The Seventh Commandment (27 page)

"There's nothing to be sorry about," Helene said. She stood and gathered up hat, gloves, purse, coat. "I just thought you should be aware of the true situation so you might act in your own best interest."

Finally, finally, he smiled: a horrible grimace, a death's-head grin. "We all act in our own best interest, dear. It's the mark of a civilized man. And woman," he added, staring at her.

She cabbed home to her apartment, furious but controlling it because she had already prepared a fallback scenario in case Schnabl couldn't be manipulated. He couldn't, and now she would have to do it herself. She was not daunted by that prospect.

Her spirits rose when the concierge handed her a package that had just been delivered by a messenger from Starrett Fine Jewelry. Helene hugged it to her breast in the elevator; she knew what it contained.

That night she and Clayton were going to attend a charity dinner-dance at the Waldorf, the first time they would be out in public together. Helene had bought a new evening gown: a strapless sheath of lapis-hued sequins. And Clayton had promised to lend her a necklace from Star-rett's estate jewelry department.

"Remember, it's only a loan," he had said, "for one night. It has to be returned to the store-unless some woman at the party will kill for it and can come up with the two million five it costs. In which case you get a commission."

"I understand," Helene said.

She tore open the package with trembling hands, lifted the lid of the velvet case, caught her breath. It was a magnificent strand of ten splendid sapphires, each gem set in a pyramid of diamonds, the pyramids linked with 18K gold. Helene guessed the total sapphire weight at about 75 cts. and the diamonds at 50 cts.

She took off jacket and blouse and clasped the necklace about her throat. It was beautifully designed, and lay flat and balanced on her bare skin. She stood before the mirror, turned this way and that, admired the sparkle of the gems, the glow of the gold. This was the kind of adornment for which she was destined. She had always known it. All she had ever needed was a break-and Clayton Starrett was it.

She spent a long time bathing, doing her hair, applying makeup, stepping carefully into the sequined sheath, donning the satin evening pumps. Then she locked that wondrous necklace about her throat and saw in the mirror the woman she had always wanted to be.

She went downstairs carrying a silk trench coat. The stretch limousine was waiting. Clayton was standing alongside on the sidewalk, smoking a cigar. When he saw her, he tried to speak but something caught in his throat. She recognized the longing in his eyes.

"I feel like Cinderella," she said, laughing, "on her way to the ball."

"But midnight will never come," he proclaimed. "Never!"

At the Waldorf, they sat at a table for ten. All the other men seemed to be suppliers to Starrett Fine Jewelry, and they and their wives treated Clayton with the deference a good customer deserved. They were no less ingratiating toward Helene, admiring the necklace, her gown, even the shade of her fingernail polish. She basked.

It was a black-tie affair and, looking about the big dining room, Helene saw nothing but wealth and finery. Flash of jewels. Scent of expensive perfumes. It seemed to be a room without worries, without grief or regrets. This was, she decided, what life should be.

Later, during the dancing, she was introduced to many people: admiring men and sharp-eyed women. She conducted herself demurely, murmured her thanks for compliments, held Clayton's hand and let him exhibit her proudly: his newest and most valuable possession.

The band played "After the Ball" at 2:00 A.M., but it was almost another hour before they had a final glass of champagne, reclaimed their coats, and waited for their limo to be brought around. They returned to Helene's apartment through a soft snowfall that haloed the streetlamps and added the final touch to a fairy-tale evening.

"I'd love to come up," Clayton said huskily, "but I can't. Heavy schedule tomorrow, and besides, I had too much to drink. I better get some sleep."

"Oh Clayton," she said sorrowfully, immensely relieved and gripping his hand tightly, "the first disappointment of a really fabulous night."

"It was super, wasn't it? Darling, you were the belle of the ball. I've never heard such praise. All the guys wanted your phone number, of course, but I told them you were taken."

"I am-with you," she said and kissed him fiercely.

"Oh God," he said, almost moaning, "what a life we're going to have!"

"Do you want the necklace now?" she asked.

"No, you keep it till tomorrow. I'll send a messenger around in the morning. Helene, I love you. You know that, don't you?"

