New York Dead

Chapter 22

Leary kept Stone and Dino in the conference room. His face was very red now. “I thought you told me we were going to get a confession,” he said, glaring at Dino.

Dino spread his hands. “Boss, how could I know for sure? It felt that way when Palmer said she’d talk to us.”

“It did feel that way, Lieutenant,” Stone interjected.

“That’s a completely unusable tape,” Leary said. “Palmer might as well have written and directed it himself.”

“She’s dirty, Lieutenant,” Dino said. “She did it. I can feel it.”

“I think so too,” Leary said, “but you’re going to have to fit her up for it.”

“What?” Stone said, alarmed.

“I mean, you’re going to have to prove it, get some evidence,” Leary said, correcting himself.

“We’ll get it,” Dino said firmly. “I mean, shit, Lieutenant, we just got on this bitch. Give us a little time, okay?”

“Okay,” Leary said. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to come up with one piece of evidence that will put her in Nijinsky’s apartment on that night.”

“Lieutenant,” Stone said, worried now, “that’s unreasonable. Morgan is a whole new development in this case – a promising one, I’ll grant you, but we’re going to need some time.”

“You got it,” Leary said. “Twenty-four hours.” He turned and walked from the room.

Dino flopped down in a chair. “What now?”

“We’d better get going, don’t you think?”

Dino nodded. “Okay, I’ll check Nijinsky’s records for the promissory note from Morgan.”

“I’ll check out Morgan’s address, see if anybody saw her that night. What are you going to do after you check the records? It won’t take you very long.”

Dino thought for a minute. “Shoot myself, if the note is there,” he said.

Stone drove downtown faster than he usually drove, resisting the temptation to using the flashing light and siren. He parked in front of a fire hydrant on West Tenth Street and put down the visor to ward off tickets.

Hank Morgan lived in a handsome brownstone that had been divided into two duplexes; he wondered how she could afford it. Well, hell, he was only a cop and he lived in a whole brownstone in Turtle Bay. Must be her daddy’s money. He rang the second bell, the one that said VINCENT.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice said over the intercom.

“Good morning, I’m Detective Barrington, NYPD. May I speak to you for a moment, Ms. Vincent?”

A pause. “All right, but I want to see a badge through the peephole.”

“Of course.”

She buzzed him through the outer door, and he held his badge so she could scrutinize it.

She opened the door but kept the chain on. “How about some ID with a photograph?” she said warily.

Stone handed his ID wallet through the opening.

She closed the door, unhooked the chain, and let him in. “Sorry about that, but you can’t be too careful,” she said.

Ms. Vincent was a pleasingly plump woman in an apron. “I was just about to have some coffee. Can I offer you some?”

“Thanks,” Stone said. “I’d like that.” He welcomed the opportunity to stretch out his visit.

She led him into the kitchen and gestured for him to take a seat at the breakfast table. When she had poured them both a cup, she joined him.

“What can I do for you?” she said.

“I want to talk with you about your upstairs neighbor,” Stone said.

Ms. Vincent’s eyebrows went up. “Really? Is Morgan in some kind of trouble?”

“She’s helping us with an investigation, and the credibility of witnesses is always important. Also, I wanted to see if there was anything you could add to her information.”

“Sure.”

He took her back to the night of Sasha Nijinsky’s fall. “Did you see Ms. Morgan at all that evening?”

Ms. Vincent thought for a moment. “We were in Bermuda,” she said. “My husband’s sister lives there, and we go at least once a year.”

“Did anyone stay in your apartment while you were gone?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“How well do you know Hank Morgan?”

“Not very well. We set up this place as condominiums four years ago with some friends. Then the friends got transferred, and they sold the place to Morgan about three months ago.”

“Did you know Hank Morgan before that?”

“Nope. Neither did our friends; a real estate agent found her. I was a little worried at first. Shit, I’m still worried.”

“Why?”

“Have you met Ms. Morgan?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t have to tell you she’s a lesbian.”

“No. She was quite frank about it.”

“Well, it’s not just that she’s a lesbian – hell, I don’t have anything against gays in general – it’s that she’s so… involved.”

“Involved in what?”

“Well, she’s apparently in two or three organizations about gay rights, and something to do with AIDS – you know those people who did that sit-in in St. Patrick’s Cathedral?”

“I know the group.”

“Well, she’s always doing things like that; she’s a real activist, which is, all too often, another way of saying ‘pain in the ass.’”

“Why does that bother you?”

“She’s always having meetings upstairs, and, believe me, there are some pretty weird people at those meetings. My God, there have been women in this house who should be playing pro football! It gives me the willies. I’m here by myself a lot; my husband travels in his work.”

“Have these people behaved oddly toward you?”

“No, it’s not that. I’m not really afraid of being raped, I guess. It’s just that I’m an Italian girl from Queens, a Catholic, and I’m nervous about things like that. I was brought up to be nervous about things like that.”

“Did you ever recognize any of Ms. Morgan’s visitors?”

Ms. Vincent grinned. “Yeah, I recognized Sasha Nijinsky, once.”

“Was she here for a meeting?”

“Nope, she was alone. I guess that means Sasha was a dyke, too, huh?”

“How often did you see her here?”

“Only once, and then through the peephole. It was her, though. She and Morgan were holding hands.” She gave a little shudder.

“Do you remember the date you saw her here?”

Ms. Vincent shook her head. “Not exactly. Must have been a month or so ago.”

Stone finished his coffee. “Do you know any of Ms. Morgan’s other friends?”

“Nope. We don’t socialize. I mean, we’re polite to each other, but it’s obvious we have absolutely nothing in common, except this house.”

“Has Ms. Morgan been doing some work on her place?”

“I’ll say she has! She’s had builders in the house almost since the day she moved in; she must have done something pretty major to her place. They’ve stopped coming, though; they must be finished.” She paused. “Did I mention that Morgan has a gun?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I saw it when she moved in. I ran into her on the front steps – the first time I’d met her – and she was carrying a cardboard box full of stuff, and right on top was this pretty good-sized pistol in a holster. She made some joke about how you can’t be too careful in New York.”

Stone stood up. “Well, thank you for your help, Ms. Vincent.”

“Wouldn’t you like another cup?” She seemed anxious for company.

“Thanks, but I have a lot to do today.”

Stone left the building and walked up and down both sides of the street. He checked at a bar, a dry cleaner, and a shoe repair shop; all of them were acquainted with Hank Morgan, but nobody had seen her on the night of Sasha’s disappearance. He checked his notebook for the home phone number of the doorman at Sasha’s old building, called him, and ascertained that Morgan had been there before Sasha’s fall. The doorman hadn’t seen Morgan that night. Discouraged, he drove back to the precinct.

Dino was at his desk, looking pleased with himself.

“There wasn’t any promissory note,” he said, grinning. “Morgan lied to us.”

“Not necessarily,” Stone replied. “Nijinsky might have kept them someplace else.”

“Nah,” Dino said. “She kept perfect records, and they were perfectly complete. If Morgan had given her a note, that’s where it’d be. What did you come up with?”

Stone gave an account of his investigation. “The downstairs neighbor was on vacation, like Morgan said. The lady doesn’t like lesbians, but she had nothing to say that would have incriminated Morgan. I had the feeling she wished she’d had something to tell me.”

“Morgan’s our killer,” Dino said. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“I can’t feel it in mine, Dino. I know how bad we need a bust on this one, but Morgan’s just not it. The lady’s clean, except maybe on a weapons charge. The neighbor saw a pistol, but Morgan may have a permit.”

“I’ll check on that, but, take my word for it, the lady’s no lady,” Dino said. “And she’s dirty.”