Worst Fears Realized

2

THEY WALKED AT A LEISURELY PACE, CHATTING idly. Her voice was low and musical, and Stone enjoyed listening.

“I recall that you are a lawyer, but I forget with whom,” she said.

“I’m in private practice.”

She laughed. “At Yale law we were taught to believe that ‘private practice’ meant you couldn’t get a job with a good firm.”

“That’s probably a fair characterization, but my excuse is that I was a cop for fourteen years and came to the practice of law, as opposed to the upholding of it, late in life. I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld, but I work out of a home office.”

She wrinkled her brow. “That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, I guess.”

“Oh, I get it; you do the dirty work, the stuff they don’t want to be seen to handle.”

“You’re very quick.”

“That’s what they say about me down at the DA’s Office,” she said. “‘Susan Bean is very quick.’ Of course, that’s not all they say about me.”

They stopped for a traffic light. “What else do they say?”

“Some call me the conscience of the office; others call me a pain in the ass. I guess it’s pretty much the same thing.”

“What are you working on now?”

“I was second chair to Martin Brougham on the Dante case,” she said.

“Congratulations,” Stone replied. “That was a big win.”

“I guess so.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

“Oh, I’m glad we won,” she said. “I’m just not very happy about how we won.”

He was about to ask her what she meant when they arrived at her apartment building. She dug for a key and let them in; they took the elevator to the top floor, which was marked PH on the button.

“The penthouse?” Stone said. “Pretty fancy for an ADA.”

“It’s the top floor, the twelfth. That’s its only qualification as a penthouse.”

They rode up, and she opened the door to the apartment. It was small – living room, a dining alcove, bedroom, and kitchen. There was a small terrace overlooking the street. Any skyline view was blocked by a taller building across the street.

She went into the kitchen, dug a menu out of a drawer, and picked up the phone. “Trust me on the selections?” she asked.

“Sure, but nothing too spicy for me.”

She dialed the number and read off a list of dishes. “How long?” she asked. She listened, then covered the phone. “The delivery boy is out sick; would you mind picking it up? It’s not far.”

“Glad to,” Stone said.

“How long?” she asked again. “Okay, twenty minutes.” She hung up. “Can I get you a drink? Twenty minutes really means thirty.”

“Maybe some wine?”

She dug a bottle of chardonnay out of the fridge and handed it to Stone with a corkscrew. “You open it; I’m clumsy.”

Stone opened the bottle and poured them a glass. He threw his coat on a chair, and they sat on the sofa.

“That was quite a list of dishes you ordered,” he said.

“I exist on leftovers from takeout,” she replied. “So what fascinating dirty work are you doing for Woodman and Weld at the moment?” she asked.

“A personal injury suit,” he replied. “Dirty work isn’t always fascinating.”

“Is it a fascinating injury?”

“Not in the least. A Woodman and Weld client’s daughter was hurt in an automobile accident, and the other driver’s insurance company has been recalcitrant about paying her for her pain and suffering.”

“They usually are.”

“What’s next for you at the DA’s Office, now that you’ve put Dante away?”

She sighed. “I don’t know; I’m thinking about giving it up. It wears on me, you know?”

“I think I do, but it sounds like Brougham is on his way up. Won’t he take you with him?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure I want to go. When I joined the DA’s Office I was pretty idealistic, I guess. I saw it as the good guys against the bad guys, but now I’m not sure there are any good guys.”

“Life is a gray area,” Stone said.

“It’s charcoal gray and getting darker,” she said. “Did I ask you if you’re married?”

“No; I’m not.”

“Divorced?”

“Nope.”

“A lifelong bachelor? My God! Are you gay?”

“Nope.”

“Why did you never marry?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” He had been using that answer for a long time. “What about you?”

“A spinster at thirty-two,” she replied.

“Not for want of offers, I suspect.”

“I’ve had my moments.” She looked at him oddly. “May I kiss you?”

Stone laughed. “I’ve been kissed, but I’ve never been asked.”

