“Pretend we’re in court. Make your case.”
“The overall shape of the letters in the will is too wide, by a hair; he picked up on the slanted T crosses and the strange R’s, but he would have written this sort of document too carefully to miss that. He would have stuck strictly to the Palmer Method. Eddie Jr.’s letters show excessive care to impress his father. Eddie Sr.’s will is too carefully written. Eddie Sr. would have dashed it off, as he did the letters in his correspondence file.”
“If the top five handwriting experts in New York were given the will, how many would say it’s a fake?”
“Three,” she said. “Four, if I were one of them. The other two are too dense to see the subtleties.” She examined her fingernails. “I’m also more persuasive. A smart judge would accept my opinion more readily.”
“Write me the best opinion you can produce,” Stone said. “Joan will give you a computer and a printer. Address it ‘To whom it may concern.’ ”
When Clarissa was done, Stone handed it to Joan. “Ask Fred to go over to Sixty-Sixth and Sixty-Seventh streets and find Eddie’s mailbox. Have him put Clarissa’s report inside. I want Eddie to see it.”
“Why?” Joan asked.
“Because if we can convince him we’re on to his forgery, it will no longer be in his interests to kill you.”
“Why don’t I do that instead of Fred?”
“Because he might see you before he sees the report and be moved to act immediately.”
“Got it,” she said. She stuffed the letter into an envelope, addressed it, and went to deliver it to Fred.
Eddie Jr. sat in his car and phoned Bryce Newcomb.
“Yeah?”
“They’re gone. Meet me at my place in five.”
“Right.”
They both hung up and arrived at the building’s doorstep simultaneously.
“Let’s go make a plan,” Eddie said, opening the inside door.
“You’ve got mail,” Bryce said, taking the letter from the mailbox and handing it to him. “Hand delivered, too. No stamp.”
Eddie took the envelope and led the way to his apartment. Inside, he tossed his car keys and the envelope on the entrance hall table, then hung up his coat.
Eddie Jr. poured Bryce a drink, and they both sat down. “Now,” Eddie said, “you’re going to have to do the shooting.”
“Why me?” Bryce asked.
“Because everybody in that house knows my face or has seen a photograph of it. Nobody there knows you. While you’re doing it, I’ll be establishing a stainless-steel alibi.”
“And what will that be?” Bryce asked.
“I’ll get into a fight at P. J. Clarke’s.”
Bryce grinned. “What a great idea! You’ve already got a reputation there. Now give me some motivation.”
“Fifty grand. And I’ll do the planning, map it out for you. I’m good at that.”
“That’s right, you are,” Bryce said. “A hundred grand.”
“Seventy-five, but I’ll give you a sweetener. I’ll kill Sandy Beech for you.”
“Done,” Bryce said, offering his hand. “When and where?”
Eddie Jr. shook it. “That remains to be seen.”
“Aren’t you going to open the mysterious letter?”
Eddie picked up a legal pad and began to make notes. “Later. First, I have to plan two murders.”
Sixty-One
Eddie had drawn an excellent floor plan of his father’s house, and he taught it to Bryce, room by room, switch by switch. He gave Bryce the little remote control for the entire house and showed him how to operate its various features. “Pay attention,” Eddie said. “There’s going to be a quiz.” Bryce paid attention and passed the quiz handily.
“Now,” Eddie said. “Show me how Sandy’s place looks.”
“Hers is simple,” Bryce said. “First of all, it’s right behind Barrington’s.”
“No kidding?” Eddie asked.
“Small world, huh? New place, previous tenant died. Ground floor, so it’s easy for you to get to. A turn in the hallway makes for good cover.” He drew a picture for Eddie.
“Is she a wary person?”
“Not in the least. She’ll answer the door on the first ring, so be ready.”
“Is there an intercom?” Eddie asked.
“Yes, but it’s connected to the street doorbell. Ring that, and she’ll respond. Tell her you’re delivering a gift from Cartier, and you need a signature, for security purposes. That will bring her to her door at a trot. When she answers, shoot her in the head, no delay. Then close the door and walk out. Go down to Third Avenue and take a cab. Get out at the Ralph Lauren store, go in the side door and out the front door. Take another cab to P. J. Clarke’s and do your thing at the bar. Take your time. Have you got a piece?”
“I’ll use this,” Eddie said, showing him the .38 snub-nosed, wrapped in a dish towel.
“Your prints on it?” Bryce asked.
“It’s been wiped clean, the bullets, too. I’ve got some latex gloves. Here’s a pair for you.” He reached into another pocket and produced a .22 automatic. “This shooter is for you, Bryce.”
“Kind of light, isn’t it?”
“It’s perfect for close work. Shoot Joan twice in the head. It’s what the pros use. Remember to police your brass.”
“What?”
“Pick up your spent shell casings and take them with you. Toss the gun and the brass into a dumpster somewhere — before you take off your gloves.”
“Got it.”
“Okay, listen up now. Let me tell you how it goes with Joan.” Eddie took him, on the map, through the entry into the house, pointing at which buttons to push on the remote control. “She’ll be on the eighth floor, in either the bedroom or the study — the study most likely. It’s where the bar is.”
“She have a boyfriend?”
“No, nobody regular. If she surprises you with a companion, you’ll just have to shoot them both. There are six rounds in the pistol and one up the spout. Turn your cell phone completely off before you go in and don’t turn it on again until you’re clear of the neighborhood. When you are, call me, and we’ll compare notes.”
“Who goes first?” Bryce asked.
“I do. I need to get out and to P.J.’s immediately. You wait until eight o’clock to go into the house,” Eddie said. “I’ll already be at P.J.’s by then, and Sandy will be dead before I get there.”
Sixty-Two
Sandy got out of a cab on the corner near her apartment and hoofed the last half block, clutching two large bags of groceries to her breast. Down the block she saw a man loitering across the street from her building. He looked familiar in a not-so-good way, but she couldn’t remember his name.
She set her groceries on a wrought-iron fence top and rested for a moment, waiting for developments. The man saw her waiting but didn’t come any closer. It was Eddie what’s-his-name. He was a usual at Clarke’s and a friend of Bryce’s. She didn’t like him. What was he doing by her building? She hefted her groceries again and started walking toward her building.
Bryce Newcomb found the service entrance, walked to the door, took out the remote control, and pressed the button that turned off the alarm system. He let himself in and, treading softly in his sneakers, made his way to the service elevator, encountering no one.
He got off at the eighth floor, stopped, and listened. He heard someone moving in the study, but no conversation. Joan was alone. Perfect. He pulled on his latex gloves and removed the .22 automatic from his pocket, then examined the chamber. Fully loaded. He moved slowly through the kitchen and laundry, then stopped at the door to the living room. He could see across a sofa toward the study, where Joan was opening and closing drawers and dumping some things into a wastebasket. Bryce cocked the pistol and took a couple of steps into the living room. He wasn’t masked, but that didn’t make any difference, since the only person who could identify him would be dead in seconds. He held the pistol in readiness and moved slowly past the sofa toward the desk where Joan sat.