Stone shrugged. “Nobody. Well, Dino helps me.”
“But he’s junior to you, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but he’s more inside than I am. I think he defends me sometimes; I think it’s made a difference, too.”
“It’s a funny situation, isn’t it?”
“I guess. I can live with it, though. At least I get to keep doing what I like; I have enough rank to get good cases, and I have a good reputation as an investigator.”
“I don’t want to pry, but I worry about you sometimes. How are you doing on Sasha? I read the papers.”
“The papers were accurate. It’s a brick wall; very frustrating.”
“Are you getting a lot of pressure from above? Political pressure, I mean?”
“So far, my commander has been able to keep the heat off Dino and me. The taxi murders diverted some attention from us at a good time, but they also took all the manpower we had on Sasha’s case.”
“Is that hurting your investigation?”
Stone sighed. “Not really; not much. The greater part of the legwork had already been done when the taxi shootings happened. We’d interviewed everybody who had anything to do with Sasha by that time. Dino’s going over the reports now, just to be sure we haven’t missed anything.”
“What’s going to happen on the Sasha investigation? I mean, what’s likely to happen?”
“We’ll get a tip,” Stone said. “Eventually. That’s how most cases are solved – never mind all the scientific stuff: fingerprints, DNA matching – most cases are solved because somebody finally tells us something.”
Their eggs Benedict came, and they ate hungrily.
When the check came, Stone paid the waiter, then looked Cary in the eye. “Sometimes, in cases like this, the person waits a long time to come forward. Sometimes it’s hard to do the right thing.”
She kept his gaze for a moment, then looked down at his jacket and frowned. “Where do you buy your clothes?”
She wasn’t going to talk to him; not yet, anyway. He glanced at the brown herringbone. “Different places. There are a couple of discount places downtown that have nice stuff, sometimes.”
“I said I’d help you furnish the house; I think I’d better start by furnishing you.”
“Okay,” Stone said, “I guess I could use some furnishing.”
“Come with me.”
Stone followed her out of the restaurant. She led him briskly around the block to the corner of Seventy-second and Madison and into a handsome stone building. He had seen the place, but he had never been in. It wasn’t the sort of place cops bought their clothes.
The store was a wonderland of beautiful things. She led him to the third floor, where she found a rack of tweed jackets. In seconds she had extracted one and helped him into it.
A salesman sidled up. “Our forty-two long fits you perfectly,” he said. “That jacket won’t require the slightest alteration.”
Stone felt for the tag, but Cary ripped it off and handed it to the salesman. “Never look at price tags,” she said. “That’s not the way to shop. Buy what’s right for you, and worry about the money later. That’s what credit cards are for.”
She found another jacket, then some trousers, then she started on the suits. He managed to hold her to two, but they were beautiful, he had to admit, and they did fit him perfectly. She shook his wallet out of the old jacket and handed the garment to the salesman. “Send this,” she said. “He’ll wear the plaid one.”
“I guess I should get some shirts,” Stone said.
“Downstairs,” the salesman said, handing him a credit card chit to sign.
Stone followed instructions and didn’t look at the amount. He tried to stop in the shirt department, but she pulled him away.
“They’re wrong for you,” she said. “We’ll get those elsewhere.” She hailed a cab. Shortly, they were in a Fifth Avenue department store; she guided him to a shop within the store. “These are English,” she said, hauling out a stack of shirts from a shelf, “and they suit you.” A dozen shirts later, they were in an Italian shoe store, trying on loafers and featherweight lace-ups.
By the time they reached Central Park, Stone felt like a new man. The mimosas still buzzed in his veins, and the clear, autumn air elated him. Autumn always seemed like the beginning of the year to Stone; New Year’s was an anticlimax.
“You look wonderful in that jacket,” Cary said.
“I feel wonderful in it,” he replied. “I feel wonderful with you.”
“That’s the way you’re supposed to feel,” she said. They walked north along the Fifth Avenue side, enjoying the color in the trees, and, at Seventy-ninth Street, she led him from the park. “My place,” she said.
The doorman didn’t seem to recognize him. On her floor, he glanced at Sasha’s door.
“Don’t think about that,” she said, pulling him into her apartment.
The place was a mirror image of Sasha’s, and it was beautifully put together – feminine, without being cloying, beautiful fabrics, good pictures, expensive things. “This is wonderful,” Stone said. “You’re hired as my decorator.”
“You know the best thing about this apartment?” Cary asked.
“What’s that?”
“It has a bedroom. And a bed.”
“Oh. I’d better have a look at that.”
“Yes, I think you’d better,” she said, unbuckling his belt.
Later, when they fell asleep, exhausted, it was with his soft penis in her hand. He liked sleeping that way.
When he got home, the following evening, the Saturday mail awaited him. There was a letter from his bank:
Dear Mr. Barrington:
Just a reminder to let you know that your note is due at the end of the month. The note is, of course, adequately collateralized by your house, and I will be happy to renew it, but I must tell you that, with the softening market in large properties, the bank’s new lending policy will require a substantial reduction of the principal when renewing. I might be able to persuade the loan committee to accept a reduction of $25,000. And, of course, there will be $4800 interest due.”
The letter hit him like a blow to the belly. He’d borrowed the money to renovate the house, but the banker had promised to keep renewing until he had a buyer. Then he had another thought. He dug out the receipts for the clothing he had bought. The total came to nearly four thousand dollars.
Stone went into the bathroom and lost his lunch.
Chapter 18
Stone was twenty minutes late to work. When he walked into the squad room, the place went quiet. Dino stood up from his desk and waved Stone toward the stairs.
“What’s up?” Stone asked as they trotted up the steps together.
“Leary wants us in the conference room. There’s brass here.”
“Oh, shit,” Stone said.
Down one side of the long table were arrayed the detective squad commander, Lieutenant Leary; Chief of Detectives Vincent Delgado, a slim, rather elegant man in his fifties; and an imposing black man Stone recognized from his photographs, who was wearing the well-pressed uniform of a deputy commissioner. Deputy commissioners
