The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  That offended me. “Wolfgang’s apartment was right around the block from where Dolly LeBaron was murdered. What’s that—a coincidence?”

  Al finished a cheeseburger, sat back, and opened his second beer. “All right,” he said, “let’s all blow a little smoke. Let’s have some wild theories of what went down here. It doesn’t have to be logical or touch all bases. Just a hazy idea of what happened. I’ll start. I figure Orson engineered the Demaretion grab. He plans the whole thing, but someone else in the family makes the switch. My prime suspect is Luther Havistock, who’s hurting for money. Then they argue about the split. Luther blows his cool and decides that since he actually lifted the Demaretion, he’s entitled to a bigger share. So he scrags Orson and Dolly, looking for it. Now before you tear that story apart, let’s have your own fairy tales. Jack, you go next.”

  Jack hunched forward over the cocktail table, popping French fries like they were vitamin pills. And he was still working on a quarter-pounder.

  “I’ll go along with your idea that there were two crooks involved,” he said. “First of all, we get these neatly typed letters offering to make a deal on the return of the coin. Then suddenly the letters stop, and we hear someone’s working through a Beirut dealer. That adds up to two different guys—right? I agree that Orson was involved—he probably wrote the letters to us and that threatening letter to you, Dunk—but I don’t think his partner was Luther Havistock; I think it was the younger daughter, Natalie. And she was working for her screwball boyfriend, Sam Jefferson, who claims to be a born-again Muslim, Akbar El Raschid. Well, he may or may not be, but if he has Muslim contacts, what’s a better place to peddle the coin than Lebanon. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that angle,” Al Georgio said. “It’s a possible. Dunk, let’s have your daydream.”

  I really didn’t want to tell them about my crazy idea because I thought they’d laugh at me and treat my solution with amused contempt. It was such a fragile flower that I didn’t want it trampled before it had a chance to bloom. Also, I wasn’t so sure about it myself.

  “I’ll go along with the two thieves theory,” I said cautiously. “Vanwinkle was involved, no doubt about it. But I can’t see either Natalie or Luther Havistock being the partner in crime. Natalie would steal from Saks Fifth Avenue, but I can’t believe she’d steal from her own father. Call it woman’s intuition or whatever you like, but I just don’t think she’s guilty. As for Luther, yes, he’s in hock and seems to be close to a crackup, but do you really believe he’s capable of killing two people? And if he did, who the hell is trying to sell that coin through the Beirut dealer? If it really is Archibald’s Demaretion, then what’s the point of murdering Orson and Dolly and searching their apartments trying to find it? No, there’s someone else involved, someone who actually has the coin right now.”

  “Oh, my God,” Al said, groaning. “Don’t tell me you think there are three people involved.”

  “I don’t know,” I said desperately. “I suppose it sounds silly, but you’ve got to admit the coin was offered by the Beirut dealer before Dolly was killed.”

  We all sat there, staring gloomily at each other. Then we reached simultaneously for more food and beer and busied ourselves, ruminating.

  “You know what I think?” I said finally, and the two detectives looked at me hopefully. “I agree with both of you that the murders of Orson and Dolly are connected to the theft of the Demaretion. But analyze it. What, actually, is the connection? Because the robbery and the murders happened so close together, we assume they’re linked. But when you look at it logically, the only connection is that all this is occurring in the same family. Archibald Havistock’s favorite coin gets swiped. Then his private secretary, and the secretary’s girlfriend, are killed. Let me ask both of you: Is there any real, hard evidence that Orson was actually involved in the theft?”

  They thought awhile.

  “No,” Al admitted, “nothing I can take to the bank.”

  “He just seemed the most likely suspect,” Jack Smack said. “You think he wasn’t involved, Dunk?”

