The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2)

by Love, William F.

  I had a feeling this was straight, and I wanted more. “Okay. I want to hear about this audit. What do you know about it?”

  “Plenty.” Sandy smiled grimly. “After Laura slammed out, Bob told me all about it. See, Betty and Laura went to Bob last spring. Asked him to do a complete certified audit of Penniston Associates. Point was to set the price George McClendon was going to have to pay to buy in, you know?

  “Well, Laura’d been real happy with the audit — at first. Because it showed the firm was worth something like nine million bucks. So George would have had to pony up three just for a one-third partnership. Laura was bubbling over the day she got the results. I know it was a lot more than either one of them had expected to get. Of course some of it would have gone into the company, but lots would have gone to the two of them. But then, oh, maybe early September, everything changed.” Sandy closed her eyes, remembering.

  “Let’s see, McClendon came in to the office… When was it?” Her brow wrinkled. “Well, it was right after Labor Day, I remember that. I remember everyone was working on the winter schedule, which always starts Labor Day week. Anyway, George and Laura had a long meeting in her office. And she was in a foul mood after he left. Slamming around and being impossible, you know? After lunch, she and Betty went into the board room and spent the rest of the afternoon there, just the two of them. They were still there when I went home about six. And Bob —”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted. I was taking notes rapidly. “You say this was in September? Two months ago?” Sandy nodded, taking another sip.

  “Right. Like I say, it was the week of Labor Day. It was Tuesday or Wednesday of that week. Anyway, I ran into Bob getting off the elevator. And he looked worried. I remember, he was loaded down with two huge briefcases — suitcases, really. He asked me where Laura and Betty were meeting. And what kind of mood they were in. I teased him about how worried he looked, but he wasn’t in a joking mood, so I just sent him to the board room. I remember wondering what was going on.

  “And I never found out — till Laura blew up the night she died. After she stomped out, I asked Bob, ‘What was that all about?’ And he told me.

  “Seems this guy Sarnoff had been overcharging Laura for his models. For a year or so he’d been providing most of our models, only he was overcharging by thirty or forty percent. Bob said he should have caught it when he did the audit but didn’t. And Laura’d been understanding about it — up until that night.”

  “How’d they happen to start using Sarnoff in the first place?”

  Sandy frowned at me. “I know. That’s the strange thing. I always thought he and Laura were friends. Laura started doing business with him, oh, a year or so ago. Laura’d send him a check every month to cover all the jobs his models had done the previous month. Funny thing is, these were all our models. I always figured there was some sort of tax reason we were doing it that way.

  “Well, as Bob explained it to me, it didn’t have anything to do with taxes. Sarnoff just charged us one-and-a-half times the going rate and pocketed the difference. So when Bob missed it in the audit, he’d have been in deep doo-doo if Laura and Betty had wanted to sue. But they didn’t. Much to Bob’s relief.”

  I frowned. “So Laura — and Betty — did Bob a real favor.”

  “Right. I guess it was Betty who’d taken most of the heat. I mean, Betty was supposed to be the financial whiz, so it was really her fault. At least that’s the way Laura felt. Or so Bob said. But he said Laura’d never got mad at him, even though he’d blown the audit.”

  I sensed a breakthrough. “How do I get hold of this Sarnoff?”

  Sandy shrugged. “I’ve never met the guy. But I’m pretty sure you could locate him. Maybe through your friend…” Sandy grinned at me. “…Betty Donovan. She must know him. Or talk to Lee Stubbs. Know who he is? Lee’s our banker at Mid-City National. And Sarnoff’s, too. I was the one who made the deposit to Sarnoff’s company every month, you know? Models For Hire. In fact, I’m the one who opened their account.”

  “You opened the account?” I was puzzled. “You opened the account and you didn’t even know him?”

  Sandy nodded. “I know, I know, this whole thing’s kind of strange. Here’s how it went.

