“I can hardly see us checking into the Waldorf, can you?” she said. “Or any other Manhattan hotel or motel. Either of us might be seen and recognized. And it can’t be my apartment. I think Clayton is paying off the concierge to keep track of my visitors. I just can’t chance it. That only leaves your place.”
“My place?” he protested. “It’s an armpit.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen worse,” she said, then finished her drink. “Let’s go there now and clinch the deal. This one will be a freebie to convince you that you’re making a smart move.”
“It’s practically a monk’s cell,” he warned her.
“That might be fun,” she said.
He surrendered completely. “It will be,” he assured her.
28
ARTHUR RUSHKIN HAD MENTIONED casually that after going over the computer printout, he had been “somewhat surprised” by the quantity of gold being traded by Starrett Fine Jewelry. Instead of being surprised, Dora thought grimly, he should have been shocked. But then the attorney hadn’t spent a damp day doing research on gold in the public library, and he hadn’t schmoozed with the shrewd jewelry merchants on West 47th Street.
The reaction of one of them, a tub of lard in a tight plaid suit, was typical. Dora inquired if the average jewelry store could use the weight of gold Starrett was allegedly selling, and he looked at her as if she had just landed in a flying saucer.
“Absolut imposs,” he said in an accent she could not identify. “Total out of the ques, my lovely young miss. Never in a mill years or more.”
He then went on to explain in his fractured English that the average jewelry shop made none of the items they stocked, but depended on distributors and wholesalers to keep them supplied. If they did repair work, they might keep a small inventory of gold wire, chains, clasps, settings, etc. But these would be 14- or 18-karat alloys, not the fine gold Dora was talking about.
“Then no jewelry store would need pounds or kilos of the stuff?” she asked.
“Ridic,” he said. “Utter ridic. You want to build a Stat of Liber, God bless her soul, of pure gold? With that much you tell me, you could do it. But for a small store, not even grains or ounces of the fine. I speak the trut.”
“I believe you,” she said hastily, and other proprietors and salespersons she talked to told her the same thing.
So on a bright morning she sat in her hotel suite staring moodily at the mess stacked on the cocktail table: the computer printout, her library research, and her spiral notebooks.
She wondered where further investigation of Starrett’s gold trading might lead. She questioned what, if anything, it had to do with the murder of Lewis Starrett and the beneficiaries’ claim on his life insurance. That, after all, was her prime concern, and even if the gold trading turned out to be illegal but had nothing to do with Lewis Starrett’s death, then she was just spinning her wheels.
She was still pondering her wisest course of action when the phone rang.
“H’lo,” she said, almost absently.
“Hi, Red,” John Wenden said. “I’ve got good news for you. I think we can drop the Starrett case.”
“What?” she cried.
“Because if we just wait long enough,” he went on, “everyone connected with it will get knocked off.”
“John,” she said, “what the hell are you talking about?”
“It just came over the Department wire,” he said. “Early this morning, Sidney Loftus, also known as Father Brian Callaway, was found murdered in the back room of the Church of the Holy Oneness on East Twentieth Street.”
“Oh my God,” Dora breathed.
“There goes your favorite suspect in the Starrett kill,” Wenden said. “Sorry about that, Red.”
“Was he stabbed?” she asked.
“Now how did you guess that? This case has more knives than Hoffritz. Listen, I don’t know any of the details, but I’m on my way there now. Will you be in this afternoon?”
“I’ll make it a point to be.”
“After I find out what went down, I’ll give you a call or maybe stop by for a few minutes.”
“Stop by,” she urged. “I’ll pick up some sandwich makings.”
“Sounds good to me,” he said. “I’m in a salami mood today.”
“You’ll get it,” she promised.