She kissed him again as an answer, then went up to her apartment alone, the collar of her trench coat raised to hide the necklace. She undressed swiftly, realizing she would have to shampoo before sleeping to rid her hair of the smell of Clayton's cigars.

She stroked the necklace softly as it lay on her suede skin. It was an enchantment, an amulet that would protect her from failure and bring her nothing but good fortune.

So bewitched was she by this extraordinary treasure that never once did she remember that it would be taken away by a messenger in the morning.

Dora Conti was beginning to get a glimmer, just a faint perception of what was going on. She cast Sidney Loftus and the Pierces as the sharks and the Starretts as their wriggling prey. But who was doing what to whom remained murky. Dora even drew a diagram: boxed names linked by straight or squiggly lines. It didn't help.

Then Detective John Wenden called.

"Hey, Red," he said with no preliminary sweet talk, "there's a guy I want you to meet: Terence Ortiz, a detective sergeant. We call him Terrible Terry."

"All right," Dora said, "I'll play straight man: Why do you call him Terrible Terry?"

"He's in Narcotics," Wenden said, "and he shoots people. Listen, can we stop by tonight? Late?"

"How late?"

"Around eight o'clock."

"That's not late," Dora said. "I rarely go to bed before nine."

"Liar!" he said, laughing. "See you tonight."

Terry Ortiz turned out to be a short, wiry man with a droopy black mustache that gave him a melancholic mien. But he was full of ginger and had a habit of snapping his fingers. When he was introduced, he kissed Dora's hand, and the mustache tickled.

"Hey," she said, "would you guys like a beer?"

"The sweetest words of tongue or pen," Ortiz said.

"Except for 'The check is in the mail,' " Wenden said.

"Yeah, except it usually ain't," Ortiz said. "I'll settle for a beer."

He was wearing a black leather biker's jacket and black jeans. When he took off the jacket, Dora saw he was carrying a snub-nosed revolver in a shoulder holster. She brought out cans of beer, a bag of pretzels, and a saucer of hot mustard. They sat around the cocktail table, and Terrible Terry slumped and put his boots up.

"I got maybe an hour," he announced, "and then I gotta split. If I don't get home tonight my old lady is going to split me."

"Where do you live, Sergeant Ortiz?" Dora asked politely.

"Terry," he said. "The East Side barrio-where else?

Let's talk business."

"Yeah," John said, "good idea. Red, tell Terry how you came up with the name of Ramon Schnabl."

She explained again how she asked her boss to run a computer check on the ownership of the premises occupied by Stuttgart Precious Metals on West 54th, and eventually the paper trail led to a Luxembourg holding company headed by Schnabl."

"Uh-huh," John said, "and who was the first owner you turned up-the outfit that leased the place to Stuttgart?"

"Spondex Realty Corporation."

The two detectives looked at each other and laughed.

"What are you guys giggling about?" Dora demanded.

"After you mentioned the name of Ramon Schnabl," Wenden said, "I remembered your telling me about that trip to Boston you made and how the store in Roxbury looked like a deserted dump. So just for the hell of it, I called the Boston PD and asked them to find out who owns the building occupied by Felix Brothers Classic Jewelry. Guess what: It's owned by Spondex Realty Corporation."

Dora smacked her forehead with a palm. "Now why didn't I think to check that out?"

"Because you're an amateur," Wenden said. "Talented and beautiful, but still an amateur."

Dora let that slide by-temporarily. "And who is this Ramon Schnabl," she asked, "and what's his racket?"

"Terry," John said, "that's your department. You tell her."

"Ramon Schnabl is very big in the drug biz," the narc said. "Very, very big. The guy runs a supermarket: boo, horse, snow, opium, crack, hash, designer drugs from his own labs-you name it, he's got it. He's also got a vertical organization; he's a grower, shipper, exporter and importer, distributor, wholesaler, and now we think he's setting up his own retail network in New York, New Orleans, and some of his field reps have been spotted in Tucson, Arizona. The guy's a dope tycoon."

"If you know all this," Dora said, "why haven't you destroyed him?"

