The Eighth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Great for orgies,” Dora told him.

  Mario lapsed into trucker talk, and she giggled and hung up.

  The hotel had a cocktail lounge off the lobby and, in the rear, a rather frowsty dining room that seemed to be patronized mostly by blue-haired women and epicene older men who carried handkerchiefs up their sleeve cuffs. The food was edible but tasteless; everything lacked seasoning. They needed a chef, Dora decided, who had Mario’s faculty with herbs and spices.

  But that’s where she had lunch with Detective John Wenden, NYPD. They met in the lobby and examined each other’s ID. Then he inspected her.

  “You know,” he said, “if you lost thirty pounds you’d be a very attractive woman.”

  “You know,” she said, “if you were Robert Redford you’d be a very attractive man.”

  He laughed and held up his palms. “So-ree,” he said. “It was a stupid thing to say, and I apologize. Okay?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Let’s go eat.”

  “You got a swindle sheet?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll have a steak.”

  “Take my advice and use plenty of salt and pepper. The food is solid but has no flavor.”

  “Ketchup covers a multitude of sins,” he said.

  The ancient maître d’ showed them to a table against the wall. Detective Wenden looked around at the oldsters working on their watercress sandwiches and chamomile tea.

  “Think I could get a Geritol on the rocks?” he said.

  “Whatever turns you on,” Dora said.

  But he ordered a light beer with his club steak. Dora also had a beer with her chef’s salad.

  “You married?” Wenden asked her.

  “Yes,” she said. “Happily. You?”

  “Divorced,” he said. “All New York cops are divorced—didn’t you know? Occupational hazard. How much was the Starrett insurance?”

  “Three million.”

  “That’s sweet. Who gets it?”

  “Thirds; equal shares to his wife, son, and daughter. Hey, I’m supposed to be asking the questions. That’s why I’m buying you a steak—to pick your brain.”

  “Not much to pick.” He paused while the creaking waiter served their beers. Then: “You read the clips?”

  She nodded. “A lot of nothing.”

  “That’s all we’ve got—nothing.”

  His steak was served. He cut off a corner and tasted it cautiously. “You’re right,” he said. “Cardboard.” He sprinkled the meat heavily with salt and pepper as Dora dug into her salad.

  “You can talk with your mouth full, you know,” she said. “I won’t be offended.”

  “Okay,” he said equably, “let me give you a quick recap.

  “The victim is Lewis Starrett, seventy, white male, retired president of Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc. But he’s still chairman and principal stockholder. Shows up every working day for a few hours at their flagship store on Park Avenue. Lives in an eighteen-room duplex on Fifth Avenue with his wife, daughter, son and son’s wife. Also two live-in servants, a butler and a cook-housekeeper, a married couple. The deceased was supposed to be a nasty, opinionated old bastard but everyone agrees he was fearless. His first mistake; it doesn’t pay to be fearless in this city.

  “Every evening at nine o’clock, Lewis Starrett takes a stroll. His second mistake; you don’t walk at night in this city unless you have to. He goes down Fifth to Fifty-ninth Street, east on Fifty-ninth to Lexington Avenue where he stops at a cigar store and buys the one daily cigar his doctor allows.

  “Then he continues north on Lex to Eighty-third Street, smoking his cigar. West on Eighty-third Street to his apartment house on Fifth. They say you could set your watch by him. His third mistake; he never varied his route or time.

  “On the fatal night, as the tabloids like to say, he starts his walk at the usual time, buys his cigar at the Lexington Avenue shop, lights up and starts home. But he never makes it. His body is found facedown on the sidewalk between Lex and Park. He’s been stabbed once, practically between the shoulder blades. Instant blotto. No witnesses. And that’s it.”

  Detective Wenden’s timing was perfect; he finished his story at the same time he finished his lunch. He started to light a cigarette, but the maître d’ came hobbling over to tell him the whole dining room was a no-smoking area.

  “Unless you want dessert and coffee,” Dora said, “let’s go into the cocktail lounge and have another beer. We can smoke in there.”

  “You got a deal,” he said.

  They were the only customers in the bar. They sat on uncomfortable black vinyl chairs at a black Formica table, sipped their beers, smoked their cigarettes.

  “Was he robbed?” Dora asked.

  Wenden looked at her curiously. “Do you always go to this much trouble to check out an insurance claim?”

  “Not usually,” she admitted. “But this time we’ve got three million reasons. The Company wouldn’t like it if someone profits illegally from Starrett’s murder.”

  “You mean if one of the beneficiaries offed him?”

  “That’s what I mean.” She repeated: “Was he robbed?”

  “Negative,” Wenden said. “He had all his credit cards and a wallet with about four hundred in cash. Also, he was wearing a gold Starrett watch worth fifteen grand and a man’s Starrett diamond ring worth another thirty Gs.”