After replacing the phone, she went back to staring at the stack of papers, not seeing them. Her first reaction to the news of Callaway’s death was dread at how the killing might affect Mrs. Olivia Starrett. That poor woman had already suffered through the murders of her husband and a close family friend. Now she would have to endure the “passing” of a man who might have been a swindler but who undoubtedly served as her spiritual advisor and, Dora supposed, provided solace and counseling. Callaway’s motives might have been venal, but Dora was convinced he was a comfort to Olivia, something she could not obtain from husband or family.
It was two o’clock before Wenden finally showed up, looking as exhausted and disheveled as ever. He stripped off a tatty mackinaw and flopped onto the couch. “I’m bushed,” he announced, “and the day’s hardly started.”
Wordlessly, Dora brought him a cold can of Bud and popped it for him. He drank almost half without stopping, then took a deep breath.
“Thanks, Red. You’re looking mighty perky today.”
“I don’t feel perky,” she said. “What happened?”
“He was stabbed four or five times. Chest, stomach, ribs, abdomen. Then, for good measure, his throat was slit. Someone didn’t much like the guy. The place was a butcher shop.”
“You think it was one of those dopers or derelicts his church feeds down there?”
“No,” the detective said, and stirred uncomfortably. “He was lying naked, faceup on his bed. And he was tied up.”
“So he couldn’t fight?”
Wenden stared at her. “He was spread-eagled. Ankles and wrists tied to the bedposts with silk scarves. Slipknots. He could have pulled loose. It was a sex scene, Red.”
She looked at him, expressionless.
“A lot of guys go for that bondage stuff,” John said, shrugging. “I’ve seen kinkier things than that.”
“You think he was gay and picked up some rough trade?”
“That was our first thought, but now we’re not so sure. It may have been set up to look that way. The crime scene guys are still working, vacuuming the whole joint. We’ll know more when we get their report. Hey, I’m hungry. You promised me a sandwich.”
“I’m sorry, John. I got so interested in what you were saying, I forgot. The sandwiches are already made. Salami on rye with hot mustard. And kosher dills.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, “I can go for that.”
She brought out a platter of sandwiches covered with a damp napkin, and the pickles.
“You’re not drinking?” he asked her.
“Maybe a diet cola.”
“Will you stop it?” he said, almost angrily. “You’ve got this complex about being too fat.”
“It’s not a complex; I know I am.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, and began to wolf down one of the thick salami sandwiches.
“John,” Dora said, nibbling, “how do you figure this connects with the Starrett and Guthrie homicides?”
“I don’t know that it does,” he said, then looked up at her. “Do you?”
“Not really,” she confessed. “But knives were used in all three.”
“Different knives,” he told her. “I can’t say for sure until the ME does his thing, but I’d guess that the blade used on Callaway was different from the chef’s knife that killed Starrett and the stiletto that finished Guthrie. A lot of shivs in this town, kiddo. The weapon of choice. They don’t make noise.”
“But all three victims were connected,” she argued. “They knew each other. All were part of the Starrett circle.”
He started on a second sandwich. “It could be a serial killer who just happened to pick
three targets who were acquainted. I don’t believe that for a minute. Or it could be someone with a grudge against the Starrett family and their friends and associates. So he’s picking them off one by one.”
“Have you put guards on the Starrett apartment?” she asked worriedly.
“Of course. But you know as well as I do how much good that will do. A determined killer can always find a way. And sooner or later, the guards will have to be withdrawn.”
“So you do think the same person, or persons, is responsible for all three murders?”
“It’s a possibility,” he admitted. “Is that what you think?”
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I don’t know what the hell is going on.”
“You and me both,” John said, and sat back, sighing. “That hit the spot. This is probably the only solid food I’ll have all day.”
“Take the leftover sandwiches with you,” she said. “I insist.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I can use the calories. Listen, after I leave here, I’m going back to Twentieth Street. Callaway’s murder wasn’t my squeal, but I want to hang around the edges and see if the guys running it come up with anything.”
“Like what?”
