The Seventh Commandment (22 page)

Dora sighed. "All right," she said, "I'll name the names. You just shake your head no or nod your head yes. Okay?"

Nod.

"Was it Clayton Starrett?"

Shake.

"Eleanor Starrett?"

Shake.

"Felicia Starrett?"

Shake.

"Helene Pierce?"

Shake.

"Turner Pierce?"

Shake.

"Father Brian Callaway?"

Nod.

Charles came back into the kitchen, carrying a scrap of paper. He looked at his wife accusingly. "You been shooting off your mouth again?" he demanded.

"She hasn't said a word," Dora told him. "I've been doing all the talking, about what a great chef my husband is."

"She talks too much," he grumbled, and handed over the slip of paper. "That's Mrs. Eleanor's phone number and address. West Side," he added snifiily.

"Thank you, Charles," Dora said. "Now would you get my hat and coat, please; I'm leaving. Nice to see you again, Clara."

"Likewise," Clara said.

Dora hurried back to her hotel, anxious to get to her notebook and record all the details of that surprising conversation with Olivia. Plus what she had learned from Clara's dumb show.

She filled two pages with notes that included all her recollections of what Mrs. Starrett had said and implied about the Clayton-Eleanor-Helene triangle and the Felicia-Turner relationship. If this entire case was a soap opera, Dora reflected grimly, it had a deadly plot. Too many corpses for laughing.

She went down to the dining room for dinner and ordered a tuna salad, trying to recall if this was her fourth or fifth diet since being assigned to the Starrett claim. Brooding on her futile attempts to lose poundage, she remembered what John Wenden had said about her increasing girth: "More of you to love." What a nice man!

She returned to her suite and called him. He wasn't in but she left a message, hoping he might get back to her before midnight. He didn't, so she called Mario. He wasn't home. There was nothing left to do but brush her teeth and go to bed in a grumpy mood, wondering what the hell her men were doing and imagining direful possibilities.

It was easy to fake it, with Clayton or any other man, and Helene Pierce had learned to deliver a great performance. She considered herself a "method" actress and her motivation was that growing hoard of unset diamonds.

The dialogue came easily:

"Oh, Clay, you're too much… you drive me wild… I can't get enough of you… Where did you learn these things?"

She left him hyperventilating on the rumpled sheets and went into the kitchen to pour fresh drinks from the bottle of Perrier-Jouet he had brought. The guy had good taste, no doubt about it, and there were no moths in his wallet. Helene wanted to play this one very, very carefully and, for once in her life, sacrifice today's pleasure for tomorrow's treasure.

He was sitting up when she returned to the bedroom with the champagne. He was lighting a cigar, but she was even willing to endure that.

"Here you are, hon," she said, handing him the glass.

She lay beside him, leaning to kiss his hairy shoulder. "You are something," she said. "One of these days you'll have to call 911 and have me taken to Intensive Care."

He laughed delightedly, sipped his champagne, puffed his cigar, and owned the world. "I can never get enough of you," he told her. "It's like I've been born again. Oh God, the time I wasted on that bag of bones."

"Eleanor?" she said casually. "What's happening there?"

"Like I told you, she's moved out. My attorney, Arthur Rushkin, doesn't handle divorces but he's put me in touch with a good man, a real pirate who's willing to go to the mat for the last nickel. That's the way things stand now: My guy is talking to her guy. Listen, sweetheart, this is going to take time. Are you willing to wait?"

"After what we just did," she said, looking at him with swimming eyes, "I'll wait forever."

"That's my girl," he said, patting her knee. "Everything will come up roses, you'll see."

He started talking about the way they'd live once they were married. A duplex on the East Side. Cars for each; maybe a Corniche and a Porsche. Live-in servants.

"Younger and more attractive than Charles and Clara," he said.

They'd probably dine out most evenings. Then the theatre, ballet, opera, a few carefully selected charity benefits. A cruise in the winter, of course, and occasional shopping trips to Paris, London, Milan, via the Concorde. They might consider buying a second home, or even a third. Vermont and St. Croix would be nice. World-class interior decorators, naturally. Architectural Digest stuff.

