Free New York Dead by Stuart Woods Page B

enough—so I finished at the University of Georgia, in journalism. Summer between my junior and senior years, I got on the interns’ program at the network, and, when I graduated, they offered me a job as a production assistant. I’m thirty-two years old, and I’m still a production assistant.”
    “But at a higher level, surely? After all, you’re assisting Barron Harkness.”
    She laughed. “It’s a nice place to work, if your father can afford to send you there. The perks aren’t bad.” She looked at him sideways. “You skipped something.”
    “What?”
    “Married?”
    “Nope.”
    “Never? Why not?”
    “Just lucky, I guess.”
    “Cynic.”
    “Probably.”
    “No girl?”
    “Not at the moment. I was seeing somebody for a couple of years. When I was in the hospital, she accepted a transfer to LA.”
    “Sweet.”
    Stone shrugged. “I didn’t come through with the commitment she wanted; she took a hike.” He imitated her sidelong glance. “What about you?”
    She sighed. “The usual assortment of yuppies during my twenties. I’m just out of a relationship with a married man.”
    “Those don’t work, I’m told.”
    “This one sure didn’t. He kept me on the hook for fouryears, and then he just couldn’t bring himself to leave his wife.”
    “That’s the drill. Still hurting?”
    “Now and then, if I don’t watch myself. I think I’m relieved, more than anything else.”
    “Was it Harkness?”
    “No; he wasn’t in the TV business. Advertising.”
    “For what it’s worth, I think the guy’s nuts.”
    She smiled, a wide mouth full of straight, white teeth. She started to speak, but didn’t. Instead, she concentrated on her pasta.
    Stone watched her, and he felt the possibilities in his gut.
     
    When they left Elaine’s, the rain had stopped, and the air was cool. The car still waited for them.
    “Can I drop you?” she asked. “It’s one of the perks of the job; I think I probably spend more of the network’s money on cars than they pay me.”
    “Sure, thanks. It’s early; I’ll give you a nightcap at my house.”
    “Sold.”
    They got into the car, and Stone gave the driver his address.
    She looked at him, eyebrows arched. “That’s a pretty expensive neighborhood. You on the take?”
    Stone laughed. “Nope. I’ll explain later.”
    They drove straight down Second Avenue, and at Sixty-ninth Street they ran into a wall of flashing lights. A uniformed cop was waving traffic through a single open lane.
    “Pull over here,” Stone said to the driver. He opened the car door and turned to Cary. “Give me a couple of minutes, will you?” He flashed his badge at a uniform and crossed the yellow tape. A Checker cab was stopped at the intersection, and a small group had gathered around the driver’s open door. Stone saw Headly, from the detective squad.

    Headly nodded. “Cabdriver caught one in the head,” he said to Stone. “Looks like he was stopped for the light, somebody pulled up next to him, and just popped him one.”
    Stone glanced into the cab at the dead driver, sprawled across the front seat. There was a lot of blood. “You got it covered?” he said to Headly.
    “Yeah,” the detective replied.
    Suddenly the cab was bathed in bright light. Stone turned, shielding his eyes.
    “Howdy, Stone,” Scoop Berman said, still operating his camera. “You on this one?”
    “It’s Headly’s,” Stone said. “You can give him the hard time.” He stepped out of Scoop’s lights and bumped into Cary Hilliard, who was staring at the dead driver. He took her elbow. “You don’t want to see that,” he said, turning her toward their car. “How’d you get past the tape?”
    “Press card,” she said, showing a blue, plastic shield on a string around her neck. She took it off and stuffed it into her handbag.
    In the car they were both quiet for a block or two.
    “You see a lot of that stuff?” she asked finally.
    “Enough. More than I’d like to see. Did it upset