New York Dead (12 page)

“Missing?” Stone asked. Nobody knew she was missing. The press still thought she was in some hospital or other.

Dino held up a fresh copy of the
Daily News
.
SASHA VANISHES,
a headline screamed.

Stone picked up the paper and opened it. “A source in the New York City Police Department confirmed last night that, since her fall from the terrace of her East Side penthouse apartment, Sasha Nijinsky has been missing, and no one knows if she is alive or dead.” He didn’t read the rest. Somebody, probably somebody in this room, was talking to a reporter.

“You did the right thing, Mr. Duncan,” Stone said. “Now the car number was twenty-one, the time was about six thirty, you said?”

“That’s right, just about exactly six thirty. That was the time I had ordered the car for.”

“And the name of the car service?”

“Minute Man. I use them all the time.”

Stone held out his hand. “Thank you very much for this information, Mr. Duncan,” he said. “You may be sure that we’ll check this out thoroughly.”

Dismissed, Duncan retrieved his trench coat from Dino’s desk and made his way out of the room, giving the leering black man a wide berth.

“Cat’s out of the bag, huh?” Stone said to Dino.

“I think a more appropriate description of the situation is that the shit has hit the fan,” Dino said. “Leary wants to see us.”

“At least we’ve got some sort of lead,” Stone said. “Let’s call Minute Man first.”

After a long wait for the information, Stone was told that a Minute Man car had picked up a Ms. Balfour at the Algonquin Hotel at six thirty and had delivered her to an East Sixty-third Street address. Stone scribbled it down. “The Algonquin is right down the block from the Harvard Club; the car must have been stopped in traffic when Duncan mistook it for his.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dino said.

Armed with their new information, the two detectives faced Leary, who was an unhappy man. “I hope to God this is no fuckin’ wild-goose chase,” he said, when he had heard their story. “The chief of detectives has already been on the phone this morning, and I’m expecting a call from the mayor any minute.”

As if on cue, the phone rang. Leary put his hand on it. “Get out of here and run down that lead,” he said. “I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”

Stone and Dino sat in their car outside the address, an elegant town house on East Sixty-third Street.

“I’m scared,” Dino said.

“I know how you feel,” Stone replied.

“You know how much we need this to
be
something, don’t you? I’d like to get a shot at the balls of the guy who leaked to the papers. I’d cut’em off and make him eat’em.”

“I’d hold him down while you did it,” Stone said. “All right, let’s go.”

They trudged up the front steps and rang the bell, then
watched through iron grillwork as a uniformed maid approached the door.

“Yes?” she said, opening the door slightly.

Stone showed his badge. “My name is Detective Barrington. Is there a Ms. Balfour at this address?”

“Just a minute,” the maid said, closing the door and shutting them out. She went to a telephone in the entrance hall, spoke a few words into it, then returned and opened the front door wide. “Please come in,” she said. “Mrs. Balfour will be right down.”

As they entered, Stone saw half a dozen pieces of matched luggage piled to one side of the front door. The detectives were shown to a small sitting room, and, as they sat down, the maid opened the door to another man, who began removing the baggage.

A moment later, there was the click of high heels on the marble floor of the entrance hall, and Sasha Nijinsky walked into the sitting room.

As the detectives got to their feet, Stone was swept with an overwhelming sense of relief that made him light-headed.

“I’m Ellen Balfour,” Sasha Nijinsky said. “How may I help you?”

Something is wrong here, Stone thought. Relief began to be replaced by panic.

“Well?” the woman said into the stunned silence.

“Aren’t you…” Stone couldn’t get the words out.

“Oh, I see,” the woman said, nodding her beautiful head gravely. “It’s the third time this week I’ve been mistaken for her.”

“Oh, shit,” Dino said, involuntarily, then recovered himself.

The woman turned and looked at him.

“Excuse me, please,” Dino pled.

“I wonder, Mrs. Balfour, if you have some personal identification?” Stone said, hoping against hope that this
woman was Nijinsky and hiding it. “Something with a photograph?”