  “A year ago last spring, I got an office memo from Laura giving me instructions to open an account for Models for Hire. I was to handle it through Lee — Mr. Stubbs. Along with the memo was a check Laura’d signed — two thousand bucks, as I recall.

  “So I got the stuff I needed from Lee — Mr. Stubbs…” Sandy blushed and flicked me a glance. “I got Mr. Sarnoff’s signature on everything —”

  “Hold it, Sandy. You never met Sarnoff. How’d you get his signatures on all those documents?”

  “I just sent all the stuff to him through the mail — that’s what Laura told me to do.” Sandy frowned. “Come to think of it, I did think it was funny at the time. It was a box number. I remember wondering where the heck the guy was located.”

  “You don’t remember the number, do you?”

  “Nope, sorry. Anyway, Lee opened the account, and after that, every month I’d get a check from Laura like clockwork for all the models we’d used from Models for Hire for the previous month. And I’d make out the deposit slip — I had a supply of them for Models for Hire — and I’d go to the bank and make the deposit, and send the receipt to the company — to Models for Hire — at that post office box.”

  I was writing fast. “How much were the checks?”

  Sandy shrugged. “All over the place. Biggest one might have been thirty thousand. Usually they were around fifteen or twenty. I thought it was a funny way of doing business, but what did I know? You know?”

  “Did you ever talk to Laura about it?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think anything ever came up — till that night. It was just a real smooth deal.”

  “Who else knew about Sarnoff? Did Betty?”

  Sandy gave that some thought, then shook her head again. “Nope. I don’t think I ever heard her mention the name. My impression was this was Laura’s private deal and we weren’t supposed to talk about it. That was just my impression.”

  That was all Sandy could — or would — tell me about the mysterious Steven Sarnoff. (You know?) So I changed directions. I asked her the same question I’d asked Theodore earlier, wondering if I’d get the same answer.

  “Did Bob give you a ride home? On the night of the party, I mean.”

  Sandy studied me for several seconds, a slight smile playing on her full lips. She took a deliberate sip of wine and put her glass down.

  “Oh, yes,” she finally said, meeting my eyes, her voice at its most musical. “He took me home, all right. And came in. And had his own wanton way with me.” She smiled lazily.

  I looked at her. “He stayed all night? And left when?”

  Sandy abruptly got to her feet, walked around her chair, put her hands on the back of it and faced me challengingly. “What difference does it make?”

  “No difference, probably. Any reason not to tell me?”

  “I suppose not.” She shrugged. “He left early. I offered to give him some breakfast, but he had to get going.”

  I nodded slowly and thought fast. “Then did he call you when he heard what had happened to Laura? Or did you call him? Or did you even talk about it?”

  “Why talk about it?” She’d turned sullen again. “Nothing we could say would bring her back to life. Or change what happened the night before.”

  “Well, when did you hear about Laura? About her death, I mean?”

  “I don’t remember.” Sandy was getting restive. My office is too small for pacing and she was beginning to look like a caged tiger. She took a breath.

  “Look. I want to go. I’m really grateful for you getting me that money, Dave. I won’t forget it. And as far as Laura’s concerned, I want the guy who did her caught, you know? And I’ll do anything to help. You say Fanning’s not the guy. Okay. Maybe he isn’t. But I’
m tired and just a little upset, you know? Nothing against you, Dave, but I really do want to go.”

  “Fine,” I said casually. “Just sit down for a second while I tell you about a dilemma I’ve got.” She sat, looking worried. With reason.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now, here’s my dilemma. I’ve got your story, and I’ve got Theodore’s, and they don’t agree. Oh, you both agree that he came home with you and that you went to bed together. But that’s all. The details are all wrong. So my dilemma is, do I call the cops and tell them about it?”

  I grinned at her. “See, it’s a murder case, and it’s just possible you two decided to cook up an alibi. But go ahead and run along, Sandy. I’m sure I’ll come to a decision soon. Probably about the time you call Bob to warn him that your stories don’t jibe. My advice is to get together right away — before the cops get to you — and work out your story better. And for God’s sake, get your details straight. Because, after what I tell them — if I tell them — they’re likely to be pretty tough on you.”