As he spun this vision of their future together, Helene listened intently, realizing that everything he described was possible; he wasn't just blowing smoke. Turner had told her how much Clay was drawing from Starrett Fine Jewelry as salary, annual bonus, dividends, and his share of that deal with Ramon Schnabl.

And Clayton had a million coming in when that claim on his father's insurance was approved. And when his mother shuffled off, he'd be a multi multi. So all his plans for the good life were doable, and she'd be a fool, she decided, to reject it for a more limited tomorrow with Turner.

"How does it sound to you?" Clayton asked, grinning like a little kid who's just inherited a candy store.

"It sounds like paradise," Helene said.

"It will be," he assured her. "You know that old chestnut: 'Stick with me, kid, and you'll be wearing diamonds.' In this case it's true. Which reminds me, I have another chunk of ice for your collection."

"You can give it to me later," she said, taking the cigar from his fingers and putting it aside. "Let's have an encore first. You just lay back and let me do all the work."

When he left her apartment, finally, she had a lovely four-carat trilliant, a D-rated stone that was totally flawless. But before he handed it over, he subjected her to a ten-minute lecture on the four Cs of judging diamonds: color, clarity, cut, and carat weight.

After he was gone, she sprayed the entire apartment with deodorant, trying to get rid of the rancid stink of his cigar. Then she sat down with her fund of diamonds, just playing with them while she pondered her smartest course of action.

Turner was the problem, of course. She had a commitment there, and since the Sid Loftus thing, Turner had an edge that could prove troublesome. But she thought she knew how that could be finessed. She worked out a rough game plan, and as her first move, she phoned Felicia Starrett.

He insisted on taking her to a steak joint on West 46th Street.

"It's not a fancy place," he said. "Mostly cops and actors go there. But the food is good, and the prices are right. We'll have a rare sirloin with garlic butter, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, a salad with blue cheese dressing, and maybe some Bass ale to wash it all down. How does that sound?"

"Oh God," Dora moaned, "there goes my diet."

"Start another one tomorrow," Wenden advised.

It was a smoky tunnel, all stained wood, tarnished brass lamps, and mottled mirrors behind the long bar. The walls were plastered with photos of dead boxers and racehorses, and posters of Broadway shows that had closed decades ago. Even the aproned waiters looked left over from a lost age.

"What have you been up to?" John asked, buttering a heel of pumpernickel.

"Nothing much," Dora said. "I went to see Mrs. Olivia Starrett to tell her how sorry I was about Callaway's death."

"How's she taking it?"

"She was sitting up in bed and looked a little puffy around the gills, but she's coping. She's a tough old lady."

She told the detective some of what she had learned. Some, but not all. Clayton and Eleanor were getting a divorce, and he wanted to marry Helene Pierce. And Felicia Starrett was playing footsie with Turner Pierce.

"Interesting," John said, "but I don't know what it all means-if anything. Do you?"

"Not really. Sounds to me like a game of Musical Chairs."

"Yeah," he said. "You want to hear about the Sid Loftus homicide now or will it spoil your dinner?"

"Nothing's going to spoil my dinner," she said. "I'm famished. If I never see another tuna salad as long as I live, it'll be too soon."

They finished their martinis hastily when the waiter brought big wooden bowls of salad and poured their ales.

"The knife that did him in wasn't like the ones that iced Starrett and Guthrie," Wenden said, going to work on his salad. "It was maybe a three- or three-and-a-half-inch blade. We figure it was a folding pocket knife, a jackknife. There must be jillions of them in the city. The big blade on this one was razor sharp."

"That wasn't in the papers," Dora said.

"We don't tell the media everything. Another thing we didn't release was that the crime scene guys and the lab think the perp may have been a woman."

Dora put down her fork and stared at him. "A woman? You're sure?"

"Pretty sure. They vacuumed up a few long hairs and particles of face powder."

"What color hair?"

"Black, but it may have been colored. We sent the hairs to the FBI lab to see if they can definitely ID the color and also what kind of shampoo or hair spray was used, if any."

They were silent while their steaks and baked potatoes were served. Dora looked down at her plate with amazement. "I'll never be able to eat all that."