  “I didn’t say that. But I’m not sure that stealing the coin was the reason for his murder. He led a wild life. Maybe there are other motives involved. I think we’re all trying to neaten this thing up, trying to get the facts to fit our theories, and disregarding the facts that don’t fit.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Jack said. “You’re giving me a lot of confidence.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Dunk,” Al said, frowning. “Are you suggesting that the Vanwinkle and LeBaron homicides had nothing to do with the coin getting copped?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? I guess I’m not explaining this very well, but it seems to me that there might be two crimes involved here. All right, Orson was the link between them. But isn’t it conceivable that the killer searched his apartment, and Dolly’s, for something other than the Demaretion?”

  “For what?” Al demanded. “Drugs? We found them in Dolly’s place. Easy to find, but they hadn’t been touched.”

  “Money?” Jack suggested. “Vanwinkle was supposed to be a heavy spender. Maybe we’re trying to make something big out of what are really two run-of-the-mill burglary-homicides: a crook looking to make a cash score and panicking.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” Al asked.

  “No,” Jack said, “I don’t. The coin is mixed up in it. Somehow. Anyone got anything to add?”

  We all stared at each other, expressionless and silent.

  When I was a kid in Des Moines, after supper on Friday nights, my mother always went off to choir practice. Then my father, my three brothers, and I would sit around the kitchen table and play poker. We played for matches, and had a lot of fun.

  I got to be a pretty fair poker player, mostly by learning to judge the strength of my father’s and brothers’ hands by their body language. When they were holding something good, they squirmed, blinked repeatedly, or maybe drummed their fingers. And when they were bluffing, their features froze; they thought they were giving nothing away.

  Now, looking at Jack and Al, I had the feeling they were both bluffing. Not only were they not telling me all they knew, but they weren’t telling each other either. That was all right; it saved me from having a guilt trip about what I was holding back.

  “Well…” Al said, draining his beer, “I guess we’ve gone as far as we can go. No hits, no runs, and God knows how many errors. Let us all pray for a lucky break.”

  “Amen,” Jack said. “If you look at this whole thing coldly, we’re still on square one, aren’t we?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I protested. “It seems to me we’ve collected a lot of information.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Al said, “but what does it all mean? Thanks for the use of the hall, Dunk.”

  He rose, Jack stood up, and the two of them moved toward the door. Al hung back a few steps and came close to me.

  “Sunday?” he said in a low voice. “With my daughter?”

  I nodded.

  “Call you,” he said.

  Then they were gone, and I was left to clean up the mess from our lunch. But I really didn’t mind. One quarter-pounder remained, and I wrapped it in aluminum foil and put it in the fridge. With a nice green salad, that would be my dinner.

  I went back into the living room and took up my knitting while I did some heavy thinking.

  Both detectives thought Orson Vanwinkle had been involved in the switch of the Demaretion display case. I did, too, but couldn’t believe that was the reason for his murder, or Dolly’s. Why search their apartments when the coin was being offered for sale in Beirut? What a puzzlement!

  Jack Smack had come up with a fresh idea, suggesting that Akbar El Raschid was trying to peddle the coin in Lebanon because of his Muslim connections. A neat notion, but I didn’t buy it. No logical objections—just the way I felt. Natalie and Akbar might be a couple of screwballs, but I didn’t think they
were capable of the clever theft of the coin, let alone two cold-blooded murders.

  Luther? A maybe, but I doubted it, for the reasons I had given Al and Jack. I admit I was going by my visceral reactions, but what else could I do? I didn’t have the resources of the NYPD or Jack’s insurance company to provide research. So I was on my own.

  Who else might have conspired with Orson? Vanessa? Very, very doubtful. They had said they hated each other, and I believed it. The Minchens? What motive could dear Roberta and Ross have for killing Orson and Dolly? What about Ruby Querita? Now there was a possibility. She was such a religious fanatic that she might slay and call it God’s vengeance.

  But finally, finally, I had to face the cause of all this maundering. I was trying to postpone thinking about my most important decision. What on earth was I going to do with that crudely wrapped package Dolly LeBaron had entrusted to me? Sighing, I considered the options.

  She had said she would reclaim it within a month. She obviously wasn’t going to do that.