The woman opened her handbag and produced a New York driver’s license with a very nice picture.

“I can only apologize for the intrusion,” Stone said, returning the license to her. “A gentleman turned up at the precinct this morning and reported having seen Sasha Nijinsky.”

“I’ll bet it was the man from the Harvard Club last night,” she said.

“It was.”

“He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.”

“He was very certain. He’d met Miss Nijinsky only a couple of weeks ago.”

“I’ve been putting up with this for years,” Mrs. Balfour said, “and I’ve resisted changing my hair, but now I’m just going to have to go for a new look, I guess. And after the newspaper stories this morning, I’m getting out of town.”

“I don’t blame you,” Stone said.

“If you get any reports of sightings in the Hamptons, please ignore them,” Ellen Balfour said. “My husband doesn’t think this is funny anymore.”

Back in the car, neither detective spoke until they were nearly back to the precinct.

“I guess we’d better get into Sasha’s financial records,” Stone said finally.

“Yeah,” Dino replied disconsolately. Dino’s idea of a financial record was the color of the sock he kept his money in. “Tell you what, I’ll go through the interview reports again on the people you and I didn’t talk to personally; you do the financial records, okay?”

“Okay,” Stone said.

Chapter

16

S
tone was impressed with Sasha’s records. She kept the kind of system that he kept meaning to set up for himself.

Her checkbook was the large, desk model, and every stub was fully annotated; she kept a ledger of the bills she received and paid; there was no preparer’s signature on her tax returns, so she must have done them herself. It seemed that Sasha Nijinsky had never been late on a payment for anything, and, periodically, there was a large check written—usually between twenty-five and a hundred thousand dollars—to a brokerage account. The lady had been making a lot of money for years, and she knew how to save it.

Stone was surprised, then, when her most recent brokerage statement showed the value of her holdings was only thirty-seven thousand dollars and change. He began back-tracking
through the brokerage statements, which were bundled by year and secured with strong rubber bands. They made good reading. Figuring roughly, Stone estimated that Sasha had saved just under eight hundred thousand dollars during the past five years and that, through shrewd trading, this had grown to just over two million during that time. Then, eight months back, an even two million had been withdrawn, paid by the broker with a cashier’s check made out to Cash.

Having an easily negotiable instrument of that size in her possession seemed at odds with Sasha’s character as revealed in her records, Stone thought; the consequences of losing it would have been catastrophic for her, and he could find no record of the sum having been placed in any other of her accounts. Two million dollars was just gone. Furthermore, at the time she had disappeared, Sasha had been about to close a substantial real estate transaction which, according to her records, she had no ready funds to cover. And there was no record of a mortgage application or commitment letter. Strange.

“Dino, you keep at the interview reports,” Stone said. “I think I’m going to pay Sasha’s lawyer a visit.”

“You find something?”

“No, I’m missing something. Or rather, Sasha is.”

It was five o’clock when Stone presented himself at the midtown law offices of Woodman & Weld, and the receptionist fled her desk, clutching her coat, as soon as she had announced him.

“I’m Frank Woodman,” a tall, athletic man in his fifties said, extending his hand. “Come on back to the conference
room; there’s a meeting still going on in my office.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time,” Stone said, following Woodman down a plushly carpeted hallway.

“Not at all,” Woodman said over his shoulder. “I’m happy to do anything I can to help Sasha.” He led the way into an elegant conference room, which was furnished in English antiques, and sat down at the head of the table.

Stone took a chair. “Mr. Woodman, to get right to the point, two million dollars seems to be missing from Sasha’s brokerage account.”

Woodman nodded. “I know about that,” he said, “but only because Sasha mentioned it in passing. I should tell you that, even as her sole attorney, I know less about Sasha’s affairs than most lawyers in my position would know. She was…well, secretive, I guess I’d have to say.”

“You say you know where the money is?”

“I said I knew
about
it,” Woodman replied. “Sasha told me a few months ago that she had cashed in her chips after having done well in the market for several years. She showed me a cashier’s check made out to Cash for two million.”

