Dial Me for Murder

by Amanda Matetsky

  “Oh, yes, indeed, sir!” the receptionist was saying, blushing and batting her lashes like a bobby-soxer. “I have you down on the calendar for this Friday night. Mr. Hogarth confirmed the date just this morning. He said he and his wife are looking forward to it very much. They will meet you at the Copacabana at eight o’clock sharp.”

  She paused for a moment (during which time, I assumed, the other party was speaking), then she let out a girlish giggle. “Oh, no, sir!” she exclaimed, fluttering her lashes so fast I thought they’d fly off her face. “I couldn’t possibly do anything as bold as that!” Her scrawny cheeks looked as if they’d be hot to the touch. She giggled again and cupped her hand over her mouth, conducting the rest of her conversation in a voice so soft her words were indecipherable. When the hushed dialogue was over, she dropped the receiver back in the cradle, tucked a few loose strands of hair back in her bun, straightened the collar of her prim white blouse, and reluctantly turned her attention to me.

  “May I help you?” she asked, face still flaming. “Do you have an appointment with the district attorney?

  “Uh, no, I don’t,” I replied, stubbing my cigarette in a nearby ashtray and hastily rising to my feet. “I should have called for one, I know, but I was afraid he wouldn’t want to see me.”

  She sat up straight as a broomstick and narrowed her eyes into menacing slits. The rosy warmth drained out of her cheeks in an instant. “And why, may I ask, do you want to see him? Please state your name and your business.” The blushing bobby-soxer had turned into the Wicked Witch of the East. (Or was it the West? I never could remember.)

  “My name is Paige Turner,” I said, “and I’m a staff writer for Daring Detective magazine.” (I didn’t dare use an alias or make up a fraudulent occupation on the off chance that Sam Hogarth had seen my picture in the paper and read about my recent crime-busting exploits.) “I’m working on a story about the shockingly high new murder statistics in Manhattan,” I continued, “and I was hoping to get the DA’s personal views on the subject.” (That sounded pretty good, don’t you think?)

  The woman arched one eyebrow and gave me a look that was dripping with distrust. “Paige Turner, you say?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, stepping closer to her desk, flashing my most genuine and sincere Loretta Young smile.

  She wasn’t buying it. “Humph!” she sputtered. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Well, yes, I—”

  “Ha! You must think I’m a total cabbagehead!” She rose from her chair and craned her skinny neck forward. “I know a phony name when I hear one—and Paige Turner is the phoniest one I’ve ever heard!”

  See what happens when you tell the truth?

  “I know it sounds phony,” I hurried to explain, “but it really isn’t. My parents gave me the name Paige, and my husband gave me the name Turner, and the absurd combination has been giving me grief ever since my wedding day. Whenever I’m introduced to someone, they crack up laughing. Believe you me, if I had it to do all over again I’d marry a man named Smith. Or Jones. Or even Wartbottom. Anything but Turner!”

  She scowled at me for a couple more seconds, then relaxed her witchy features into something that almost resembled a smile. “Sorry, Mrs. Turner, but I’m sure you can understand my position. It’s my job to screen all visitors to this office and to protect the district attorney from kooks, pests, and charlatans.”

  I chose not to confess that, in the eyes of some people, I belonged in all three categories.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “With a preposterous name like mine, I’m used to having my identity questioned.” I stood quietly for a second, giving us both the chance to compose ourselves, then (in deference to my shrinking lunch hour) I quickly forged ahead. “Mr. Hogarth may have heard of me, however,” I said. “My name pops up in the newspapers every once in a while. Would you please tell him that I’m here, and that I’d like to interview him for a special article I’m working on? I promise I won’t take up too much of his time.”

  (I stressed the words “interview” and “article” because of their irresistible appeal to elected officials. Particularly those who were planning to run for the Senate in three years—and maybe the presidency someday.)

  “Yes, I’ll tell him,” the receptionist said, sitting back down at her desk and reaching for the phone. “But don’t be surprised if he refuses to meet with you. He never sees anybody without an appointment, and he has a very important lunch date in twenty minutes.”