“May I?”

“You don’t need to ask,” he said.

She leaned over, put her fingertips on his face, and drew him to her.

Her lips were firm and purposeful, and her tongue lay in waiting, darting into his mouth from time to time. He snaked an arm around her and pulled her closer, but she broke off the kiss and looked at her watch.

“Uh-oh, our dinner’s getting cold.” She stood up and threw him his coat. “To be continued after Chinese food. I’ll set the table and make some tea. Hurry.”

Stone got into his coat.

“Here,” she said, “take my key, so I won’t have to buzz you in.” She handed it to him.

Stone pocketed the key, kissed her quickly, and left the apartment. It was a block and a half to the restaurant, and he had to wait a bit for the food. It came in a large paper bag, and he paid and left, walking quickly back to the apartment house. He let himself in, went to the elevator, and pressed the button. He looked up at the lights and saw that the elevator was on the top floor. Shortly, it began to move. Elevators in short buildings moved slowly, he reflected. It stopped on the sixth floor, then began moving down again, finally reaching the ground floor. Stone pressed PH and the car crept upward.

He let himself into the apartment. Music was playing, and a loud whistling noise emanated from the kitchen. The kettle was boiling. He set the food down on the dining table, shucked off his coat, and walked toward the whistling noise. The kitchen light was off, and the single living-room lamp didn’t offer much illumination. He groped for the light switch but couldn’t find it. Blindly, he groped his way toward the stove, aiming at the gas flame. Susan must be in the john, he thought. Now that he was closer, the kettle’s whistle had become a scream.

He took another step, and, suddenly, he was slipping, falling. He hit the floor with a thump, groaning, as his elbow took most of his weight. He put a hand on the floor to help himself up, but it was slippery, and he fell again. She had apparently spilled something on the floor. The kettle screamed on.

He grabbed hold of the kitchen counter, hoisted himself to his feet, and turned off the gas jet. Slowly, the scream died. He groped his way back toward the kitchen door, holding on to the counter, and felt again for the light switch. This time he found it and turned it on.

He looked at his hands, dumbfounded. They were covered in red paint. Slowly, still holding on to keep from slipping, he turned and looked back into the kitchen. The paint was everywhere, but it wasn’t paint.

Susan Bean lay on her back next to the wall, staring at the ceiling. Her throat gaped open. He made himself move toward her, knelt at her side, and felt her wrist for a pulse. Nothing. There was no point it trying CPR, he realized. Close up, he could see that she had been very nearly decapitated.

Stone got shakily to his feet, holding on to whatever he could for support. He made it to the kitchen phone, picked it up, and started to call Dino’s cell phone, then he stopped.

“No,” he said aloud. He dialed 911.

“What is your emergency?” a woman’s voice said.

“Is the tape rolling?” he asked.

“You’re being recorded, sir; what is your emergency?”

“My name is Stone Barrington; I’m a retired police officer. I’ve got a homicide in the top-floor apartment at…” He looked around for something, found a gas bill, and gave her the address. “White female, age thirty-two, name of Susan Bean. I need homicide detectives and the coroner.”

“I’ve got it, Mr. Barrington.”

“Oh… tell the squad car that the perpetrator is probably a lone male, on foot, and that he’s probably still in the neighborhood.”

“Got it. They’re on their way.”

Stone hung up and dialed Dino’s cell phone.

“Bacchetti,” Dino’s voice said. There was party noise in the background.

“It’s Stone; I’m sitting on a homicide about three blocks from the party.” He read the address off the gas bill again.

“Have you called nine-one-one?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“I think the perp was in the building when I got here, and I’ll bet he’s still in the neighborhood.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. Don’t start working the scene, Stone; let my people do that.”

“Right.”

“I’m on my way.”

Stone hung up, sat on a chair at the dining table, and tried not to think about what was in the next room. He was badly shaken. He’d seen a lot of dead bodies in his years as a homicide detective, but never one that had just kissed him.