The seventh commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  But he ordered a light beer with his club steak. Dora also had a beer with her chefs 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 maitre 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?"

  "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. Alw
ays 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.

  CHAPTER 4

  The flagship store of Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc., was located on Park Avenue just south of 57th Street. It occupied one of the few remaining town houses on the Avenue in midtown Manhattan, surrounded by steel and glass towers. The baroque six-story structure, built in 1896 as the family home of a shipping magnate, was designed by a student of Stanford White, and the exterior had been cited by the Landmarks Preservation Commission.

  The jewelry selling area was on the ground level, with silverware, crystal, and china on the second. The third and fourth floors were designers' studios and shops for engraving and repairs. Executive offices filled the top two stories. Starrett's main workshop for the crafting of exclusive designs was in Brooklyn. The company also purchased quantity items and gold chains from independent suppliers in Taiwan and South Korea.

  In addition to New York, Starrett stores were located in Boston, Chicago, Beverly Hills, San Francisco, Atlanta, Dallas, Palm Beach, London, Paris, Zurich, Hong Kong, Honolulu, Cancun, Rome, and Brussels. Starrett did not have a mail order catalogue but sometimes sent favored customers drawings of new designs before they were made up and offered to the general public. Many of these were one-of-a-kind pieces: brooches, bracelets, rings, necklaces, tiaras.

  Generally, all the Starrett stores, worldwide, offered the same merchandise, although the mix was often varied. The general manager of each shop ordered the items from New York that he thought would sell best in his area. In addition, every Starrett store had its own workshop and was encouraged to produce jewelry on special order for valued clients, usually personalized items designed to the customer's specifications.

  During the last year, Clayton Starrett's second as president and chief executive officer, he had replaced the general managers of nine of the sixteen Starrett stores. Some of these men (and one woman) had been with the company for ten, fifteen, twenty years, and their termination had been the cause of the violent disagreement between Clayton and his father.

  The late Lewis Starrett claimed they were all experienced, loyal employees who had proved their competence, and firing them was not only an act of ingratitude but, more important, would have an adverse effect on revenues and net profits.

  But Clayton was adamant. The veterans would have to go because, he said, they knew little about modern merchandising, advertising, promotion, and public relations. They were content to cater to an aging clientele and made no effort to attract a new generation of Starrett customers.

  The argument between father and son became so fierce that it began to affect the morale of personnel in the New York store. It was only resolved when Clayton, white-faced, threatened to resign and move out of his parents' apartment. Thereupon the old man backed down, and the son became the recognized and undisputed boss of Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc.

  The new general managers he hired for the subsidiary stores were mostly hard young men, smartly dressed, with an eye on the bottom line and a brusque manner with subordinates. A few were reputedly MBAs, and several were foreign-born. All seemed possessed of driving ambition and, shortly before his death, Lewis Starrett had to admit that revenues and net profits were increasing spectacularly.

  When Lewis ran the company with iron fist and bellows of rage, he arrived for work each morning at 7:30 and frequently put in a twelve-hour day. Clayton's style of management was considerably more laid-back. He showed up around ten o'clock, took a lengthy lunch and, if he returned from that, was usually out of the office by five.

  On this day he stepped from his chauffeured stretch limousine (a presidential perk) and entered the Starrett Fine Jewelry Building a few minutes before ten. He hardly glanced into the selling area, almost devoid of customers. He was not dismayed; Starrett's patrons were not early-morning shoppers; they preferred late afternoon.

  A small, elaborately decorated elevator lifted him slowly to his private office on the top floor. His secretary, an English import hired more for her accent than her ability, took his homburg and chesterfield. A few minutes later she returned with a cup of black coffee and a toasted bagel.

  This minibreakfast was served on bone china in an exclusive Starrett pattern called Belladonna.

  As he gnawed his bagel, he reviewed the day's schedule. There was nothing that seemed to him of monumental importance, and he wondered if, about four or four-thirty that afternoon, he might call Helene Pierce and ask if she was willing to receive him.

