Free New York Dead by Stuart Woods

opened the front door of the house.
    “You’ve got the duplex?” Cary asked, surprised.
    “I’ve got the house,” Stone replied. He flipped on the hall light.
    “You
are
on the take,” she said, laughing. “No honest cop could ever afford a house in Turtle Bay.”
    “Would you believe I inherited it?”
    “No, I wouldn’t.”
    “I did. My Great-Aunt Elizabeth, my grandfather’s sister, married well. She always had a soft spot for my father, and she willed it to him. She outlived him, though, only died early this year at the age of ninety-eight, and so her estate came to me.” Stone led her into the library.
    “It’s a mess,” she said, looking around at the empty shelves, stripped of their varnish, the books stacked on the floor, the rug rolled up, the furniture stacked in a corner, everything under sheets of plastic.
    “It is now,” Stone said, “but I’m working on it. My father designed and built this room; it was his first important commission, right after World War II. Everything is solid walnut. You could still buy it in those days; now all you can get is veneer, and that’s out of sight.” “It’s going to be magnificent,” she said.
    He led her through the other rooms, pointing out a couple of pieces that his father had built. “Most of the upholstered furniture is out being recovered. My plan is to do the place up right, then sell it and retire on the proceeds, one of these days.” “Why not just sell it now?” she asked.
    “I had a real estate lady look at it. She says I can triple the price if I put it in good shape — new heating, plumbing, kitchen — the works.”
    “How can you afford to do that?”
    “There was a little money in Aunt Elizabeth’s estate. I’m putting it all into the house and doing most of the work myself, with a couple of helpers and the occasional plumber and electrician.” “Where are your mother’s pictures?”
    “In my bedroom.”
    “May I see them?”
    Stone took her up in the old elevator. “I keep meaning to get this thing looked at,” he said over the creaking of the machinery, “but I’m afraid they’ll tell me it needs replacing.”
    She stood in the bedroom and looked around. “This is going to be wonderful,” she said. “I hope to God you’ve got decent taste.”
    “I’m not all that sure that I do,” he lied. “I could use some advice.”
    “You may get more of that than you want; doing interiors is almost my favorite thing.” She walked across the room and stood before the three Matilda Stones. There were two views of West Ninth and West Tenth streets, and an elevated view of Washington Square. “These are superb,” she said. “You could get half a million for the three, I’ll bet, but don’t you dare.” “Don’t worry. They’re a permanent fixture.”
    “They belong in a house like, this,” she said, “and so do you. Can’t you think of some way to hang on to it? Go on the take, or something?”
    “I have this fantasy,” he said. “I’m living in this house; it’s in perfect condition; there are servants in the servants’ quarters, a cook in the kitchen, and money in the bank. I don’t dare let myself dwell on it; it’s never going to happen, I know that.” He turned from the pictures and looked at her. “You said interior decorating was almost your favorite thing. What’s your favorite?” She stepped out of her heels and turned to face him. “I’m five-eleven in my stocking feet; does that turn you off?”
    Stone looked her up and down — the luxuriant, dark hair; the chiseled face; the full breasts under the black cashmere; the long legs finishing in slender feet. He hooked an arm around her narrow waist and pulled her to him.
    She smiled and rubbed her belly against his. “Apparently not,” she said, then kissed him.
    Stone slid down a long, velvet tunnel of desire, made no attempt to slow his fall. Their clothes vanished, and they found the bed. Stone made to move on top of her, then cried