  “But you figure it was a bungled robbery?”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe a coked-up panhandler asks for a buck. Starrett stiffs him, maybe curses him, and turns away. His family and friends say he was capable of doing that. Then the panhandler gets sore, pulls out a blade, lets him have it and takes off.”

  “Without pausing to lift his wallet or watch?”

  “There were apparently no witnesses to the stabbing, but maybe the killer didn’t want to push his luck by staying at the scene for even another minute. Someone might have come along.”

  “I don’t know,” Dora said doubtfully. “Seems to me there are a lot of maybes in your scenario.”

  The detective stirred restlessly. “Have you investigated many homicides?”

  “A few.”

  “Then you know that even when they’re solved there are always a lot of loose ends. I’ve never worked a case that was absolutely complete with everything explained and accounted for.”

  “Another beer?” she asked.

  “Why not?” he said. “I’ve got nothing to do this afternoon but crack four other killings.”

  “That much on your plate?”

  “It never ends,” he said wearily. “There’s a lot of dying going around these days.”

  Dora went to the bar and brought back two more cold bottles.

  “Why do I get the feeling,” she said, “that you don’t totally believe your own story of the way it happened.”

  “It’s the official line,” he said.

  “Screw the official line,” she said angrily. “This is just between you and me, and I’m not about to run off at the mouth to the tabloids. What do you think?”

  He sighed. “A couple of things bother me. You ever investigate a stabbing?”

  “No.”

  “A professional knifer holds the blade like a door key, knuckles down. He uses an underhanded jab, comes in low, goes up high, usually around the belly or kidneys. It’s soft there; no bones to snap the steel. The blow that killed Starrett started high and came down low into his back. An amateur did that, holding the knife handle in his fist, knuckles up. And it was amateur’s luck that the blade didn’t break on the spine or ribs. It sliced an artery and punctured the heart—more luck.”

  “For the killer, not Starrett.”

  “Yeah. Ordinarily one stab like that wouldn’t kill instantly.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “A man, I’d guess. That shiv went deep. Plenty of power there. It cut through overcoat, suit jacket, shirt, undershirt, skin, flesh, and into the heart.”

  “A long blade?”
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  “Had to be. You talk to any of the family yet?”

  “The son,” Dora said. “Clayton.”

  “What was your take on him?”

  “I got the feeling he wasn’t exactly out of his mind with grief.”

  Wenden nodded. “I thought he was controlling his sorrow very well. From what I’ve been able to pick up, he and his father didn’t get along so great. Clayton became president and CEO of Starrett Jewelry when the old man retired, and I guess they didn’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of business decisions. Plenty of screaming arguments, according to the office staff. But that’s not unusual when a father gives up power and a son takes over. The heir usually wants to do things differently, try new things, prove his ability.”

  Dora sighed. “I hate these family affairs. They always turn out to be snarls of string. It’s so sad. You’d think a family would try to get along.”

  The detective laughed. “Most homicides are committed by a family member or a close friend. You talk to the attorney yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “A nice old guy. He was Lewis Starrett’s lawyer from the beginning.”

  “Who inherits?” Dora asked.

  “The wife,” Wenden said. “For tax reasons. About eighty million.”

  “Wow! Nothing to the son or daughter?”

  “Well, you say they’ll each be getting a million in insurance money. And I guess Lewis figured Olivia would leave everything to the children when she shuffles off.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Olivia?” He grinned. “I’ll let you make up your own mind. The daughter, Felicia, is the one to look out for. She’s off the wall.”

  “How so?”

  “Crazy. Runs with a rough downtown crowd. But I’ll say this for her: She seems to be taking her father’s death harder than any of the others.”

  “What about Clayton’s wife?”

  “Eleanor? A social butterfly. She’s on a zillion committees. Always planning a party for this charity or that. She loves it. Maybe because she can never wear the same dress twice. Listen, I’ve got to split. Where do you live?”

  “Hartford.”

  “Going home for the weekend?”

  “I doubt it. My husband may come down if he can get away.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a dispatcher for a trucking company. Works crazy hours.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t show up, maybe we can get together for a pizza.”

  She stared at him. “I told you I was happily married.”

  “And I heard you,” the detective said. “What’s that got to do with sharing a pizza?”

  “Nothing,” Dora said. “As long as we keep it on a professional level. Maybe we can compare notes and do each other some good.”

  “Sure we can,” Wenden said. “Here’s my card. If I’m not in, you can always leave a message. Thanks for the lunch.”

  “My pleasure,” Dora said and watched him move away, thinking he was an okay guy but he really should get his suit pressed and his shoes shined. She knew he had to deal with a lot of scumbags, but he didn’t have to dress like one.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1986 by Lawrence Sanders

  cover design by Jason Gabbert

  978-1-4532-9842-8

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

  180 Varick Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

  THE COMMANDMENT SERIES

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