Dino looked skeptical, then shrugged. “Okay, I’ll do that. It may take a few days; the records have probably left the precinct.”
“As soon as you can. And will you have the handwriting analyzed?”
“Against what?”
“The diary, the other stuff in evidence.”
“The case has been cleared. I expect all that stuff has gone back to her estate, to her family, by now.”
“Dino, if I can get a good analysis done, and the prints turn out to be hers, will that be enough for you to reopen?”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t know. I’d have to go to Delgado; he’d have to go to Waldron; he might even have to go to the mayor. The thing is, even if an analyst says it’s her handwriting, even if the prints are hers, what have we got to go on? We can’t trace the letter. It looks like pretty ordinary stationery to me; it was mailed in the biggest post office in the city. What could we do?”
“We’d know she’s alive.” He pushed the letter back across the table. “That’s a start.”
Dino laughed and shook his head. “You still got a hair up your ass about that, ain’t you? All that crap about cats bouncing off concrete and walking away. You know, if
Stone laughed. “I don’t know, Dino, I think I’d have given your idea a hearing.”
“I gave your idea a hearing,” Dino said.
“For about fifteen seconds.”
“That was all I needed.”
“Okay, okay, but will you have the lab look at the paper and anything else they can find?”
“All right, but I’ll have to get somebody to do it on his own time. If word got around about this, I’d be pounding a beat, pronto.”
“Thanks, Dino.”
“I’ll owe somebody a favor, too.”
“I’ll owe you one.”
They paused outside the restaurant.
“One forty-five, Sunday, at the church?” Dino said. “You got the address?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Tuxedo. I’ll pick up the rental.”
“I own one.”
“We’re coming up in the world, aren’t we?”
“I’ve actually used it a couple of times. A firm party, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll see if I can have something for you on the letter by then. Otherwise, it’ll have to wait till after the honeymoon.”
“Where you going?”
“Vegas – where else?”
“Sounds great. I’ll see you Sunday.”
“You ever been to an Italian wedding?”
“No.”
“You got an experience coming.”
Dino turned out to be right.
Chapter 41
Frank Woodman was at his desk, dictating something into a recorder, but, when he saw Stone at the door, he waved him in. “How are you, Stone?” he said, pointing at a chair.
Stone sat down. “I’m fine, Frank. There’s something I want to ask you about.”
“First,” Woodman said, “there’s something I want to say to you, and I’m sorry I didn’t seek you out and say it sooner. Stone, only Bill Eggers, Charlotte Harkness, and I have seen that tape, and I’m the only one who knows you knew Cary Hilliard. I want you to know that it won’t go any further than that.”
Stone nodded. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You did a fine job for us, and I’m sorry the result had to cause you pain.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
“Enough said about that. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you have the effects of Sasha Nijinsky that the NYPD took.”
“They sent them back to me a couple of weeks ago. After going through them myself, I sent them to Sasha’s father.”
“I see.”
“Why? Did you want to see them again?”
“Yes, I wanted to get a look at her handwriting again.”
“Why?”
Stone handed Woodman a copy of the letter.
Woodman read it through twice, and his expression revealed nothing. “What do you make of this?” he asked at last.
“I’m not entirely sure what to make of it. A friend of mine at the 19th Precinct is getting it looked at by the lab, but I wanted to compare the handwriting to something of Sasha’s.”
“That’s no problem,” Woodman said, rising and going to a file cabinet. “Sasha didn’t type. She told me once that she refused to learn, so that she wouldn’t get shunted aside into ‘woman’s’ work.” He flipped through a folder, extracted a letter, and handed it to Stone. “She did all her correspondence by hand.”
Stone laid the two letters side by side on the desk, and both men bent over them. Woodman produced a magnifying glass, and they examined them closely.
“They’re a lot alike, I’d say, but the one sent to you looks a little cramped,” Woodman said.
“The lines are not as straight, either,” Stone added.
“This is over my head,” Woodman said, picking up the phone. “Sophie, please find the name of that handwriting man we used on the mineral rights case last year, then see if you can get him over here right away.” He hung up. “When did you get this, Stone? It’s not dated.”
“Friday. It was posted the day before at Penn Station.”
“It must be some kind of crank who read your name in the papers as being associated with the case.”
“That seems more than just possible. Still, there’s the handwriting.”
“I suppose someone who knew Sasha might have had a letter of hers and used that to make a forgery.”
“But why?”
“Maybe someone who isn’t satisfied with the outcome of the case. A lot of people aren’t; I’m one of them. Maybe someone’s just trying to get you interested again.”
“The letter certainly had that effect,” Stone said.
The phone rang, and Woodman picked it up. “Good,” he said, then hung up. “Man’s name is Weaver. His office is only a couple of blocks away; he’s coming over.” Woodman looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Stone, I get the impression that you are at least considering the possibility that Sasha might still be alive. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Stone replied. “I think it’s just possible.” He explained the circumstances of Sasha’s fall and his terminal velocity theory.
“Jesus Christ,” Woodman said.
Weaver was a tall, thin man in his sixties. He looked at both letters carefully. Woodman had folded the letters so that the signatures did not show. “This is a Xerox copy, I presume,” he said, holding up Stone’s letter.
“Yes, I don’t have the original at the moment.”
“I’d like to see it, but it probably wouldn’t make much difference in my opinion.”
“What is your opinion, Mr. Weaver?” Woodman asked.
