New York Dead

Chapter 48

On Friday, Stone sat down and thought about his options. He should have gone to the FBI, he knew, when he got the first letter. Their kidnapping case was still open and would remain open until there was some sort of resolution, but they had already conducted their own investigation of Van Fleet and had turned up nothing. Neither had their search of his loft produced anything, and they were unlikely to find Stone’s new information compelling. Anyway, his years as a police officer had made him very nearly constitutionally incapable of going to the FBI for anything.

He could, too, have gone to the police, maybe approached Delgado directly, but it had already been made abundantly clear to him that the police hierarchy considered the case closed and did not want it reopened. If he could deliver Van Fleet and Sasha, handcuffed together, Delgado might listen to him, but not otherwise.

His best alternative was Dino. Dino was even less anxious than Delgado to reopen, because he didn’t want to piss off his superiors, but Dino was his friend, and he still felt guilty about the treatment Stone had received from the department. The trouble was, Dino was in Las Vegas. Stone called Dino’s mother and learned that he was due back from his honeymoon sometime the following day. Stone heaved a sigh of relief. Dino wasn’t going to be easy, but at least he would be in town.

The phone rang.

“Stone. It’s Hi Barker.”

“What’s happening, Hi?”

“I got him. He’s mine for the Sunday-night show. Is there anything else I should know before I interview him?”

“I told you everything at lunch. I’ll leave it to you how to handle him.”

“Will you be there?”

“I’ll be there with a cop,” Stone said. “Where do I go?”

“We’re broadcasting from what the network calls the ‘executive studios,’ on the top floor of their headquarters building on Seventh Avenue. You know the building?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll leave your name with the security guard – and what’s the name of your cop?”

“Bacchetti. What time?”

“Be there at a quarter to eleven, sharp, and go straight to the control room and stay there. We go on the air, live, at eleven thirty, and I don’t want Barron to see you.”

When Stone hung up, he was starting to feel excited.

At noon Saturday, Stone called Dino’s new apartment in the West Village. A woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Is Dino back in town yet?”

“No, who is this?”

“This is Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, yes, we met at the wedding. This is Mary Ann’s mother. I’m just over here tidying up a little so the place will be nice when they get in.”

“What time are they due, Mrs. Bianchi?”

“I’m not sure exactly. They were supposed to come home last night, but Dino was on a winning streak, and they missed their plane. He said they’d get whatever flight was available today. Dino wanted Sunday to rest before going back to work.”

“I see. Mrs. Bianchi, would you write a note to Dino and ask him to call me the moment he gets in? Say that it’s important.”

“Okay, I’ll tack it to the door, so he’ll be sure to see it.”

Stone thanked her and hung up.

The day droned on with no word from Dino, and Stone began calling every hour on the hour. There was no answer. At seven thirty, he got out his tuxedo and began to get dressed. At eight, he called Dino again and still got no reply. At eight thirty, the doorbell rang. Stone thought about it for a moment, then he retrieved his badge and gun from the dresser drawer and strapped on the ankle holster.

When Stone opened the front door, a limousine was at curbside and a mustachioed, uniformed chauffeur stood on the stoop. Stone asked the chauffeur to wait. He went to the living-room phone and called Dino’s number again.

“Yeah?” Dino – sleepy, exhausted.

“Dino, it’s Stone, hang on.” He ran back to the front door. “What address are you taking me to?” he asked the chauffeur.

“Sorry, sir,” the man said, with what seemed to be an Italian accent, “I can’t tell you; it’s supposed to be a surprise. I’m not supposed to wait either; I’ve got a schedule to keep. If you can’t come now, I’ll have to leave.”

“I’ll be right with you,” Stone said and ran for the phone again. “Dino.”

“Huh?”

“Listen to me now. I need your help.”

“You listen to me, Stone. I’ve hardly had any sleep for the past three nights, you know? Now, I’m going back to bed; you call me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow may be too late, Dino. Sasha has invited me to a dinner party.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dino moaned, “will you ever let go of that? I told you I don’t want to hear about it again.”

“I’ve got some new stuff on Van Fleet, Dino, and he may be mixed up in this thing tonight.”

“I told you, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Dino, I need some backup. I don’t even know where I’m going.”

“I suggest you call nine-one-one when you get there, Stone. I’ll call you when I’m coherent. In the meantime, fuck off!” He slammed down the telephone.

Stone ran back to the front door to see the chauffeur heading for the car. “Wait!” he called out, locking the door behind him. The chauffeur came wearily around the car and opened a door for him.

The limo was an old one, sixties vintage, but well cared for. The upholstery was well-worn velour, and black velvet curtains were drawn over the side and rear windows. “Come on,” he said to the driver, “where are we going?”

“Sorry, sir,” the driver said cheerfully and raised the glass partition between his compartment and the rear seat.

Stone found himself looking into a mirror. He picked at the side curtain; it was sewn or glued down. He immediately felt that he had walked into a nineteen-forties B movie. Bela Lugosi would be waiting for him at his destination. He decided to sit back and enjoy the experience. For a few minutes, he tried counting the left and right turns and estimating his position, but he became disoriented. The car seemed not to stay long on any street, not taking any avenue up or downtown, as far as he could tell. He found a light and glanced at his watch from time to time. They had left his house at eight thirty-two.

At exactly nine o’clock, the car stopped, and Stone could hear a garage door being raised. He was being taken indoors without getting out of the car first, and he didn’t like it. He tore at the side curtain, but by the time it came loose he could hear the garage door winding down again.

The chauffeur opened the left-hand door for him, and, as he got out of the car, Stone saw another door leading off the garage. The chauffeur opened that one for him too, then quickly closed it behind him.

Stone looked around. He was in a nicely decorated vestibule with one other door, probably leading to the street. He tried that door and the one behind him; he was locked in. There was nowhere to go but up. An open elevator awaited him, and there was only one button. He pressed it, and the elevator rose slowly, creaking, reminding him of the one in his own house. Old. The elevator stopped, and the door opened.

Stone stepped out of the car into another vestibule, much like the one downstairs. There was an elegant, gilded mirror and a vase containing a large flower arrangement resting on an antique table. A hallway led away from the vestibule, and from that direction he could hear a murmur of conversation and the tinkle of silver against china. They had apparently started without him. A woman’s laugh rose above the talk, then subsided. Was that voice familiar?

Stone walked slowly down the hallway and emerged into a very large, rectangular room, which had been divided into two areas. Ahead of him was a living area, with two leather sofas facing each other before a fireplace, in which a fire merrily burned. Soft chamber music came from speakers somewhere. There was something familiar about the room. To his left was a dining table set for eight, and, apparently, Stone was not the only one late for dinner, for three places were empty. The conversation was louder now.

A woman in a backless dress sat with her back to him, a man next to her, and a couple faced him from across the table. Both the men were in evening clothes. At the end of the table, to his right, dressed to kill, her elbow resting on the table, her hand holding a glass of wine, her face turned to greet him, smiling invitingly, was Sasha Nijinsky.

Stone took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak. Instead of what he had intended to say, a scream burst from his lips. A searing pain had thudded into his buttocks; his back arched, his knees bent, and he fell heavily onto the polished hardwood floor, his body convulsing.

He had only a moment of consciousness to grasp that Sasha and the other people at the table were immobile; were glassy eyed; were, of course, dead.