New York Dead

Chapter 45

Stone spent a good part of the night restless in his bed, wondering how he could use the new information Cary had given him about Barron Harkness. He found a possible answer in the television column of the following morning’s New York Times:

BARKER GETS LATE-NIGHT SHOW

Hiram Barker, the writer and social gadfly, has landed his own interview show, Sunday nights at 11:30 P.M., on the Continental Network, beginning this Sunday. Barker, contacted for comment, said that negotiations had been going on for several weeks and that he expected to be able to attract guests who did not ordinarily give interviews.

Stone picked up the phone and called Hi Barker.

“Hello, Stone, how are you? I hear good things about you from Frank Woodman.”

“I’m very well, Hi. I see in this morning’s Times that you’ve landed a television show.”

“That’s right. In fact, I had hoped to interview you about the Sasha business.”

“It’s a little early for that, I think, but you may remember that when we first met I agreed to tell you what I knew first, in return for your help.”

“I remember that very well indeed, dear boy, and that’s an IOU I intend to collect.”

“Well, I’m not ready for you to publish just yet, but I am ready to start telling you what I know about the case.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

“How about lunch today?”

“You’re on. Where?”

“The Four Seasons at twelve thirty?”

“Fine. Use my name; you’ll get a better table.”

“There’s just one thing, Hi.”

“What’s that?”

“If I’m going to tell you all, you’re going to have to do the same.”

“But I thought I already had, Stone.” Barker sounded wounded.

“You held something back, Hi, something important, and today I want to know all about that.”

“Hmmmm,” Barker said, “I wonder if you’re fishing.”

“Today, I’m catching,” Stone replied. “See you at lunch.”

He was fishing, indeed. He didn’t know what Barker was holding back, but he figured there must be something. Most people held back something.

Stone arrived first, and Barker’s trip to their table was slowed as he stopped at half a dozen others to greet their occupants.

“I love this place,” Barker sighed as he slid his bulk into a seat. “It’s just so… perfect.”

“I’m glad I chose it,” Stone said. He ordered a bottle of wine.

“All right,” Barker said when their lunch had come, “you first.”

Stone began at the beginning and took Barker through his investigation of the Nijinsky case. He glossed over the business with Hank Morgan’s suicide to protect Dino, and Barker didn’t call him on it. When he had finished, Barker looked skeptical.

“Then you’re still nowhere on this?”

“Not quite nowhere,” Stone replied. “I have some new information.”

“Tell me, dear boy.”

“I’ve learned that Barron Harkness wasn’t on the airplane from Rome.”

Barker’s eyebrows went up in delight. “And how did you learn that?”

“I must protect my source.”

“So now you’ll have him arrested?” Barker seemed thrilled at the prospect.

“No. I can’t prove he wasn’t on the airplane. His ticket was used, so his name appears on the manifest.”

“How about questioning the flight attendants? Surely, they would remember such a celebrity.”

“Not necessarily. Months have passed. The flight attendants might testify that they don’t remember seeing him, but they couldn’t credibly swear that he was not on the plane.”

“Hmmmm. I see your problem.”

“There’s something else. Sasha gave Harkness two million dollars to invest, and he was having trouble returning it.”

“Now that’s very interesting.”

“Yes, but again, I can’t prove it. The money seems to have been laundered through a Cayman Islands bank, so there’s no paper trail. The only person who could testify to the transaction is Sasha, and she’s not available – at least, not yet.”

“Not yet? You sound as if you think she might still be alive.”

Stone took Barker through his terminal velocity theory.

Barker looked doubtful. “That’s pretty farfetched, Stone. I think you’re grasping at straws.”

Stone took the note and the invitation from his pocket and put them on the table.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Barker said. He took out his glasses and examined the note carefully. “I’ve had a couple of letters from Sasha in the past, and that certainly looks like her handwriting.”

“An expert says it almost certainly is,” Stone said. “What’s more, her fingerprints were on the note.”

Barker forgot about his food. “Her fingerprints?”

“I kid you not.”

“Well, if Sasha is alive, and if you are having dinner with her on Saturday night, then you’ll soon have her testimony about Harkness.”

“If she’s alive, and if the dinner isn’t some sort of elaborate hoax perpetrated by some demented Sasha fan. I can’t depend on that to nail Harkness. I need your help.”