  Sandy had reddened when I started talking. But when I got to the part about how tough the cops were going to be, the color left her face.

  “That’s not true, Dave.” She was on her feet again. “Bob did spend the night!” She leaned over the desk, eyes flashing, perfume wafting. But the effect was diminished by her skin tone, which had turned blotchy under the makeup.

  I shrugged. “Fine. I’ll get the police over here and we’ll work it out right now.” I reached for the phone. Her hand came down on mine, hard.

  I looked at her, eyebrows raised. Sandy, shoulders sagging, took her hand off of mine and fell back in the chair.

  “Don’t call them, Dave.” Her voice sounded defeated. “I’ll tell you the truth.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, it’s about time. You’re just lucky the cops weren’t interested. You’d have been booked before you got halfway through that ridiculous story.”

  Sandy bit her lip and looked down. “I guess so,” she mumbled, and proceeded to give me the latest version. Bob had taken her home that night, kissed her and left. But when the news broke about Laura’s death the next morning, they’d decided to cook up a mutual alibi.

  “But why?” I wondered aloud. “This was obviously another Strangler John killing. Why’d either of you even think you might be suspects?”

  She was ready for that one. “But the first news reports weren’t all that clear, Davey. They said it resembled a Strangler John murder. So we panicked. I mean, after that big blow-up the night before, we both had motives.”

  They certainly did (I thought). In fact, what if they’d cooked up the plot to kill Laura after she left? And carried it out together? I began to reconsider whether Laura’s murder might have been a copycat.

  “So you cooked up a story. Over the phone?” Sandy nodded. “Who called who? I mean, that morning, the morning you found out Laura was dead.”

  Sandy hesitated before answering. “It was me. I heard the news on my radio almost as soon as I woke up. I called him right away.

  I nodded. “And who suggested this alibi story?”

  Another pause.

  “It was both of us.” She looked for my reaction and saw my skepticism. “All right, it was me,” she muttered sullenly. “You don’t think old Robert Redford could have thought that one up on his own, do you?” I grinned. She stayed glum.

  “Yeah, it was my idea. I had the notion we ought to cover ourselves. Can’t you understand that?”

  I shrugged. “Well, don’t worry, I’m not saying anything to the cops. Just yet. But one more question.” She nodded, watching me warily.

  “How much of this stuff did Blake ask you about? I mean, the phone call. Bob taking you home. The audit.”

  She laughed bitterly. “None of it. All that trouble Bob and I went to, and I never got to use it — till you came along. And neither did Bob. I tried to tell Blake about that phone call Laura got, but he cut me off. Said he already knew about it.

  “Well, it was no skin off my nose. I knew he’d interviewed Betty, and Betty knew about the call. But she didn’t know it was Sarnoff. Bob and I are the only ones who knew that. And Blake didn’t ask either one of us. What was the other thing? Oh, the audit. That never came up either.

  “Really, the only thing Blake seemed interested in was finding out whether I knew where Laura spent those two or three hours between the time she left the party and the time she was killed. When he decided I didn’t, that was it. I probably wasn’t with him more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

  I was out of questions — I thought — and phoned for a cab. But while we were waiting, I thought of one.

  “Oh, yeah — what about those earrings, Sandy? The ones Laura was wearing that night. They’re missing. Was she wearing them when she was in your office?”

  Sandy finished the last of her wine. “I didn’t notice. She had them on earlier.” Sandy smiled sourly. “Her famous red cross earrings. She let me wear them once on a job. I found them terribly uncomfortable; too heavy. My lobes were sore for a week.

  “Laura wouldn’t admit it — after all, they were gifts from her parents — but she found them uncomfortable, too. If she had to wear them for very long, she’d take them off when she went to the loo, give her ears a rest. But I can’t recall if she had them on there in my office.”