"Sure you will," Wenden said. "I'm betting on you."

"So it was a sex scene?"

"Looks like it started out that way, but that's not how it ended. He hadn't had an ejaculation before he died. Too bad. A loser all around."

Dora ate in silence a few moments, pondering. Then: "Any cigarette butts?"

"Nope," Wenden said. "Just butts from those cigarillos he smoked. But when they took up the floorboards, guess what they found."

"Not Judge Crater?"

"About three grams of high-grade coke."

Dora paused with a forkful of steak half-raised. "You mean he was snorting?"

Wenden nodded. "Recently enough so that there were traces in his urine." He laughed. "What a splendid man of the cloth that old schnorrer was! Does Olivia Starrett still believe in him?"

"She seems to, and I didn't tell her any differently. Not even Callaway's real name or how he died. This steak is something else again, and I'm going to finish every bite."

"I thought you would. It's aged meat. They scrape off the green mold before they broil it."

"I hope you're kidding."

"Sure I am." He sat back and sighed. "Great food, and screw cholesterol. Now I'm going to have coffee and a shot of Bushmills Black, just to put the icing on the cake. How about you?"

"I'll have coffee, but Irish Whiskey is a little raunchy for me."

"Tell you what: Have a half-and-half of Bushmills and Irish Mist on the rocks. You'll love it."

"All right, I'm game. I hope you'll let me pay for all this, John. It'll go on the pad."

"Nope," he said. "It's my turn. You've fed me enough."

"Salami sandwiches," she scoffed. "This is food."

They dawdled over their coffee and postprandial drinks.

"John," she said, "you think Loftus picked up some floozy off the street?"

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't see him as a guy who had to rent a hooker. Also, there was loose cash in the back room, credit cards, and some valuable jewelry, including a Starrett wristwatch. A streetwalker would have snaffled the lot. No, I think his playmate was someone he knew. Whoever it was went along with his kinky idea of fun. He couldn't have tied his own wrists to the bedposts."

"And then the party got rough?"

He stared at her. "Doesn't make much sense, does it? But that's the way it looks."

"Did your guys come up with anything at local bars and restaurants?"

"Negative. But as they say in the tabloids, the manhunt is widening."

"Was there any evidence that drugs had been done that night, before he was killed?"

He shook his head again. "The coke we found was in sealed glassine envelopes. There was nothing to indicate coke or anything else had been used. Analysis of his blood showed he had had a few drinks, but he wasn't drunk. How do you like your drink?"

She rolled her eyes. "Heavenly. I'd like to fill a bathtub with this stuff, roll around in it, and then drink my way out."

He laughed."Talk about kinky! More coffee?"

"Maybe a half-cup. You working tonight?"

"No, I'm starting a forty-eighter. And I'm going to sleep all of it away."

"I hope so," Dora said. "You look beat. How do you feel?"

"A hundred percent better than I did two hours ago."

"A rare steak will do that."

"It's really a rare you," he said, looking at her. "You always give me a lift."

He drove her back to the Bedlington and double-parked outside.

"Thanks for a memorable dinner," she said.

"Thanks for sharing the memory."

"You want to come up for a nightcap?" she asked hesitantly.

"I'd love to," he said, "but I'm not going to. I've got a long drive ahead of me, and then I want to hit the sack. Raincheck?"

"Of course."

He turned sideways to face her. He put an arm along the back of her seat, not touching her. But she stiffened and continued to stare straight ahead through the windshield.

"I'll tell you something," he said, his voice sounding rusty. "You may not believe it, but it's the truth. When I first met you-and later, too-I know I pitched you, coming on like a hotrock. I figured a toss in the hay would be nice-why the hell not?" "John," she said softly.

"No, let me finish. But now it's more than that. I think about you all the time. I dream up excuses to call you or see you, and then I don't do it. You know why? Because I'm ashamed of acting like a schmo by bugging you all the time. And also, I'm afraid of rejection. I've been rejected before and shrugged it off because I didn't give a damn. Now I give a damn. I don't know what I feel about you, I don't know how to label it, but I wasn't lying when I said that just being with you gives me a lift. It's like I'm hooked, and I get a rush every time I see you."