Worst Fears Realized (34 page)

“You bet I will; can I use what you’ve told me?”

“Go right ahead. See you later.”

“You coming to Bianchi’s for dinner tonight?”

“I’ve been invited,” Dino said.

“See you there.” Stone hung up and returned to the bench.

“What’s up?” Eggers asked.

“You’re not going to believe…” Stone was interrupted as the door to the grand-jury room opened and a bailiff stuck his head out.

“Call Stone Barrington!” he yelled.

Stone stood up. “Right here.”

The man opened the door and ushered Stone inside the grand-jury room.

Stone walked quickly to the stand and sat down. He was faced with the members of the grand jury, ordinary-looking people seated on raised tiers before him. Martin Brougham stood, looking confident, his hands folded before him. The bailiff swore in Stone.

“State your name and address for the record,” Brougham said.

Stone did so. He added, “I would like to state for the record that I have not been subpoenaed but have volunteered to appear before this panel.”

“Yes, yes,” Brougham said irritably. “Mr. Barrington, how do you earn your living?”

“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

J
EFF 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 back to her homeland for burial. A sad task.”

“Yes, it is; I’m very sorry about her death; I’ll get the other bags.” Jeff went into the master bedroom and found two cases on the bed. As he leaned over the bed to pick them up, his foot bumped against something, and he bent down to see what it was. He lifted the skirt of the bedspread and found an automatic pistol in a holster. Oh, well, he supposed some people were paranoid about living in New York City. He picked up the bags and took them to the elevator.

He rode down with Menzies and his nephew, both of whom said nothing on the ride. He thought of asking about the sale of the Mercedes, but it was none of his business, so he didn’t bring it up. When the elevator reached the lobby, he loaded the bags into the car’s trunk, which was so full, he had to rearrange it to close the lid.

Menzies held out his hand. “Thank you for all your help, Jeff,” he said. “I’ll see you…ah, the middle of next week.”

“Have a good trip, Mr. Menzies,” Jeff replied. There were folded bills in Menzies’s hand, and when Jeff had a chance to look he was surprised to find two hundred-dollar bills. He watched as the Mercedes drove down Fifth Avenue, then turned east.

Jeff walked back into the building, thinking about what had just occurred. It didn’t add up: Hausman with hair; the resale of the Mercedes; the heavy tip. He
had the very strong feeling that he wouldn’t be seeing Howard Menzies again.

For the tenth time, he took the newspaper clipping from his pocket and read it. Seven murders, it said. He put the clipping back into his pocket and made a decision. “Ralph,” he said to the desk man, “will you watch the door for a minute? I’ve got to use the phone in the package room.”

Jeff had very mixed feelings about this, but he had to do it.

61

S
TONE WAS RECEIVED AT THE BIANCHI
home by Pietro, the butler, and taken straight through the house to a back terrace overlooking extensive gardens. Eduardo Bianchi was seated in a cushioned wrought-iron chair, and he stood to receive his guest.

“Good evening, Stone,” he said warmly, taking Stone’s hand and guiding him to a companion chair. “While the women are talking, I thought we’d have an aperitif out here. It’s such a lovely evening.”

“What would you like, Mr. Barrington?” Pietro asked.

“May I have a Strega, please?”

Pietro beamed his approval and went for the drink.

“It really is a lovely evening,” Stone said. The setting sun and the long shadows across the garden created a quilt of light and shadow. “Your garden is very beautiful.”

“Thank you, Stone,” Bianchi said. “I think it gives me more pleasure than any of my possessions. I am getting to be an old man, and it would comfort me to know that this house and its gardens would fall into appreciative hands when I am gone.”

“I’m sure it will,” Stone replied. “You seem to be in a reflective mood.”

“I find I am reflective more and more often,” Bianchi said. “It is the prerogative of old men, I suppose.”

“You seem anything but old, sir.”

Bianchi managed a small smile. “When you are my age you will find that old age is more than simply one’s physical condition; it is a state of mind. Try as I might, I can no longer think like a young man, or even a middle-aged one. Lucidity in one’s later years is a great gift from God; it gives one the opportunity for endless review: Have I done well in my life? Have I made others happy? Have my sins been forgiven?”

Stone said nothing.

“I had a long talk with Bill Eggers yesterday,” he said, “mostly about you.”

“Bill told me you had lunch,” Stone said.

“I understand that your difficulties with the District Attorney’s Office have been favorably resolved.”

“Yes, that seems to be true. I haven’t spoken to Dino since this morning; he’s questioning Tom Deacon and a police officer about Susan Bean’s murder, and I hope it’s going well.”

“Oh, I think it will go well,” Bianchi said, as if he had certain knowledge of it. “And I think you will have no further problems with this Brougham person.”

“I owe you a great debt,” Stone said.

Bianchi waved a hand. “I do not wish to have my friends indebted to me; if I am able to do a friend a service, then that is its own reward. It should be enough for any man. Besides,” he said, “I am not the sort of person to whom you should owe a debt. You must maintain your independence from all men, especially me.”

Stone didn’t know what to make of this.

“Bill Eggers told me many things about you,” Bianchi said, “and from those things I was able to answer many questions for myself, to create a more complete picture of you as a man. I must say that what I heard fully agreed with my instinctive judgment of you.”

Stone didn’t speak.

“It pleases me to learn that you are an honest man, a loyal friend, and that you have a finely developed sense of justice. I believe that I can use a man like you in many of my business dealings.”

“Eduardo,” Stone said, “I’m grateful for your confidence, but I believe I would rather be your friend than your employee.”

Bianchi smiled broadly, the first time Stone had seen him do so. “Then you continue to justify my confidence,” he said. “You must know how important Dolce is to me.”

“I can understand that,” Stone said, wondering why the conversation was turning to Dolce.

“Her happiness, her
stability
are as important to me as anything else in my life. Other things—my grandson, for instance—are equally important, but
Dolce holds a special place in my heart. She is so very like me; she understands so many things-the moral ambiguities of a rich life, the necessity of justice to success, the proper use of resources. I want very much for her to be a complete woman. Of course, for some time that has been impossible. Now…”

Stone’s cell phone rang. Embarrassed, he dug into his pocket for the instrument. “Eduardo, I apologize, but only a couple of people have this number, and I should answer it.”