  She had also said that in the event she didn’t come back for that dumb package, I was to destroy it. Burn it in the “insinuator.”

  And she made me promise not to open it.

  My thinking about all this was wild and disconnected. I really should burn the damned thing. But what if she had left it to someone in her will? I had vowed not to open it, but what if it held clues to the identity of her killer? To whom did I owe primary responsibility? To poor, dead Dolly? Should I follow her instructions to the letter, as honor dictated, or disregard them in hopes the Scotch-taped brown bag contained the answers to all my problems? A dilemma.

  In the end, I solved it by doing nothing. I left the package where it was, not even looking at it or touching it, and I decided not to mention it to Georgio or Smack just yet. In poker terms, I guess you could call it my ace in the hole.

  I spent a gloomy evening. I’ve told you that generally I’m an up-person—look on the bright side, think positively, things will turn out for the best. But I was down that night. I guess the actuality of Dolly’s death really hit me. I couldn’t mourn for Orson, he was such a slime, but Dolly was different.

  I know everyone thought her a chippy, and I suppose she was. But she was also young, pretty, and hopeful, and it was hard to believe she had done anything in her life to explain or justify what had happened to her.

  It made me think deep, deep thoughts about my own life, my hopes and dreams, and how they might all be brought low. No one likes to reflect on death—right? I mean, in our minds we all know we’re mortal. But we push that away and concentrate on popcorn and balloons. Our own dissolution is just too bleak to face.

  I did something that night I hadn’t done in years and years. I got down on my knees at bedside, pressed my hands together, bowed my head, and prayed for the immortal soul of Dolly LeBaron. I concluded by reciting the child’s prayer that begins, “Now I lay me down to sleep…”

  26

  THE RADDLED BLUE PLYMOUTH was waiting for me when I popped out with my beach bag at eight o’clock on Sunday morning. Behind the wheel, Al Georgio in kelly green slacks and a sport shirt in a hellish plaid. In the back seat, daughter Sally, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, a blue ribbon tied about her long wheaten hair. A beauty!

  “Hi!” she said when I climbed in front.

  “Hi!” I said.

  “Are you my daddy’s girlfriend?” she asked.

  “Nah,” I said, “I’m just a stranger thumbing a lift.”

  “Boy oh boy,” Al said, “I can see this is going to be one great day.”

  But on the trip out to Jacob Riis Park, it began to seem as if it might be exactly that—a great day.

  I ignored Al and turned sideways in the passenger seat so I could talk to Sally. It wasn’t difficult; she was a bright, voluble kid with opinions on everything.

  “Why do you wear your hair like that?” she asked.

  “Like what?” I said. “I don’t wear it like anything. That’s my problem.”

  She regarded me gravely, head tilted to one side. “I think you should have it cut short,” she pronounced. “Like a loose feather cut—you know?”

  “Not a bad idea,” I acknowledged.

  “Dad says to call you Dunk. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, “that’s fine.”

  “How tall are you, Dunk?”

  “Six-two, give or take a little.”

  “Are you a model?”

  “I’m a model of something,” I said. “I don’t know what.”

  “You’re pretty enough to be a model.”

  “And you’re a sweetheart for saying it,” I told her. “What’s in the hamper?”

  “Lunch,” she said. “Fried chicken and potato salad. Father probably bought it all at some greasy spoon.”

  “Hey, come on,” he said indignantly. “I made the chicken myself, and the potato salad comes from a very high-class deli.”

  “I was just kidding,” his daughter said. “Also, some cheesecake, lemonade for me, and a bottle of wine for the old folks.”

  “Keep it up, kiddo,” her father told her, “and you’re going to be walking to Jacob Riis.”

  She giggled and threw herself back in the corner of the rear seat, hugging her knees.

  “I’m wearing a bikini,” she said. “What are you wearing?”

  “A black maillot,” I told her. “Norma Kamali.”

  “Is that the one cut high on the legs and no back?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I love that suit,” Sally said dreamily. “Maybe by next year I’ll be big enough to wear it. If my old man will spring for it.”

