“And that’s not all,” Sabrina went on. “If the police find out that Virginia was a call girl, they will feel little or no sympathy for her. And they won’t work very hard to catch her killer. And then the psychotic beast who tied her up and stuffed turpentine-soaked cotton into her poor nose and mouth may get away with murder! Such things happen more often than you can imagine, Paige. When a prostitute is killed, the police like to think she asked for it—that she got what she deserved for being a whore—and they simply don’t bother to carry out a thorough investigation.”
“But that’s not true!” I objected. “My boyfriend is a NYPD homicide detective, and he’s the most honorable, most compassionate, most determined seeker of justice you could ever hope to—”
I stifled myself when Charlotte returned to the dining room and glided over to the table, wheeling a small chrome and glass serving cart in front of her. She put a platter of poached salmon, a bowl of mayonnaise-caper dressing, and a dish of asparagus vinaigrette on the table, then placed two silver-rimmed china plates in front of Sabrina and me. After refilling our water glasses and checking to see that we had enough bread, Charlotte asked Sabrina, “Will there be anything else, mum? Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you, Charlotte. We’ll have coffee with dessert. I’ll let you know when we’re ready.”
The minute Charlotte left the dining room, Sabrina resumed her rant against the police. “I hate to burst your bubble, Paige, but if your detective boyfriend is as noble as you say he is, he’s an out-and-out oddity.” She sat up straight as a stick and poked her chin out in defiance. “Every officer of the law I’ve ever known has been arrogant, dogmatic, misogynistic, and unbearably cocky—including those who are my clients. They are, after all—in spite of their big, shiny badges and guns—merely men. And like most men, they think a woman who sells her body is more of a criminal than the man who buys her body— and if bad things happen to her body in the bargain, she has only herself to blame. Believe me, I follow these kinds of cases carefully, and I know what I’m talking about.”
Okay, she had a point. I’d run across enough sexist, racist, and otherwise prejudiced police in my line of work to know that Sabrina’s words carried some weight. The last story I’d worked on, in fact, involved a hateful, hotheaded detective who wanted to convict an innocent man of murder just because he was homosexual. But that was an uncommon case, I believed, and by no means indicative that all homicide dicks were bigoted or chauvinistic. Not on your life! I’d met a lot of fine, upstanding cops in my day, and one was so fine I’d fallen in love with him.
Trying to think of a way to defend the NYPD without provoking another argument, I squared my shoulders, took a drink of water, and fished around in my muddled brain for a few convincing but noncombative points to raise.
I could have saved myself the trouble.
“That’s enough about the police!” Sabrina sputtered. “I can’t bear to talk about them anymore. It disgusts me just to think about them!” With an angry toss of her head, she thrust out her hand and gripped the rim of the silver salmon platter, steering it across the crisp white linen tablecloth and mooring it, like a yacht, in front of me. “Please help yourself.” It sounded more like an order than an offer.
“Thank you,” I said, although I wasn’t very hungry anymore. I took a small portion of the perfectly poached fish and placed it on my plate. Maybe Charlotte will give me a doggie bag, I mused.
Watching me like a hawk, Sabrina kept talking. “Now do you understand why I can’t let you write about Virginia’s murder?” Her fierce gray eyes were staring into my soul. “So many people would be hurt! And I don’t mean just myself and Virginia’s family. I’m worried sick about the rest of my girls. If my business is shut down, they’ll lose most, if not all, of their income. And many of them are raising young children and supporting needy relatives. And don’t think they can just go to work for another agency. I’m the only madam in the city, and I manage the only decent escort service in town. The others are run by men who abuse their girls and pay them next to nothing.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I said in all sincerity, “but it still doesn’t change my position. I’m a writer, for heaven’s sake! And you knew that when you called me. Whatever made you think I would investigate this murder without writing a story about it?”
