New York Dead

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. There were shots of her as a schoolgirl, as a teenager in a beauty contest, performing as an actress at Yale, on camera as a cub reporter — even shots of her at the beach in a bikini, obviously taken without her knowledge.
    Sasha looked damn good in a bikini, Stone thought. He wondered where that very fine body was resting at the moment.
    He read the article slowly, trolling for some new fact about her that might help. When the bourbon was finished, he looked at his watch, left a ten-dollar bill on the bar, in spite of the bartender’s wave-off, and walked down to the street. The worst of rush hour was past, but rain was threatening, and half a dozen people were looking for cabs at the corner. The light turned red, and an off-duty cab stopped. Stone flipped open his wallet and held his badge up to the window. The driver sighed and pushed the button that unlocked the doors.
    “Houston Street and the river,” Stone said, and leaned his head back against the seat. Heavy raindrops began pounding against the windows. If he had been off women for a while, Stone reflected, he had been off booze, too, and the double shot of 101-proof bourbon had made itself felt. He dozed.

Chapter
9

    Stone was jerked awake by the short stop of the cab. He fumbled for some money, gave the cabbie five dollars, and struggled out of the cab. It was pouring rain now, and he got across the street as quickly as he could with his sore knee. A uniformed security guard sat at a desk, and Stone gave him Cary Hilliard’s name. Before the man could dial the number, an elevator door opened, and a young woman walked out.
    “Detective Barrington?” she asked, offering a hand.
    “That’s right,” Stone replied, thinking how long and cool her fingers were. All of her, in fact, was long and cool. She was nearly six feet tall, he reckoned, slim but not thin, dressed in a black cashmere sweater that did not conceal full breasts and a houndstooth skirt that ended below the knee.
    “I’m Cary Hilliard,” she said. “Come on, let’s go up to the studio. Barron will be on the air in a few minutes, and we can watch from the control room.” They turned toward the elevator. “By the way, a Detective Bacchetti called and left a message for you. He said, and I quote, ‘Your man was where he was supposed to be’ and ‘Tell Detective Barrington that I’ve been detained, and I’ll see him tomorrow.’” “Thank you.” Detained, my ass, Stone thought. Detained by some stewardess, maybe.
    She led him upstairs and through a heavy door. A dozen people worked in a room that held at least twenty-five television monitors and thousands of knobs and switches. “We can sit here,” she said, showing him to a comfortable chair on a tier above the control console.
    The whole of the top row of monitors displayed the face, in close-up, of Barron Harkness, “the idol of the airlanes,” someone had called him, stealing Jan Garber’s sobriquet. Tissue paper was tucked into his collar, and a woman’s hand entered the frame, patting his nose with a sponge. “You’ve got a good tan, Barron,” a voice said. “We won’t need much of this.” Harkness nodded, as if saving his voice.
    “One minute,” somebody at the console said.
    “I’ve got a thirty-second statement before the music,” Harkness said into the camera.
    “Barron,” a man at the console said, “it’s too late to fit it in; we’re long as it is.”
    “Cut the kid with the transplant before the last commercial,” Harkness said.
    “Barron…,” the man nearly wailed.
    “Do it.”
    Someone counted down from ten, and stirring music filled the control room. Barron Harkness arranged his face into a serious frown and looked up from his desk into the camera. “Good evening,” he said, and his voice let the viewer know that something important was to follow. “Last night, a good friend of this newscast and of many of us personally was gravely injured in a terrible accident. Sasha Nijinsky was to have joined me at this desk tonight, and she is badly missed. All of us here pray for her recovery. All of us wish her well. All of us look forward to her taking her place beside me. We know you do, too.” Music swelled, and an announcer’s voice heralded the evening news. Stone watched as Harkness skillfully led half a dozen correspondents through the newscast, reading effortlessly from the TelePrompTer and asking an occasional informed question of someone in Tehran, Berlin, or London,