  TWO AND A HALF MINUTES LATER I WAS SEATED in a guest chair across the desk from Manhattan’s exceptionally handsome DA, taking note of his thick, wavy, prematurely gray hair, intense blue eyes, strong jawline, broad shoulders, expensive Italian suit, and deep, resonant speaking voice.

  “I’m familiar with your work, Mrs. Turner,” he said, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “and I applaud your admirable courage and persistence. You’ve solved some complicated homicides in the past, and performed a great service for the city.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, caught completely off guard by his good humor and generous praise. (It isn’t often that I’m commended by a prominent public official sitting in a thronelike leather chair, flanked by an impressive wall-mounted shield and a gold eagle-topped United States of America flag stand!)

  “But I’m the one who should be thanking you, Mrs. Turner,” he replied. “Your efforts have been nothing short of heroic. I think you should get a medal. The NYPD doesn’t agree with me, of course,” he added, his smile growing as bright as the midday sun pouring through his office windows.

  I laughed. “That’s putting it mildly. The police think I’m nothing but a nuisance.”

  “No, you’re wrong about that,” he argued. “You’re much more than a nuisance to them. You’re a profound embarrassment. You’ve outwitted them on several occasions, and they’ll never forgive you for it. They can’t handle being upstaged—especially by a woman.”

  Watch out! I cautioned myself. Sam Hogarth is as smart as he is charming.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass anybody. I was just doing my job.”

  “And you did it very well,” he said, suddenly dispensing with the smile, taking a pointed look at his watch, and then aiming his eyes directly into mine. “I don’t have much time, Mrs. Turner, but my secretary said you wanted to interview me for a special article. What’s the article about?”

  I decided to keep it simple. “Murder,” I answered, saying nothing more, staring deep into his royal blue irises, watching for his reaction.

  His pupils contracted into pinpoints, then he quickly shifted his gaze toward the windows. “Murder’s a mighty broad subject,” he said, staring out at the pigeons on the sill, twisting his wedding band around his finger. “You want to narrow that down for me a little?”

  I wanted to narrow it down a lot. I wanted to come right out and ask if he was the monster who murdered Virginia Pratt— but of course I didn’t. (Contrary to what you may have heard about me, I’m not that stupid.)

  “The latest report on crime in Manhattan,” I said, “shows that murder is up thirty percent. That’s an alarming increase. A lot of the people I talk to—especially young single women— say they’re shocked by the new statistics and are now scared to be out on the street after dark. They’re literally afraid for their lives. Can you offer any insight into what’s causing this sudden surge in homicidal violence? And is there anything that can be done about it?”

  Hogarth turned his eyes back to me. “I’m glad you asked that question,” he said, sitting taller in his chair, assuming the warm, welcoming, paternal posture of the skilled politician. (If there had been one hundred babies in the room, he’d have begun kissing two hundred cheeks.) “It’s true, as you say, that the murder statistics have escalated sharply in recent months,” he said, “but those figures are—in some respects—deceiving.”

  “Oh, really?” I jumped in, hoping to divert a long, evasive speech about the unr
eliability of certain charts, numbers, and calculations. “Can you be more specific, please? Which respects are you referring to?”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed his handsome face. He didn’t appreciate the interruption—or my insolent inquiry. He promptly recovered, however, and resumed control of the conversation. “I’m referring to the fact that the rise in the city’s homicide rate is due to a rise in Mafia murder,” he declared, “not murder in general.”

  “Mafia murder? Are you suggesting that—?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” he cut in, giving me a taste of my own intrusive medicine. “I’m stating a hard-and-fast fact. An unusually large number of recent homicides have been mob-related. Perhaps you’re not aware of it, Mrs. Turner, but a Mafia territorial war has been going on for some time now, and a good many thugs, thieves, goons, and gangsters—as well as a few innocent bystanders—have managed to get themselves killed. The figures are well documented.”