Suddenly breaking eye contact, Sabrina reached for the asparagus and put three spears on her plate. She cut them into bite-size pieces, forked one segment into her mouth, and chewed it slowly. Very slowly. Then finally, after she’d stopped her merciless chewing and swallowed what was left of the mutilated morsel, she turned her attention back to me.
“You’re a widow,” she said, “so I thought you’d be more understanding. The papers said your husband was killed in Korea— that you had to turn to crime writing to support yourself—so I hoped you’d grasp the seriousness of my situation and take pity on my single working girls. You know what it’s like to be a woman alone, and how hard it is to make your own way in a man’s world.”
“Yes, but the way I make my own way is by writing.” Would she ever get my drift?
“But that is not a problem in this case!” she argued. “I will pay you much more just to investigate the murder than you would ever make by writing the story.”
I released a tired sigh. “I’m not a detective, I’m a writer.” How many times would I have to say it?
Sabrina sat up straight, took careful aim, and shot her next question—like an arrow—straight into my conscience. “What’s more important to you, Paige—helping to bring a savage killer to justice, or writing a sleazy story about him?”
Aaargh! I groaned to myself as the arrow hit home. Justice was—and always had been—my primary objective, of course, but I couldn’t tell Sabrina that! The knowledge would give her too much power. She’d have me pinned to the wall (and signing on the dotted line) in no time.
“Both,” I said, refusing to fall into her trap.
She shrugged and gave me a crooked grin (or was it a smirk?). “Well, I’ve got news for you, Paige Turner,” she said, sounding far less polite and refined than she had earlier. “You won’t be able to accomplish either of those goals without me.”
And she called the police cocky!
“I don’t need your permission, you know.”
“No, but you do need my cooperation,” she said. “You’ll never get anywhere without it.”
I hated to admit it, but Sabrina was right. I simply had to have the name of that client—the one Virginia was supposed to have been with the night she was murdered. And I needed the names of Virginia’s other regulars, too—plus those of her closest girlfriends. I might never get to the truth without those specifics, and Sabrina was the only one who could supply them. She had me right where she wanted me—and we both knew it.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You won’t give me any further information unless I swear not to write the story?” I already knew the answer to that question, but I asked it anyway.
“That’s right,” she confirmed, forking another tiny asparagus segment into her mouth and chewing it to a pulp. Then she swallowed and said, “But you mustn’t condemn me for that, Paige. I have to protect myself and my girls and Virginia’s family. And I’m obligated to protect my clients, too. Some of them hold very important positions in government, business, and society. If their lecherous, philandering, and illegal activities were exposed to the world, it would mean the end of their careers. Perhaps their marriages as well.”
“But one of them could be a cold-blooded murderer!” I screeched. “How do you feel about protecting him?”
“Awful,” she said, with a cunning smile. “That’s why I called you.”
Chapter 5
ABOUT FIVE MINUTES LATER—AFTER I’D CAVED in and vowed that I wouldn’t write the story; after I’d sworn on my great-grandmother’s grave that I’d never breathe a word about my secret investigation to the police (Dan included)— Sabrina rang fo
r dessert and coffee. (That’s right—she rang. She actually picked up the little silver bell next to her plate, gave it a jingle, and—presto!—Charlotte appeared with the goodies. I’d never seen anything like it, except in the movies.)
I remained silent while Charlotte served the chocolate mousse and poured the coffee, but became vocal as soon as she returned to the kitchen. “Tell me about the client who was scheduled to . . . er, see Virginia the night of the murder,” I said to Sabrina. “He’s one of your rich, important friends from the past, right? What’s his name? What kind of business is he in? Is he married? Does he have any kids? Have you spoken to him since the murder took place?” To say that I was eager for answers would be like calling the Three Stooges just a wee bit wacky.
“Before we get into that,” Sabrina said, stalling, spooning sugar into her cup, “I need to know that you understand the urgency of this operation. You must begin your investigation at once, and you must pursue every clue with the utmost intensity. There can be no delay or letup in your search. It is imperative that the killer be identified and apprehended immediately.” She sounded like Senator Joe McCarthy calling his Commie-hunting cronies to arms.
