“That’s brilliant, Stone!”
“Now I’ve got a list of numbers that Sam called during the last week. There are a couple of dozen.”
“Give them to me, and I’ll check them out.”
“I’ve already e-mailed them to you. Just find out who the numbers belong to. Don’t start calling them, you might frighten somebody, and we don’t want that.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Dino said, then hung up.
? ? ?
STONE WENT THROUGH the numbers carefully. Many of them had names attached that meant nothing to him; then he saw one he had missed. The name was Nellie Fineman. “That’s gotta be Sol Fineman’s wife,” he said aloud to himself.
Joan buzzed him. “Dino’s on one.”
“That was fast,” Stone said.
“No, actually it was a little slow. We’re still running the numbers, but I forgot to tell you that the morgue called this morning and reported a floater in the East River yesterday, up at Hell Gate.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Yep, one Ralph Weede, a doorman at 740 and the chief suspect in the murder of Manolo Fernandez.”
“Well, that will save everybody a lot of trouble,” Stone said.
“Who do you like for Ralph’s little swim?”
“Oh, Sam Spain, of course. The last time anybody reported seeing Ralph it was me, when I saw him going into Sam’s bar. In fact, come to think of it, I know how he ended up in the East River.”
“What do you mean, how?” Dino asked. “He took a long walk off a short pier.”
“Yeah? How was he feeling at the time?”
“Like a guy with two slugs in his head, in the best tradition.”
“Well, he got into the river from Sam Spain’s office.”
“That’s a longer pier than I imagined.”
“Sol Fineman told me there’s a river running under Sam’s bar that leads to the East River. He suggested that I might be exploring it soon.”
“Ah, that all fits together, doesn’t it?”
“I almost forgot, in going over the phone calls that Sam made or received, I found one listed under the name of Nellie Fineman.”
“Sol has a wife?”
“In fact, he mentioned her, said she ran up his cosh on her sewing machine. Accessory after the fact in Sam’s death maybe?”
“You mean, she was your accomplice?”
“Stop it!”
“Something I forgot to tell you—an assistant DA named Aaron Milestone would like to speak to you, preferably in his office. I’ll give you his number so you can make an appointment.”
“Okay, I’ve got his number, but I have no intention of calling him.”
“Want a tip?” Dino asked.
“Sure.”
“Call him.”
“I don’t have to.”
“No, you don’t, but it would be in your interest to talk to him before he sends somebody to look for you. It would look better.”
“Look better to whom?”
“His boss.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll call him. I assume you’ve already got an APB out for Sol Fineman?”
“Since yesterday.”
“Oh, good. I think Sol might be a very good chief suspect in the death of Ralph Weede, since you no longer have Sam Spain to kick around, and it’s the sort of work he did for Sam. And you can always name Nellie as an accessory in the attempted murder of me, just to turn up the heat. Also, it would be a lot of fun to get a look at Nellie’s cell phone.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Dino said, and hung up.
41
IT HAD BEEN maybe ten minutes since Dino hung up, when Joan buzzed. “A Mr. Milestone on one.”
Stone picked it up. “Stone Barrington.”
“Mr. Barrington,” a deep voice said, “this is Assistant District Attorney Aaron Milestone speaking.”
“Good day, Mr. Milestone. How can I help you?”
“I’d like you to come downtown for a little chat, in the matter of the death of a Mr. Samuel Spain.”
“I’d be happy to chat with you, Mr. Milestone, but I’m afraid I’m in the middle of a busy day, playing catch-up, having spent some time in the hospital with a concussion, as a result of a conversation with Mr. Spain and a colleague of his.”
“How about first thing tomorrow morning?”
“Can’t do that, either,” Stone replied. “Tell you what, why don’t you come up to my office and let’s chat here? I’ll make time for you.”
Milestone took a deep breath and let it out. “Oh, all right,” he said. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“That’s good for me, and, Mr. Milestone?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t bring a stenographer or any colleagues—that might put a damper on my freedom of speech.”
Milestone hung up.
? ? ?
THE ASSISTANT DA made it in forty-five minutes, and Stone moved to the sofa and waved him to a chair. He was tall, thin, and in his twenties. “We sell good coffee around here,” Stone said.
“Thank you, black, please.”
Joan, who was lingering in the doorway, sprang into action.
Milestone clearly liked his coffee. He produced a steno pad and a silver pen. “Ready?”
“One moment,” Stone said. “This will be strictly informal and off the record. You will observe that I’m not represented by legal counsel.”
“You’re an attorney,” Milestone pointed out.
“Not when I’m being interrogated about an alleged murder.”
Milestone raised his pen. “All right. When did you first meet Samuel Spain?”
Stone waggled a finger. “No, no, that’s a record.” He pointed at the steno pad.
Milestone capped his pen and tossed the pad onto the coffee table. “All right. I have an excellent memory.”
“I thought so,” Stone said. “Now, back when I was on the NYPD I caught sight of Mr. Spain a few times, but we were not formally introduced until a couple days ago.”
“And by whom were you introduced?”
“The New York City commissioner of police.”
“How’s that?”
“We had entered Mr. Spain’s bar, along with Lieutenant Arturo Masi, who leads the NYPD art squad, to discuss with him the disappearance of a painting, and Spain was known to deal in that sort of thing—or anything else, really, if there was a buck to be turned.”
“You’re saying Spain was a fence?”
“Well known in the industry. He also had a reputation with a knife.”
“You make him sound like an unsavory character.”
“Oh, all right, he was a pillar of the community—the community of thieves, junkies, and murderers. Just this morning, someone came across a corpse in the East River that Sam Spain almost certainly placed there.”
“Whose corpse?”
“Fellow named Ralph Weede, a doorman at a ritzy Park Avenue apartment house. Not to worry, his death solved the murder by Mr. Weede of one Manolo Fernandez, a young junkie who had recently stolen the painting from his mother, who stole it from her employer. Manolo sold it to Sam Spain, who probably laid it off on an unscrupulous art dealer.”
“You’re making me dizzy.”
“You’ve gotten lucky twice—if Spain had lived, you would have had to charge him with kidnapping and attempted murder.”
“Whose kidnapping and murder?”
“That of yours truly,” Stone said, pointing his thumb at himself, “and if I hadn’t managed to pick up the cosh his man hit me with and hit Spain with it, Ralph Weede and I would have been holding hands in the East River when they found him.”
“This is crazy,” Milestone said.
“How long have you been on the job, Aaron?”
“Three weeks.”
“Let me give you a tip. Nine times out of ten, the cops will do your work for you, and do it well. You should listen to them before you start investigating. The one out of ten will be the really interesting case, where the cops may have gotten it wrong, and you can knock yourself out on that one.”
“One thing—was the picture an important one?”
“It’s very likely a fake van Gogh, but its owner would like to have it back anyway.”
“So all this is about a fake picture?”
“More than likely.”
Milestone stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Barrington. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
Stone stood and shook his hand. “It’s Stone. Call me if you need advice.”
Milestone nodded and took his leave.
Stone called Dino.
“Yeah?”
“I have disposed of Mr. Milestone, the ADA.”
“You want me to pick up the body?”
“The body is on its way back to its office.”