  It was 5:53 when I returned to my office from seeing her to the cab. Seven minutes till the Bishop finished his daily stint with the word processor and would be available to hear everything I’d learned. I had an idea. Maybe I could pull off one more coup on this day of brilliant coups. The way my luck was running, anything was possible.

  I keep my phone directories — several of them, fat ones — in the deep bottom drawer of my desk. Among them they cover the entire metropolitan area. I pulled them all out and looked up Sarnoff in every one. But my luck had run out. Not a Steven or even an S. Sarnoff in the lot.

  At 6:01 I tapped on the connecting door and entered. The boss glanced up at me, back at the screen, frowned and checked his watch. He sighed and turned off the computer.

  “Yes, David, time to quit. Thank God. I’m drowning in my own turgid prose.”

  I grinned. “Maybe I can resuscitate you. After you hear everything I learned today about the friends and business associates of one Laura Penniston, you’ll feel much better. I’ve got some stuff you’re going to love.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” the Bishop growled. “All right. I’m listening.”

  24

  Enjoyable as it sometimes is, briefing the boss is probably the hardest of all my many jobs. Even with the help of the notebook, it usually takes all my memory power to give him everything every time. He has an amazing ability to juggle hundreds of seemingly disconnected facts and find the two that fit. Since I’m never sure which facts will turn out to be the ones that fit, I have to be sure he gets them all.

  When Sister Ernestine called us for dinner at a quarter to seven I’d gotten as far as my meeting with McClendon. While we ate dinner — and I don’t have a clue what we had — and returned to the office, I kept right on going. As we walked — in his case, rolled — back to the office, I was telling about my trip to Theodore’s building. And when, at 10:08, I finished telling how I’d sent Sandy home and then had failed to locate any S. Sarnoff anywhere in any New York City area phone directory, I was satisfied the boss did everything I did. I was also as exhausted as I’ve ever been.

  Regan was sitting, a bit slumped in his wheelchair, eyes closed, chin in his hand. He didn’t say anything for a good thirty seconds after I finished.

  “Well, well, well, David.” He opened his eyes and shot me a glance. “Your usual thorough job of reporting. A busy day. And as productive as it was busy.”

  “Productive? Sounds promising. Are you onto something?”

  The Bishop pursed his lips and shrugged. “Umm. A conjecture, perhaps. Nothing worth troubling you about. Not at this point, at any rate. But I do have a question.”
/>   “Yeah?”

  “Yes. Haven’t you an obligation to tell the police about that concocted story? I refer to Miss Norville and Mr. Theodore attempting to convince you they spent the night together.”

  I gave that suggestion the treatment it deserved. “You kidding? Look, they’d lied to the cops and I knew it — maybe. But Blake never even gave them the chance. He doesn’t even care whether those two have alibis. So why should I tell Blake that the alibis he should have asked about but didn’t would have been lies if he had asked?”

  The boss subsided. When it comes to police procedure, he always defers to me. Well — almost always.

  Next point: my program for the following day.

  “As I see it,” I told him, “I should go back to Penniston Associates and talk to Nancy some more — assuming she hasn’t already been fired. I have a feeling that little girl could tell me some things.”

  Regan sniffed. “I noted your description of the young lady, David. Forgive me for saying so, but your predilection for comely young women may be distorting your normally good judgment.”

  I didn’t answer. That was obviously unfair, but I was too tired to start a fight over it. Regan glanced at me, saw my lip was zipped, and continued. “My own recommendation is that you go see Lee Stubbs first thing in the morning and find out everything he knows about Steven Sarnoff and related matters.”

  *

  We compromised. Next morning, promptly at 9:00, I was at the desk of Priscilla Moran, receptionist, on the eighth floor of Mid-City National Bank, asking to be shown to the office of Lee Stubbs, Vice-President.

  Not knowing what the day held, and in light of my previous success at power dressing, I had re-equipped myself in everything from the day before, the now soiled white shirt excepted. Since I owned no other white dress shirt, I hoped a blue button-down would serve as well. Naturally I brought the magical attaché case. I’d stuck another New York Times in it to give it a little more heft.