“Well, I wasn’t planning to go on vacation, you know.” I was getting annoyed with Sabrina’s cautionary, controlling tactics. Besides, she was the one who was dragging her heels, not me. How was I supposed to “pursue every clue with the utmost intensity” when she hadn’t given me any clues to pursue? How could I spring into action and check out the prime suspect if she couldn’t bring herself to tell me who he was? I scooped up a spoonful of mousse, shoveled it into my mouth, and downed the rich creamy goo in one gulp.
“And what’s the big fat hurry, anyway?” I asked, head reeling. “Sometimes it doesn’t pay to move too fast. That’s how mistakes get made and entire inquiries go awry. Haven’t you ever heard that haste makes waste?”
“In this case the opposite is true,” she insisted. “A slow-paced approach could be terminally wasteful.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the longer it takes to find the killer, the more chances he’ll have to kill again.”
Okay, that was a pretty disturbing thought. And I was an idiot for not considering it before. (After my own close calls with homicidal madmen, you’d think it would’ve been the first thing on my mind!) But idiot that I was, I happened to be focused on a different worry at the moment—and it had as much to do with Sabrina as it did with the man who killed Virginia.
“What’s going on here, Sabrina?” I said, a warning signal beeping in the back of my brain. “Have you been keeping something from me? Do you have reason to believe that the killer intends to strike again?”
“Uh, no,” she said, “not really. It’s just a feeling. And I’m so worried about my girls! What if the murderer is on some kind of sick crusade to rid the world of prostitutes? And what if he’s using me to accomplish his hideous goal?” She gave me a desperate, wild-eyed look. “I couldn’t stand it, Paige. I couldn’t live with myself if I sent another one of my girls on a date with death.”
Her words were a bit melodramatic, I thought, but heartfelt. And very effective. “I get the message, Sabrina,” I said, “and I promise you I will work just as hard and fast as I can. I do have a nine-to-five job, though, and I have to get at least four hours of sleep a night, so you can’t expect miracles.”
“Couldn’t you take some time off from work?” she pleaded.
“No way, Doris Day. I have two very demanding bosses. One of them is always looking for an excuse to fire me and the other one will have a stroke if I’m not there to make the coffee. I might be able to grab some extra time on my lunch hours, or call in sick one day or something, but I can’t guarantee anything. I’ll just have to play it by ear.”
“What about this weekend? Can you give the case your undivided attention then?” She looked kind of panicky now.
“All except for Sunday afternoon,” I told her. “I go out to lunch and the movies with my boyfriend and his daughter, Katy, every Sunday. It’s a sacred ritual.”
“Break the date,” she said, giving me orders again. She leaned forward and took a sip of her coffee, glaring at me over the rim of the white china cup.
“I can’t, Sabrina. Dan would get very suspicious. He’d jump to the conclusion that I’m working on a new murder story, and then he’d start investigating me. And, trust me, you don’t want that to happen. Dan Street is the smartest detective alive. He would uncover the truth about you and Virginia in no time. You’re just lucky that Virginia’s body wasn’t found in his precinct. Otherwise, he’d be in charge of this case and you and your prestigious clients would already be under surveillance— or under lock and key.”
I was laying it on pretty thick, but I believed every word I said.
“Oh, all right!” Sabrina slammed her cup down in its saucer. “Go ahead! Search for the killer in your own sweet time. But if you know what’s good for you, Paige Turner, your own sweet time will be goddamn quick!”
Her threatening tone was offensive, to say the least. And it sent me into a tailspin of anxious misgivings. Who was this woman—this madam!—I was now in cahoots with, and what evil, irresistible force had convinced me to agree to her unorthodox proposal? More to the point, who was I, and how did I ever let myself get mixed up in this murderous mess? Was I a courageous, brave-hearted, truth-seeking heroine, or just a snoopy, bullheaded, trouble-seeking fool? (Don’t answer that!)