  He was paying $5,400 a month for her apartment, giving her $1,000 a week walking-around money, and occasionally bringing her small diamonds for her collection. But in spite of this largesse, he had to obey her rules: no unexpected visits, limited phone calls, no questions as to how she spent her time. He accepted these dictates cheerfully because, he admitted to himself, he was obsessed. Helene was half his age, had a body that never failed to arouse him, and was so practiced in the craft of love that he never ceased to wonder how one so young could be so knowing and experienced.

  His first task of the morning was to review, on his desktop computer, the previous day's sales at the sixteen Starrett stores. It was then the height of the Christmas shopping season, a period that usually accounted for thirty percent of Starrett's annual revenues. He punched the keys and watched intently as numbers filled the screen.

  The computer showed not only current sales but provided comparison with income of the same week during the previous five years. The numbers Clayton studied showed that Starrett's business was essentially flat; the increase was barely enough to cover the inflation rate. He was now more firmly convinced than ever that Starrett could not depend solely on retail sales for continued profits and growth.

  He then switched to a software program for which only he possessed the access code. Now the numbers shown on the screen were much more encouraging. Exciting, in fact, and he blessed the day Helene and Turner Pierce had come into his life. Helene had brought joy, and sometimes rapture; Turner had provided financial salvation.

  His first meeting was with an in-house designer to go over proposed designs for a new line of sterling silver keyrings in the shapes of mythological beasts. They had a surrealistic discussion as to whether or not the unicorn was a phallic symbol and if so, what effect it might have on sales. Clayton eventually initialed all the sketches except for the centaur, which he deemed too suggestive for public display and sale.

  He accepted a phone call from Eleanor and spoke with her for almost fifteen minutes, marveling (not for the first time) how his adulterous affair had made him a better husband, more patient with his wife and amenable to her wishes. She had called to remind him that they were to attend a charity dinner and fashion show at the Metropolitan Museum.

  Eleanor was not directly involved, but the Starretts had subscribed ($1,000 a couple) because one of Eleanor's close friends had organized the affair. These endless charity parties were, Clayton knew, a world of mutual back-scratching. He submitted because they kept his wife
busy and naPPy› and because they were good public relations. Also, he enjoyed wearing a dinner jacket.

  He then met with an interior decorator and went over plans to redecorate his office. The day after his father's funeral, Clayton had moved into his office, the largest in the executive suite. But it was crammed with dark oak furniture, the windows overlooking Park Avenue half-hidden behind dusty velvet drapes, the walls covered with flocked paper. Clayton spent an hour describing exactly what he wanted: stainless steel, glass, Bauhaus-style chairs, bright Warhols on the walls, and perhaps a Biedermeier couch as a conversation piece.

  He lunched at a Japanese restaurant, the guest of a Tokyo merchant who wanted Starrett to carry a choice selection of antique inro and netsuke. While they ate sa-shimi and drank hot sake, the exporter displayed a few samples of his exquisitely carved wares. Clayton was fascinated and agreed to accept a small shipment on consignment as a test of the sales potential.

  He returned to his office, wondering if Starrett might emulate Gump's of San Francisco and offer imported curios, bibelots, and objets d'art. They could, he reckoned, be sold in the department now handling estate jewelry, and might very well find a market.

  He dictated several letters to his secretary and, after she left, called Helene's apartment on his private line. But there was no answer, and he guessed she was out spending money. "Shopping," she had once told him, "is my second favorite pastime."

  It was then almost 4:30, and Clayton decided to call his limousine, return home, and take a nap before he dressed for dinner. But then Solomon Guthrie phoned and asked if he could come up immediately. Guthrie was Starrett's chief financial officer, and Clayton knew what he wanted to talk about.

  Sol was sixty-three, had worked for Starrett forty years, and called his bosses Mister Lewis and Mister Clayton. He had a horseshoe of frazzled white hair around a bald pate, and was possibly the last office worker in New York to wear celluloid cuff protectors. He had learned, with difficulty, to use computers, but still insisted in keeping a duplicate set of records in his spidery script in giant ledgers that covered half his desk.