“I thought you said she was secretive.”

“She was, but we were having a drink in the Oak Bar of the Plaza one evening, and I guess she’d had a couple, and she showed me the check.”

“Did she say what she was going to do with it?”

“Only that she was Federal Expressing it to a bank in the Cayman Islands the following morning. She said she was making an investment with a friend.”

“She didn’t say who the friend was?”

“No.”

“Have you any idea who it might have been?”

“None.”

“Is there some way I might trace the money?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Cayman Islands banks are a lot like their Swiss counterparts, in that their transactions are held secret. It’s said there’s a lot of drug money down there. Even if I knew the name of the bank, and I do not, they wouldn’t give you the time of day. They won’t even give the
IRS
the time of day.”

“It appears from her records that she had paid the taxes on her profits in the market,” Stone said.

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Woodman replied. “Sasha was punctilious in her financial dealings. But when people put large sums of money into Swiss or Cayman banks, they’re often trying to avoid paying taxes on the income from that investment. That she may very well have been trying to do, although I would have advised her against it, if she had asked me.”

“Do you know how Sasha had planned to pay for her new apartment?”

“What new apartment?” Woodman asked, surprised.

“You didn’t know that she was moving?”

“She never mentioned it to me,” Woodman said. “Oh, a couple of years back she called me about the availability of mortgages on co-ops in the city, and I told her I would be happy to help her with an application, but, as far as I know, she never applied for a mortgage. Certainly, she had the income to raise one, if she had wished.”

“Was Sasha the kind of client who might have been lured into a fast-buck investment by a friend?” Stone asked.

Woodman thought about that. “Yes,” he said. “Sasha loved money, loved making it. But she would only have taken that sort of plunge if she had checked it out carefully, and if she trusted the friend implicitly.” Woodman’s eyebrows went up.
“I find myself speaking of her in the past tense,” he said. “Of course, I did read the papers this morning.”

“Is that why you let Barron Harkness know that Sasha had appointed him executor of her estate?”

“I did that before I saw today’s papers. When I heard about her fall and when I was unable to locate her, I wrote to Harkness simply as a precautionary step. It seemed the prudent thing to do.”

Stone stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Woodman,” he said. “If you think of anything else that might help me, I’d appreciate a call, day or night.” He gave Woodman a card.

“Of course,” the lawyer said. “Do you think you can find your way back to reception? I’d like to rejoin my meeting.”

“Sure, thanks,” Stone replied. The two men shook hands, and Stone turned back toward the front of the office.

Halfway there, someone called his name. Stone stopped and backtracked a few steps to an open office door. A grinning man was rising from a desk.

Stone struggled for a name. “Bill Eggers?” he managed finally.

Eggers stuck out a hand. “Haven’t seen you since graduation day,” he said, “although I’ve seen your picture in the paper from time to time.”

“So what have you been doing with yourself for all these years?” Stone asked. He remembered Eggers as a companionable fellow; they’d had a few beers after class more than once.

Eggers spread his hands. “This,” he said. “I joined a downtown firm after law school, but I’ve been here for the past eight years.”

“What sort of law are you practicing?”

“Oh, I’m the general dogsbody around here,” Eggers said. “I do whatever needs doing—some personal injury, a little domestic work, the odd criminal case, when one of the firm’s clients crosses the line.”

“Sounds interesting.” Stone looked around the plush office. Looked as though Eggers had done well at it too.

“More interesting than you would believe.” Eggers laughed. “You seeing Woodman about Sasha?”

“Yeah.”

“I wondered when you’d get around to him.”

“It took me a few days; I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Funny you turning up here; I’ve been thinking about you lately.”

“Kind thoughts, I hope.”

“The kindest, I assure you.” Eggers looked at his watch. “I’ve got a client coming in any second, but I’d like to buy you a drink sometime, chew over some things.”

“Sure,” Stone said, fishing out a card. “Give me a week or two, though. The Sasha thing is taking a lot of time.”