Stuart Woods - New York Dead

Synopsis:

On disability leave from the New York City Police Department, Detective Sergeant Stone Barrington witnesses the murder of network news star Sasha Nijinsky, who is pushed from her penthouse terrace.

Elaines, late. The place had exhausted its second wind, and half the customers had gone; otherwise she would not have given Stone Barrington quite so good a table number 4, along the wall to your right as you enter. Stone knew Elaine, had known her for years, but he was not what you would call a regular not what Elaine would call a regular, anyway.

He rested his left leg on a chair and unconsciously massaged the knee. Elaine got down from her stool at the cash register, walked over, and pulled up a chair.

So?

Not bad, he said.

How about the knee? Anybody who knew him knew about the knee; it had received a .22-caliber bullet eleven weeks before.

A lot better. I walked up here from Turtle Bay.

Whens the physical?

Next week. Ill tap-dance through it.

So what if you fall on your ass, tap dancing? Elaine knew how to get to the point.

So, then Im a retiree.

Best thing could happen to you.

I can think of better things.

Come on, Stone, youre too good looking to be a cop. Too smart, too. You went to law school, didnt you?

I never took the bar.

So take the bar. Make a buck.

Its fifteen years since I graduated.

So? Take one of those cram courses.

Maybe. Youre coming on kind of motherly, arent you?

Somebodys gotta tell you this stuff.

I appreciate the thought. Whos the guy at the bar? To a cops eye the man didnt fit in somehow. He probably wouldnt fit anywhere. Male Caucasian, five-six, a hundred and seventy, thinning brown hair, thick, black-rimmed glasses adhesive-taped in the middle.

In the white coat? Doc.

That his name or his game?

Both. Hes at Lenox Hill, I think. Hes in here a lot, late, trying to pick up girls.

In a hospital jacket?

His technique is to diagnose them. Weird, isnt it?

Doc reached over to the girl next to him and peeled back her eyelid. The girl recoiled.

Stone laughed out loud and finished the Wild Turkey. Bet it works. What girl could resist a doctah?

Just about all of them is my guess. Ive never seen him leave with anybody.

Stone signaled a waiter for the check and put some cash on the table.

Have one on me, Elaine said.

Rain check. Ive had one too many already. He stood up and pecked her on the cheek.

Dont be such a stranger.

If I dont pass the physical, Ill be in here all the time. Youll have to throw me out.

My pleasure. Take care.

Stone glanced at Doc on the way out. He was taking the girls pulse. She was looking at him as if he were nuts.

Stone was a little drunk too drunk to drive, he reckoned, if he had owned a car. The night air was pleasant, still warm for September. He looked up Second Avenue to see a dozen cabs bearing down on him from uptown. Elaines was the best cab spot in town; he could never figure out where they were all coming from. Harlem? Cabdrivers wouldnt take anybody to Harlem, not if they could help it. He turned away from them; hed walk, give the knee another workout. The bourbon had loosened it up.

He crossed Eighty-eighth and started downtown, sticking to the west side of the street. He lengthened his stride, made a conscious effort not to limp. He remembered walking this beat, right out of the academy; that was when he had started drinking at Elaines, when he was a rookie in the 19th Precinct, on his way home after walking his tour. He walked it now.

A cop doesnt walk down the street like anybody else, he reflected. Automatically, he checked every doorway as he swung down Second Avenue, ignoring the pain, leaning on the bourbon. He had to prevent himself from trying the locks. Across the street, half a dozen guys spilled out of a yuppie bar, two of them mouthing off at each other, the others watching. Ten years ago, hed have broken it up. He would have now, but it didnt look like it would last long. The two guys turned away from each other, hurling insults. Neither was willing to throw the first punch.

At Eighty-sixth Street, two hookers were working the traffic. Hed have ignored them on his beat; he ignored them now. He remembered when Eighty-sixth was Germantown, when the smell of sauerbraten wafted from every third doorway. Somewhere along here there had been a place called the Gay Vienna that served kalbshaxe a veal shank that looked like a gigantic drumstick. The place had had a zither player, the only one hed ever heard. Hed liked it. Hed lived over on Eighty-third, between York and East End, had had a Hungarian landlady who made him goulash. Shed put weight on him, too much weight, and it had stuck. Hed lost it now, five weeks on hospital food. He was down to a hundred and eighty, and, at six-two, he looked slender. He vowed not to gain it back. He couldnt afford the alterations.

Stone rubbed his neck. An hour in one of Elaines hard, armless chairs, leaning on the table, always made his neck and shoulders tight. About Seventieth Street, he started to limp a little, in spite of himself. In the mid-Sixties, he forgot all about the knee.

It was just luck. He was rolling his head around, trying to loosen the neck muscles, and he happened to be looking up when he saw her. She was free-falling, spread-eagled, like a sky diver. Only she didnt have a parachute.

Con Edison was digging a big hole twenty yards ahead, and they had a generator going, so he could barely hear the scream.

Time slowed down; he considered whether it was some sort of stunt and rejected the notion. He thought she would go into the Con Ed hole, but she didnt; instead, she met the earth, literally, on the big pile of dirt the workmen had thrown up. She didnt bounce. She stuck to the ground as if she had fallen into glue. Stone started to run.

A Con Ed man in a yellow hard hat jumped backward as if hed been shotgunned. Stone could see the terrified expression on his face as he approached. The man recovered before Stone got there, reached down, and gingerly turned the woman onto her back. Her eyes were open.

Stone knew her. There was black dirt on her face, and her red hair was wild, but he knew her. Shit, the whole city knew her. More than half the population all the men and some of the women wanted to fuck her. He slowed just long enough to glance at her and shout at the Con Ed man. Call an ambulance! Do what you can for her! He glanced up at the building. Flush windows, none open; a terrace up top.

He sprinted past the scene, turned the corner of the white-brick, 1960s apartment building, and ran into the lobby. An elderly, uniformed doorman was sound asleep in a chair, tilted back against the wall.

Hey! Stone shouted, and the man was wide awake and on his feet. The move looked practiced. Stone shoved his badge in the old mans face. Police! What apartment has a terrace on the Second Avenue side?

12-A, the penthouse, the doorman said. Miss Nijinsky.

You got a key?

Yeah.

Lets go!

The doorman retrieved a key from a drawer, and Stone hustled him toward the elevators. One stood open and waiting; the doorman pushed twelve.

Whats the matter? the man asked.

Miss Nijinsky just took a dive. Shes lying in a pile of dirt on Second Avenue.

Jesus God.

Shes being introduced to him right now.

It was a short building, and the elevator was slow. Stone watched the floor numbers light up and tried to control his breathing. When they hit eleven, he pulled out his gun. As the elevator slowed to a stop on twelve, he heard something, and he knew what it was. The fire door on twelve had been yanked open so hard it had struck the wall. This noise was followed by the sound of somebody taking the steel steps of the fire stairs in a hurry. The elevator door started to open, and Stone helped it.