“You did a fine job for us, and I’m sorry the result had to cause you pain.”

“Thank you, Frank.”

“Enough said about that. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you have the effects of Sasha Nijinsky that the NYPD took.”

“They sent them back to me a couple of weeks ago. After going through them myself, I sent them to Sasha’s father.”

“I see.”

“Why? Did you want to see them again?”

“Yes, I wanted to get a look at her handwriting again.”

“Why?”

Stone handed Woodman a copy of the letter.

Woodman read it through twice, and his expression revealed nothing. “What do you make of this?” he asked at last.

“I’m not entirely sure what to make of it. A friend of mine at the 19th Precinct is getting it looked at by the lab, but I wanted to compare the handwriting to something of Sasha’s.”

“That’s no problem,” Woodman said, rising and going to a file cabinet. “Sasha didn’t type. She told me once that she refused to learn, so that she wouldn’t get shunted aside into ‘woman’s’ work.” He flipped through a folder, extracted a letter, and handed it to Stone. “She did all her correspondence by hand.”

Stone laid the two letters side by side on the desk, and both men bent over them. Woodman produced a magnifying glass, and they examined them closely.

“They’re a lot alike, I’d say, but the one sent to you looks a little cramped,” Woodman said.

“The lines are not as straight, either,” Stone added.

“This is over my head,” Woodman said, picking up the phone. “Sophie, please find the name of that handwriting man we used on the mineral rights case last year, then see if you can get him over here right away.” He hung up. “When did you get this, Stone? It’s not dated.”

“Friday. It was posted the day before at Penn Station.”

“It must be some kind of crank who read your name in the papers as being associated with the case.”

“That seems more than just possible. Still, there’s the handwriting.”

“I suppose someone who knew Sasha might have had a letter of hers and used that to make a forgery.”

“But why?”

“Maybe someone who isn’t satisfied with the outcome of the case. A lot of people aren’t; I’m one of them. Maybe someone’s just trying to get you interested again.”

“The letter certainly had that effect,” Stone said.

The phone rang, and Woodman picked it up. “Good,” he said, then hung up. “Man’s name is Weaver. His office is only a couple of blocks away; he’s coming over.” Woodman looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Stone, I get the impression that you are at least considering the possibility that Sasha might still be alive. Is that right?”