Terry snapped his fingers. "Don't think we haven't tried. So has the Treasury, the FBI, and the DEA. Every time we think we have him cornered, he weasels out. Witnesses clam up. He doesn't kill rats, he kills their families: wives, children, parents, relatives. Drug dealers are willing to do hard time rather than double-cross Ramon Schnabl. He is not a nice man."

"No," Dora said. "But if he's such a big shot in drugs, what's his interest in precious metals and jewelry stores?"

"Beats me," Wenden said. "I thought about gold smuggling, but that doesn't make sense; gold is available everywhere, and the market sets the price. Also, gold is too heavy to smuggle in bars and ingots. Got any ideas, Terry?"

"Nada," Ortiz said, and finished his beer. "I thought maybe he might be bringing in gold bars with the insides hollowed out and stuffed with dope. But that wouldn't work because, like you said, gold is heavy stuff and someone would spot the difference."

"So?" John said. "Where do we go from here?"

"This is too juicy to drop," Ortiz said. "I think maybe I should take a look at Stuttgart Precious Metals. It could be just a front, and instead of gold, their vault is jammed with kilos of happy dust. I'll case the joint, and if it looks halfway doable, maybe we should pull a B and E. John?"

"I'm game," Wenden said.

Ortiz turned suddenly to Dora. "You got wheels?" he asked.

"A rented Ford Escort," she said.

"Lovely. We may ask for a loan."

"If you need a lookout," she said, "I'm willing."

"I love this woman," Terry said to Wenden. "Love her." He stood up, pulled on his jacket and a black leather cap. "I'll check out Stuttgart and let you know. Thanks for the refreshments. You coming, John?"

"I think I'll hang around awhile," Wenden said.

The narc raised his hand in benediction. "Bless you, my children," he said. He took two pretzels from the bag and left.

Dora laughed. "He thinks we have a thing going," she said.

"I thought we had," John said. "May I have another beer?"

She brought him a cold can. "John, I didn't want to say anything while Terry was here, but you look awful. You've lost weight, and even the bags under your eyes have bags. Aren't you getting any sleep?"

"Not enough. I have to go for a physical next month, and the doc will probably stick me in Intensive Care."

"I worry about you," she said.

"Do you?" he said with a boyish smile. "That's nice. Listen, enough about me; let's talk about the big enchilada: the three guys who got capped. You hear anything new?"

Dora told him about her conversations with Felicia and Eleanor, and how the former planned to marry Turner Pierce. She told him nothing of what she had learned from Gregor Pinchik and his merry band of hackers.

"You think Felicia is hooked?" Wenden asked.

"Definitely. She should be under treatment right now."

"Where is she getting her supply?"

"Eleanor says Turner Pierce is her candyman. But Eleanor is so bitter about the divorce, I don't know if she's telling the truth."

John shook his head. "We find coke under the floorboards in Father Callaway's pad, Felicia is snorting the stuff, and now Ramon Schnabl, a drug biggie, turns out to have some connection with Starrett's gold trading. Maybe it all fits together, but I don't see it. Do you?"

"Not yet," Dora said. "Do you have anything new on the three homicides?"

He brightened. "Yeah-we finally got a break. At least I hope it's a break. Remember I told you we were checking out all the stores, bars, and restaurants in the neighborhood of the Church of the Holy Oneness, to see if Loftus-Callaway had been in the night he was offed. We finally got to a scruffy French restaurant on East Twenty-eighth Street, and an old waiter there says he thinks the good Father was in that night."

"John, it's taken a long time, hasn't it?"

"You think it's an easy job, that you just walk into a joint, flash a photo of the dear departed and ask if he was there at a certain time on a certain date, and then people tell you? It's not that simple, Red. Clerks and bartenders and waiters have so many customers, they forget individual faces. And also, it's hard to find out who was on duty that particular night. And then it turns out that one of the waiters has been fired, or quit for another job, or maybe moved out of the state. And then he's got to be tracked down. Believe me, it's a long, ass-breaking job, and chances are good it'll turn out to be a dead end. But it's got to be done. So as I said, we finally found this restaurant on East Twenty-eighth where a waiter remembers Callaway being in the night he was killed. The reason the waiter remembers him was that the noble padre didn't leave a tip. The moral of that story is: Never stiff a waiter."