  “Yes, I know about that, but—”

  “And that’s why I’m conducting a citywide crackdown on organized crime,” he barreled on, ignoring my attempt to ask another question. “I’ve got my entire staff working on the problem. We’re determined to put a stop to this outbreak of violence and bring the crime bosses to their knees. Frank Costello is under investigation, and Albert Anastasia is next in line. And that’s only the beginning. Take my word for it, Mrs. Turner, next year’s murder statistics will be much lower than the worst grade you ever got on a high school algebra test.”

  Not likely, I croaked to myself, remembering my nonexistent mathematical skills and admiring the DA’s incisive (need I say murderous?) wit and mental agility.

  “So you can tell your single girlfriends to relax,” he continued, straightening his collar and his royal blue tie (which just happened to be a perfect match for his eyes). “The excessive murder statistics will have no measurable effect on the lives or deaths of Manhattan’s young, unmarried women. Believe me, they have no more reason to be afraid now than they did before. They are as safe on the streets of the city—morning, noon, and after dark—as they ever were.”

  “That’s a very pretty statement,” I said, “but I don’t think Virginia Pratt would agree.” (Okay, so I really am that stupid.)

  “Who?” He gave me a puzzled look.

  “Virginia Pratt,” I repeated. “The beautiful young secretary who was murdered last Monday night, and whose bound, gagged, and asphyxiated nude body was found buried in a pile of leaves in Central Park on Tuesday. Surely she wasn’t as safe in this city as ever before.”

  “No, of course not,” Hogarth said, as quick to respond as a lizard snapping its tongue at a fly. “But that’s an isolated case, and it happened just this week, and all signs indicate that the unfortunate young woman was killed by someone she knew. Her murder wasn’t a random street crime, and it wasn’t mob-related, and it hasn’t yet been added to the city’s homicide stats. Therefore, Miss Pratt’s death, though tragic and very disturbing, has absolutely no relevance to this conversation—or to the article you’re writing. I’m surprised you even brought it up.”

  Curses! Hoisted by my own petard (whatever that is). I was so annoyed I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Words came quickly, however, to Manhattan’s nimble-minded DA. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Turner,” he said, rising from his throne and walking around his desk toward me, “I must bring this interview to an end. I have an important lunch date uptown, and I’m already five minutes late.” He hovered by the side of my chair until I stood up, relinquished my elbow to his manly grasp, and allowed him to guide (okay, prod) me toward the exit.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. District Attorney,” I said, as he opened his office door and nudged me over the threshold. “May I meet with you again soon? I have a few more questions to ask, and this article is scheduled to run in our next issue. My deadline is approaching fast.”

  “You’re out of luck, Mrs. Turner. I’m booked solid for the next couple of weeks. But if anything opens up,” he said, hitting me with another radiant vote-getting smile, “I’ll have my secretary call you. Leave your number with her on your way out.”

  Chapter 12

  I DIDN’T GET BACK TO THE OFFICE UNTIL TWO fifteen. Pomeroy hadn’t shown up yet, and Mr. Crockett was still out to lunch. Only Mike and Mario were there, sitting like dual Dagwoods at their desks, working on tasks they should have finished days ago and looking very put out about it.

  “There’s no more coffee left!” Mario whined as soon as I walked in. “Where the hell have you been? I can’t work without my java!”

  “Yeah!” Mike chimed in. “I want some, too. Better make another pot right now.”

  “Comin’ right up!” I chirped, glad they were carping about coffee instead of my extra-long lunch hour. If I could be cheerful and helpful, I thought, maybe they’d leave me alone for the rest of the afternoon and forget to mention my lateness to Mr. Crockett—or Pomeroy, if he ever decided to make an appearance.

  I lugged the large Coffeemaster down the hall and into the ladies’ room to wash it out and fill it with fresh water, then returned to the office with the heavy, sloshing contraption propped on one hip. The minute I opened the office door and began jostling my way inside, I knew that Pomeroy had arrived. The air was filled with the sweet fumes of his Cuban pipe tobacco and the decidedly unsweet fumes of his rotten temper.

