Worst Fears Realized

“I’m an attorney-at-law,” Stone replied.

“You were once a police officer, were you not?”

“I was. I served fourteen years with the NYPD, finishing as a detective second grade.”

“And what were the circumstances of your leaving the department? Why didn’t you serve until you could take retirement benefits?”

“I was wounded in the line of duty and, as a result, discharged from the department for medical reasons – with full pension and benefits.” This seemed to bring Brougham up short. Apparently, Stone thought, he hadn’t been prepared for this answer.

“I see,” Brougham said, recovering himself. “Were you acquainted with a Susan Bean before her death?”

“I was,” Stone replied. “I met her at your home.” He gave the date.

Brougham grimaced; he clearly hadn’t wanted that in the record. “And you knew her previous to that date, didn’t you?”

“I once defended a client in whose prosecution she assisted, but I have very little memory of her from that time. When I met her in your home I had no recollection of ever having met her before; nor did she mention any previous meeting.”

“Is it not a fact that, some years ago, you met Ms. Bean in a bar, picked her up, took her home, and seduced her?”

“I have already given you my entire recollection of my acquaintance with Ms. Bean. I have nothing to add to that.”

“Did you seduce her?”

“Asked and answered.”

Brougham turned his body so that he could face the grand jury while asking Stone his next question. “Is it not a fact, Mr. Barrington, that in a moment of blind rage, you murdered Susan Bean?”

“It is not a fact; I did not murder Susan Bean or harm her in any way,” Stone replied calmly, addressing his answer to the jury.

Brougham took a deep breath, rose on his toes, and raised his voice. “Is it not a fact…”

“It is a fact,” Stone said, interrupting Brougham, “that I was informed just a few minutes ago in a telephone conversation with Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, who heads the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct, that there is a new prime suspect in the murder of Ms. Bean, and that he is now being sought by the police.”

Brougham expelled a lungful of air in a strangled grunt. “What did…?”

“Lieutenant Bacchetti tells me that the prime suspect is one Thomas Deacon, who heads the investigative division of the District Attorney’s Office.”

Now Brougham was speechless. He stood facing the grand jury, his mouth open, his face drained of color. He took another deep breath. “You are excused, Mr. Barrington.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know about the evidence against Deacon, Mr. Brougham?” Stone asked.

“You are excused!” Brougham all but shouted.

Stone got up and left the grand-jury room. Bill Eggers stood up and approached him.

“That was quick,” he said. “How did it go?”

Stone was about to answer him when he looked past Eggers and saw Tom Deacon and Michael Kelly coming down the hallway toward them. “Excuse me a minute, Bill.” He turned to Tim Ryan, who was standing nearby “Tim,” he said, “can I borrow your cuffs?”

Without a word, Ryan reached behind him and produced a pair of handcuffs.

“I’m about to make an arrest,” Stone said to the cop. “You want to assist me?”

“Sure, Stone,” Ryan replied.

“You know Deacon and Kelly there?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take Deacon; you make sure Kelly doesn’t shoot me.”

“Okay.”

Stone, the handcuffs in his left hand, headed straight for Deacon, his right hand out. “Hello, Tom,” he said.

Deacon looked puzzled, but reacted by reaching for Stone’s hand.

Stone took hold of Deacon’s hand and held it while he snapped a cuff onto his wrist. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Susan Bean,” he said, and, before Deacon could react, Stone twisted Deacon’s arm behind his back, pushed him against the wall and cuffed his hands behind him. Then he spun Deacon around, ripped the pistol from his shoulder holster and removed his police identification from his inside pocket. “You’re not going to be needing this anymore,” he said.

There was a thud behind Stone, and he turned to see Mick Kelly, spread-eagled on the marble floor with Tim Ryan’s knee in his back, being handcuffed. “Take his gun and his badge, Tim,” he said, “and read them both their rights. I’ll call it in.”

He shoved Deacon onto a bench, reached for his cell phone, and called Dino.

“Hello?”

“It’s Stone. I’ve just made a citizen’s arrest.”

60

JEFF BANION WAS STANDING AT HIS POST IN front of the apartment building in the evening light, when he saw Howard Menzies’s big Mercedes coming down the block, with two men in the front seat. As it pulled to a halt at the awning, Jeff watched as a familiar-looking man got out from behind the wheel and came toward him. It took him a moment to recognize Mr. Menzies’s nephew, Peter Hausman, because Hausman had somehow acquired a very full head of hair.

“I am coming back after a moment,” the young man said in his heavily accented English. “No need to announce; Mr. Menzies is expect me.”

“Fine,” Jeff replied. He looked up the block and saw a uniformed traffic officer coming down the block, writing tickets. He opened the door of the Mercedes and got in. “Excuse me, sir” he said to the other man, whom he did not recognize. “I have to move the car; there’s a cop giving out tickets.”

“Good idea,” the man said. “Pretty nice car, huh?”

Jeff maneuvered the car to a space at the curb. “Sure is,” he said. “Let me just wait until this cop passes.”

“Like to buy it?” the man asked.

“Sure.” Jeff laughed. “Just take it out of my paycheck.”

“I don’t understand this guy Menzies,” the man said. “We only sold it to him less than two weeks ago, and now he’s sold it back.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m just here to drive Menzies to Kennedy and then take the car. It cost him a year’s depreciation on the car to sell it back like that.”

Jeff saw the cop turn the corner and got out. “Well,” he said to the man, “people do crazy things.” He went back to his post, wondering why Menzies would sell his new car. The house phone rang. “This is Jeff,” he said into the phone.

“Jeff, it’s Howard Menzies; could you come upstairs and help me with some luggage, please?”

“Of course, Mr. Menzies; I’ll be right up.” Jeff stopped at the desk. “Ralph, watch the door, will you? I’ve got to give Mr. Menzies a hand.” He rode up in the elevator to the sixteenth floor and found the Menzies door open. “Hello?” he called out.

“Come in, Jeff,” Menzies called back. “I’m in the study.”

Peter Hausman passed him, carrying bags, headed for the elevator.

Jeff went into the study. “There are some more bags in the bedroom,” Menzies said.

“Going on a trip, Mr. Menzies?” Jeff asked.

“Just for a few days,” Menzies replied, holding up a large briefcase. “Peter and I are taking my wife’s ashes