“They’ll check all the trash baskets, garbage cans, and catch basins in the area to see if they can find the knife. And they’ll brace all the neighborhood stores, bars, and restaurants—flashing a photo of the dear, departed Father—to ask if he was in last night, and if so, was he with someone.”
“John, that’ll take days.”
“At least,” he agreed. “Maybe weeks. But it’s got to be done. Hey, you look sad. What’s wrong, Red?”
“I am sad,” she said. “You know about what? I’m sad about Sidney Loftus, aka Father Brian Callaway. I know he was a swindler and con man. I know he was taking Olivia Starrett and other religious saps for every cent he could grab. He was bad. But I still feel sorry for him, dying that way.”
“That’s a luxury I can’t afford,” John said. “Feeling sorry. I let myself feel and I’m no good to the Department.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it,” he insisted. “I’m like a surgeon. He goes to cut out a cancerous tumor, he can’t feel sorry for the patient; it would interfere with his job. All he’s interested in is if he’s getting out the entire malignancy. He’s got to think of the person under his knife as a thing. Meat. He can’t be distracted by feeling sad or feeling sorry.”
“Is that the way you think of people—as things?”
“Only the bad ones. Sid Loftus was a thing, so I can’t feel anything toward him. I don’t think of you as a thing. You know how I feel about you.”
“How?” she challenged.
“All the time,” he said, and she laughed.
“You’re a bulldog, you are,” she said.
“It sounds like a line, doesn’t it?” Wenden said. “It’s not. It’s a very, very serious pitch. I think it would make us both happy. All right, so it would be a temporary happiness. Nothing heavy, nothing eternal. Just a great rush that doesn’t hurt anyone. Is that so bad?”
“You don’t know,” she objected. “That it wouldn’t hurt anyone. You can’t predict.”
“I’m willing to take the risk,” he said. “Are you?”
She was silent.
“Think about it,” he entreated.
“All right,” Dora said, “I will.”
29
HE SAID HIS NAME was Ramon Schnabl, and no one questioned it or even considered inquiring about his antecedents. He was a serious man, and the few people who had heard him laugh wished they hadn’t. He was reputed to be enormously wealthy which, considering the nature of his business, was likely.
He was an extremely short, slender man whose suits were tailored in Rome and his shoes, with an invisible build-up, were the creation of a London cobbler. Everything he wore seemed tiny, tight, and shiny, and it was said that the toilet seats in his Central Park South apartment were custom-made as he might fall through a conventional design.
He was not an albino, exactly, for his eyes were dark and there was a faint flush to his thin cheeks. But he was undeniably pale, hair silver-white, skin milky, and even his knuckles translucent. He favored platinum jewelry and double-breasted white suits that accented his pallidness. He also wore, indoors and out, deeply tinted glasses as if he could not endure bright light or garish colors.
Turner Pierce thought him a dangerous man, quite possibly psychotic. But Helene thought him a fascinating character. What attracted her, she said, was the contradiction between his diminutive size and the menace he projected. Ramon never threatened, but associates were always aware that the power to hurt was there.
His apartment was as colorless as the man himself. The living room had blank white walls, a floor of black and white tiles set in a checkerboard pattern, black leather furniture with stainless steel frames. Over the cold white marble fireplace was the room’s sole decorative touch: the bleached skull of an oryx.
Ramon and Turner sat facing each other in matching clunky armchairs. The host had provided glasses of chilled Evian water. He was both a teetotaler and rigidly antismoking. At the moment, his guest was wishing fervently for a cigarette and tumbler of iced Absolut.
“Matters are progressing well,” Schnabl said in his dry, uninflected voice. “You agree, my friend?”
“Oh yes,” Pierce said. “No problems.”
“None?” the other man said. “Then tell me why you appear so troubled.”
“Do I?” Turner said, wishing he could peer behind the dark glasses and see the eyes that saw so much. He tried a laugh. “Well, you know they say a man has only two troubles in this world: money and women.”