  “Shut up!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Shut your ugly, fat face!” Pomeroy was standing in the back of the workroom, leaning over Mario’s desk, aiming his roar directly into the embarrassed art director’s left ear. “Don’t give me any more of your lame excuses! There’s no justification for missing a deadline. Why wasn’t I told about this?”

  “You weren’t here, sir,” Mario sputtered, staring down at the unfinished layout on his desk in shame. “And Lenny was sick all day and didn’t get anything done and left early. And then he didn’t come in today at all. And it’s not my fault!” he cried, banging his fist on the desk to emphasize his point. “Paige was the one who made Lenny go home. And she gave him permission to take the day off today. She’s the one who made us miss the deadline!”

  (In case you haven’t noticed, in the office I’m like the city of Rome. All roads lead to me.)

  Pomeroy rose to full height and turned his angry eyes in my direction, staring daggers as I set the coffeemaker on the table, filled it with Maxwell House and plugged it in. “Is this true, Mrs. Turner?” he demanded, voice cold and sharp as an ice pick. “Have you appointed yourself office manager now? How dare you send Lenny home on the day of a major art deadline?!”

  “Lenny has the flu,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest, refusing to buckle under Pomeroy’s tyrannical gaze. (Where my newfound strength came from, I’ll never know.) “His temperature was raging, and he was on the verge of passing out. People can die from the flu, you know. I thought it wise to get him out of here before we all became infected. Better to be shy one art assistant than the whole darn staff, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You had no right!” Pomeroy shouted, walking toward me with intent to kill. And I believe he would have accomplished his goal if the office entry bell hadn’t jangled, announcing Mr. Crockett’s return to the office.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Crockett!” I yelped, hastening to snag the boss’s attention (and, as a result, his unwitting protection). “Did you have a nice lunch?”

  “Hummph,” Crockett grunted, declining to answer yes or no. He hung up his hat and coat, scooped the afternoon newspapers off my desk, and—without a single glance in my direction— headed toward the back of the workroom. Pomeroy shot me a demonic grin, then spun around, followed Crockett into his private office, and slammed the door.

  Aaargh! I was in trouble so deep it was dismal.

  Acting as cool and unperturbed as Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief, I strolled across the room and sat down at my desk, turning my back on my gloating coworkers and burying my nose
in a stack of invoices. I was freaked out about what was going on in Mr. Crockett’s office, but I’d have swallowed a live slug before letting Mike and Mario know the extent of my discomfort.

  Pomeroy came out a few minutes later and marched up the aisle to my desk. “Mr. Crockett wants to see you in his office,” he growled. “Now.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, keeping a dozen curse words in my head and off my tongue. Rising to my feet and walking to the rear of the room, I felt like Marie Antoinette on the way to her execution. Would this moment mark the end of my hard-won Daring Detective career? Mike and Mario were both staring at me with barely disguised expressions of glee. They were lusting to see my head roll.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Crockett?” I said, coming to a stop in his open doorway.

  “Yeah,” he snorted, taking a soggy cigar stub from his ashtray and relighting it. “Come in. Shut the door. Sit.”

  I followed his instructions like a good little girl.

  Crockett got straight to the point. “Pomeroy says you told Lenny to go home early yesterday.”

  “That’s right,” I admitted. “He was very sick.”

  “You knew it was deadline day?” One of his bushy white eyebrows was cocked to the hilt.

  “Yes, I did, sir, but—”

  “And you told him to take today off, too?” Crockett interrupted.

  “Yes, sir. I spoke to his mother, and she said he was still sick, and—”

  “You did the right thing,” he interrupted again.

  “What?!” Were my ears deceiving me?

  “I was gonna send Lenny home early myself, as soon as I got back from lunch, but I got detoured by our distributor and never made it back to the office.”

  “So you’re not mad at me for what I did?”

  “Nope. I’m glad. Lenny was in bad shape. He couldn’t work for beans. And I didn’t want the whole office getting sick.” He leaned back in his chair, chewing on his stinky cigar. “Pomeroy doesn’t feel the same way, though,” he added. “He wants me to fire you for insubordinate behavior. Said cousin Oliver wants it, too.”