestic work, the odd criminal case, when one of the firm’s clients crosses the line.”

“Sounds interesting.” Stone looked around the plush office. Looked as though Eggers had done well at it too.

“More interesting than you would believe.” Eggers laughed. “You seeing Woodman about Sasha?”

“Yeah.”

“I wondered when you’d get around to him.”

“It took me a few days; I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Funny you turning up here; I’ve been thinking about you lately.”

“Kind thoughts, I hope.”

“The kindest, I assure you.” Eggers looked at his watch. “I’ve got a client coming in any second, but I’d like to buy you a drink sometime, chew over some things.”

“Sure,” Stone said, fishing out a card. “Give me a week or two, though. The Sasha thing is taking a lot of time.”

“Of course,” Eggers said, extending his hand again. “We’ll make it dinner, when you’ve got the time.”

On his way home, Stone reflected on Bill Eggers’s prosperous appearance, the handsome office, the prestigious law firm. Was it possible that Woodman amp; Weld might need someone with his background?

When he got home, there was a notice from the NYPD: his return-to-duty physical had been scheduled. Stone flexed the knee. Not bad; he’d begun to forget about it. He tried a couple of half knee bends. It was sore, but he could ace the physical.