“You shouldn’t speak to me that way, Sabrina,” I said, stiffening my spine and looking her straight in the eye. “I don’t react very well to threats. Sometimes they upset me and make me do something threatening in return.” I felt it went without saying that if I told my detective boyfriend about her escort service, she could find herself in deep doo-doo.
“We seem to have each other over a barrel,” she said, smiling.
“Yes, but you have a bit more to lose than I do. You could lose your fortune and your freedom. All I stand to lose is a story.”
“Or your life,” she said.
She wasn’t smiling anymore. But she wasn’t threatening me, either. The soft tone of concern in her voice and the anxious expression on her face made the motive for her dreadful warning clear: She was simply urging me to find the murderer as fast as I could, and cautioning me to be careful while I was at it.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Our dirty deal was done, and Sabrina was now as protective of me as she was of her other employees. I had—in a crazy, roundabout kind of way—become one of her girls.
“OKAY, TIME’S UP, SABRINA!” I SAID, AFTER devouring two more mouthfuls of mousse. “If you want me to turn on the speed, you’ve got to do the same. I want the name of the man you sent Virginia to meet last Monday night, plus the names of the other clients you regularly fixed her up with. I need to know which of your girls were her closest friends, and I want a list of their addresses and phone numbers. And you’d better make it fast,” I added, giving her a taste of her own aggressive medicine. “I’ve got to get back to the office.” (That, by the way, was a gross understatement. My lunch hour had ended more than an hour ago. I was so late it was ludicrous.)
Sabrina stood up and tossed her napkin on the table. “I’ve already made you a list,” she said. (Would she always be one step ahead of me?) “It’s in the library. Come with me and I’ll give it to you.” She turned and headed for the door, obviously expecting me to follow.
I was on my feet in a flash. I hadn’t finished my dessert, but I was hungry for proof, not pudding. Scrambling to catch up, I trailed Sabrina out of the dining room, across the large tiled entry, down the hall to the library, and across the plush Oriental rug to her desk. Her pace was fast, her posture was perfect, and her limp was barely noticeable.
Sabrina took two sheets of lavender stationery from the top drawer of her desk and held them close to her chest. “You must guard this list with your life, Paige. Don’t let anyone else see it. If it should
get into the wrong hands—”
“Don’t worry!” I broke in, panting like an overheated poodle. “I promise you nobody will handle it but me!” It was all I could do not to pounce onto the top of her desk and tear the list away with my teeth.
“Okay, then,” Sabrina said, folding the list up like a letter and sticking it into a lavender envelope. She licked the flap of the envelope and sealed it tight. “Virginia’s three primary patrons are listed on the first page, and her two closest girlfriends on the other. I’ve given you their names, addresses, phone numbers, occupations, and any other biographical facts I have on file. I’ve written down Virginia’s information, too. That should be more than enough to get you started.”
I shot a crazed glance at the sealed envelope, then aimed a frantic gaze at Sabrina’s face. “But which one of these men was Virginia with the night of the murder?” I begged. If she doesn’t give me the answer this minute, I’ll have to kill myself!
Sabrina cast her eyes down to the floor. “I don’t know,” she said, with a sad shrug of her shoulders.
“What do you mean?” I shrieked. “Didn’t you make the appointment for her?”
“Yes, but I made two appointments for her that night. One at eight, and another one at eleven. The papers didn’t say what time she was killed, so I don’t know which—if either—client she was with.”
Aaargh! There went my hopes for cracking the case with one blow. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
“Okay,” I said, quickly pulling myself together. (I didn’t have time to kill myself.) “So which one was scheduled for eight, and which one for eleven?”
“They’re listed in order,” she explained. “The first man was Virginia’s first client, and the second, as you might surmise, was her second. The last man on the list also called for a date with her that evening, but I had to put him off. I never ask any of my girls to accept more than two engagements in one night.” Sabrina struck a staunch pose and held her head high, obviously proud of her strong personal principles.
Dial Me for Murder Page 5