“I would be absolutely delighted,” Barker said, grinning. “Barron has never been one of my favorite people. What is it you want me to do?”

“I want you to invite him to be your first guest on your new television show.”

“And?”

Stone told him.

Barker chuckled as he listened. “I love it,” he said.

“That’s even better than writing about it in Vanity Fair, isn’t it?” Stone asked.

“Oh, I could do that, too,” Barker said, laughing. “Print all the details.” He laughed again. “You know, I’m going to see Barron this afternoon at a social event. I’ll corner him there and get him to agree to do the show. He’s never given personal interviews, you know.”

“I’d heard that. Now, Hi, it’s your turn. I want to know what you didn’t tell me about Sasha.”

Barker looked at Stone appraisingly. “I’ve underestimated you,” he said. “I wouldn’t have told anybody in a million years, but now you’ve trapped me.”

Stone sat back and waited.

“There is one promise I must extract from you,” Barker said.

“What’s that?”

“If Sasha is alive, you will never tell a living soul what I am about to tell you. If you find out she’s dead, then I’ll tell the world.”

“All right, I agree.” Suddenly, Stone knew what he was about to hear.

“This really has no relevance to your investigation, at least I can’t imagine how it could be relevant, but who knows?”

“Come on, Hi, tell me.”

“It came out in my research. I do a great deal more research for my profiles than anybody imagines. I use only a fraction of what I learn, but I learn everything.” Barker leaned forward and wagged a finger. “You must never let me do a profile of you, if you have anything to hide.”

Stone sat back and relaxed. Barker was going to stretch it out.

“At the time I was researching the Sasha piece, I knew a fellow in the American embassy in Moscow. I asked him to get me a copy of Sasha’s birth announcement and fax it to me, along with a translation. Her father was a member of the academy and a very famous writer in the USSR, so I knew there would be an announcement in Pravda or Izvestia. And there was.” He paused for effect.

“Go on,” Stone said.

“And what do you think the baby was named?”

Stone let Barker have his moment. “I can’t imagine.”

“The baby was named Vladimir Georgivich Nijinsky.” Barker rested his chin on his folded hands, looking pleased with himself.

“A boy’s name? But when her family came to America six years later, all the pictures showed a little girl. What about the passport?”

“They had no passports. They were thrown out of the Soviet Union and given asylum here. They had no records of any kind, not even birth certificates. The Soviets refused to supply them. The State Department, as was usual at the time, issued them documents based on sworn statements from the parents.”

“And Georgi Nijinsky swore that little Vladimir was a girl named Sasha?”

“Precisely. I never got the whole story – God knows, I would never have asked Sasha – but I surmise that, from birth, the little boy exhibited female traits, and the parents accepted that and raised him as a girl. I did find out that they took her to Morocco on a six-week vacation when she was twelve, and I believe she must have had hormone treatments and a sex-change operation at that time. After all, the onset of puberty was at hand, and people would have begun to notice if little Vladimir wasn’t developing breasts, et cetera.” Barker looked at Stone closely. “You don’t seem particularly surprised. I thought I would knock you right out of your chair with this story.”

“I figured it out when you began to tell me, but I had the advantage of an important clue.”

“What was that?”

“The handwriting expert who compared this note to a sample of Sasha’s writing said that both letters were written by a man.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful touch for my Vanity Fair piece!” Barker crowed. Then he became serious. “But tell me, Stone, what happens if neither of these things works – if Sasha isn’t alive, and if Barron refuses to do my show?”

“Well, I have an ace up my sleeve – my source for the information about the flight and the money. This would be a reluctant witness, but a subpoena can work wonders, especially if the witness may be an accessory to the crime because of withholding information.”

Barker looked down at the table. “Stone, I know you were seeing Cary Hilliard – you brought her to my house, remember? Might Cary be your source?”

Stone played cagey. “Why do you ask?”

“I didn’t want to bring this up; I got the impression at that time that you and Cary were close.”

“You could say that.”

Barker’s voice was sympathetic. “Stone, I have to tell you that Barron Harkness and Cary Hilliard are being married this afternoon, at three. I was invited to the wedding.”

Stone took a quick breath. “I wasn’t,” he said.

“And, Stone, after they’re married, Cary can’t be subpoenaed to testify against her husband, can she?”

“No,” he said.