“And which is yours?”
“Not money,” Pierce said hastily. “No trouble there at all. I have a personal problem with a woman.”
“Oh?” Schnabl said. “Surely not Helene, that dear lady?”
Turner shook his head.
“Then it must be Felicia Starrett, Clayton’s sister.”
Turner nodded, not questioning how Ramon knew. This little man knew everything. “Not a serious problem,” he assured Ramon. “But she is inclined to be very emotional, very unpredictable.”
“A bad combination, my friend. Vindictive?”
“I’m afraid the possibility is there.”
“I thought she was dependent on you for her supply.”
“She is,” Turner said, “but it isn’t working out quite as I had planned. She still wants more.”
“More?”
“Me,” Pierce said, realizing he was giving up an edge but not seeing any alternative.
“I understand, my friend,” Ramon said, totally without sympathy. “You have a management problem.”
“Yes,” Turner said, “something like that.”
“Perhaps stronger medicine is called for.”
Pierce looked at him, puzzled. “Such as?”
Ramon regarded him gravely for a moment. Then: “I am introducing a new product line. Large crystals of methamphetamine that can be smoked. On the street it is called ‘ice.’ I believe it may be the preferred recreation of the 1990s; other products will become déclassé. The great benefit of ice is that it produces euphoria that lasts twenty-four hours. It might prove to be the answer to your management problem.”
“Thank you,” Turner Pierce said humbly.
He met Felicia that night. They dined at Vito’s, and he smiled at her blather, laughed at her jokes, and held hands when they strolled back to his apartment. A tumescent moon drifted in a cloudless sky, and the whole night seemed swollen with promise: something impending on the wind, something lurking in the blue shadows, ready to pounce, smirking.
“What a hoot,” she chattered on. “Clay divorces Eleanor and marries Helene. And you and I tie the knot. One big, happy family! Right, Turner? Am I right?”
“You’re right,” he said. “We�
��ll be the fearless foursome.”
“Love it,” she said, squeezing his hand. “The fearless foursome—that’s us. We might even have a pas de quatre some night if we all get high enough. Would you go for that?”
“Why not,” he said.
She wouldn’t even let him pour brandies, but began removing her clothes the moment she was inside the door. But he was deliberately slow, something spiteful in his teasing. He did enjoy her need and his power, meaning to punish for all the trouble she was causing him. But his cruelties only aroused her the more, and she welcomed the pain as evidence of his passion. This woman, he decided, was demented and so trebly dangerous.
Later, he left her on the bed and went into the kitchen for his cognac. He returned to the bedroom carrying the brandy, a glass pipe, a small packet of crystal chunks. She looked at him with dimmed eyes, then struggled upright.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Something new for you,” he said. “It’s called ice. The latest thing. You smoke it.”
“You, too?”
He held up the brandy. “This is my out,” he said. “The pipe is yours.”
She inspected the crystals. “Ice,” she said. “Like diamonds.”
“Exactly like diamonds,” he told her. “It’s the in thing. Everything else is déclassé.”
That’s all she had to hear, being a victim of trendiness, and she packed the pipe with trembling fingers, clutching it tightly while he held a match. She took a deep puff and inhaled deeply with closed eyes.
The rush hit her almost immediately. Her eyes popped open, widened, and she sucked greedily at the pipe.
“Good?” he asked her.
She looked at him with a foolish smile and leaned back against the headboard. She continued to fellate the pipe but slowly now, sipping lazily.
He put a palm to her naked shank and was shocked at how fevered her flesh had become. She was burning up.
The crystals were consumed. Turner took the glass pipe from Felicia’s limp fingers and set it aside.
Suddenly she began to laugh, convulsed with merriment. Energized, she rose swiftly from the bed, stood swaying a moment, still heaving with laughter. She rushed into the living room, staggering, banging off the walls, and returned just as quickly, before he could move.
Seventh Commandment Page 16