  “You keep talking like that,” Al said ferociously, “and you’re not going to make next year.”

  She giggled again, and for the next hour she and I chattered about fashions, her schoolwork, boyfriends, rock groups, movie stars, television shows, and the pros and cons of washing your hair in beer. What a knowledgeable kid she was! And she wasn’t shy about spouting off. Not in an obnoxious way, mind you, but firm and convinced. She really was a darling.

  She was wearing makeup—not a lot, but some—which threw me a little. When I was her age, I’d have been kicked out of the house if I used perfumed soap. But the times, they are a’changing. And even without the lip gloss and a touch of eyeliner, she’d have been a beauty. She was going to break a lot of male hearts, and I was afraid she knew it.

  “I think my father should get married,” she said to me. “Don’t you?”

  “Will you cut it out, Sally?” Al said, laughing. “You promised to behave.”

  “I crossed my fingers behind my back,” she said. “You didn’t see me. Well, don’t you think he should get married?”

  “If he wants to,” I said.

  She thought a moment, frowning. “I think my mother might get married. She’s got a boyfriend.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “He’s okay, I guess. But he wears a toupee. That puts me off—you know?”

  “Whee!” Al said, banging the steering wheel with his palms. “It’s Looney Tunes time, folks!”

  We beat most of the heavy traffic and got out to Jacob Riis sooner than I expected. Al had a folding beach umbrella in the trunk, along with a big blanket and two beach chairs. He carried all that while I managed the wicker hamper. Sally scampered ahead of us. We set up about thirty feet from the shoreline, the sea reasonably calm and clear, sun shining, sky washed. A gorgeous day.

  The moment we had the blanket spread, Sally kicked off her loafers, shucked T-shirt and jeans. Her little bikini was cute: a strawberry print with ruffles around the top and hips. What a bod the kid had! She was going to be a problem, but I didn’t tell Al that.

  She took off her hair ribbon and went running down to the water, blond hair floating back in the breeze.

  “No swimming till I get there,” Al yelled after her. Then he turned to me. “She can dog-paddle,” he said, “but still … I hope you don’t mind her, Dunk. What
she comes out with.”

  “Mind her?” I said. “I love her. She’ll never need any assertiveness training.”

  “That’s for sure,” he said. “She’s so bright. Sometimes it scares me. Want to try the water or would you rather get some sun?”

  “Swim first,” I said, “then sun.”

  I heeled off my sandals and struggled out of my denim tent. Al stared at me.

  “I know,” I said. “I look like a black Magic Marker.”

  “You look beautiful,” he said, and I think he meant it. I made no reference to his salt-bleached khaki shorts that almost came to his knees.

  Sally stayed close to shore, floating around, never getting over her depth. Al and I went out a way. He swam like the kind of man he was, with a heavy, ponderous overhand stroke, wallowing a bit, but making steady progress. He had thick, muscled shoulders and arms, and I figured he could get to Europe if he put his mind to it.

  We had a good swim, my first of the summer, then turned around and came back in. Sally was already spread-eagled on the blanket, all oiled up. I dried off, then spread on my Number 15 sunscreen. Al had a swarthy skin; he could get a better tan walking a block down Broadway than I’d get all summer.

  The two of us sat on beach chairs under the umbrella. Al opened the bottle of chilled rosé, and we each had a paper cup. Good stuff.

  “The ocean was great,” I said. “Just great. Nothing like that in Iowa.”

  “Ever want to go back?” he asked me curiously.

  “For a visit? Sure. But permanently? I don’t think so. Not yet. How’re you going to keep them down on the farm—and so forth and so on.”

  “I really don’t know a hell of a lot about you,” he said. “I mean your background and all. Before you came to New York.”

  “Ask away,” I said. “If there’s anything you want to know.”

  “No,” he said, “not really. But then you don’t know a hell of a lot about me, do you?”

  “Nope,” I said, “and I’m not going to ask. If you want to tell me, you’ll tell me.”