The seventh commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Good morning!" he caroled, shaking her hand enthusiastically. "Sorry to keep you waiting. The Christmas season, you know-our busiest time. Here, let me take your coat. Now you sit right here. Dreadful office, isn't it? So dark and gloomy. I'm having the whole place done over. Bright colors. Much livelier. Well, I hope you've brought me good news about the insurance."

  "Not quite yet, Mr. Starrett," Dora said with a set smile, "but we're getting there. We'd like the mystery of your father's death cleared up before the claim is approved. As I'm sure you would."

  "Of course, of course," he cried. "Anything I can do to help. Anything at all."

  He seemed in an antic mood, and she decided to take advantage of it. "Just a few little questions. Really extraneous to my investigation, but I like to dot the»*s and cross the t's. Could you tell me how you and your family met Helene and Turner Pierce?"

  He was startled by the question, then sat back, tapped fingertips together. "How did we meet the Pierces? Now let me see… I think it was a few years ago. Yes, at least two. Father Callaway was over for dinner and I happened to mention something about the inadequacy of our computers. The Father said he had just the man for me, a management consultant who specialized in designing and upgrading computer systems. So I said to send him around. He was Turner Pierce, and he's done a marvelous job for us. And through Turner I met his sister Helene. A charming couple. They came over for dinner several times, and we all became good friends."

  "I see," Dora said. "And did you investigate Turner's credentials before you-"

  But then the phone on Starrett's desk jangled, and he looked at it, frowning.

  "Damn it," he said. "I told my secretary to hold all my calls. Excuse me a moment, please."

  He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and picked up the phone. "Yes? Who? All right, put him on." He looked up at Dora, puzzled. "A police officer," he said. Then: "Hello? Yes, this is Clayton Starrett. That's correct. What? What? Oh my God! When did this happen? Oh God, how awful! Yes, of course. I understand. I'll be there as soon as possible."

  He hung up. He stared blankly at Dora, and she rose to her feet, fearing he might collapse. He was stricken, face broken and sagging, eyes wide and staring, lips trembling.

  "The police," he said, voice cracking. "They say Solomon Guthrie has been killed. Murdered."

  "Who?"

  "Sol Guthrie, our chief financial officer. He's been with Starrett forty years. A good friend of my father."

  He began to blink rapidly, but it didn't work; tears overflowed. He wiped them away angrily with the back of his hand.

  "How was he killed?" Dora asked.

  "Stabbed to death. Like father. Oh, this lousy, rotten city! I hate it, just hate it!"

  "It's not only New York, Mr. Starrett. It's happening everywhere."

  He nodded, stood up, took a deep breath. "I've got to go. The police asked me to come to, uh, where Sol was found. They want me to, uh, identify the body. West End Avenue and Seventy-first Street. Yes, that's what he said."

  Dora moved behind the desk to put a hand on his arm. "Mr. Starrett, would you like me to go with you? Perhaps it would be a little easier if you weren't alone."

  He looked at her, face twisted. "Would you do that? Thank you. Yes, please come with me. I'd really appreciate it. Listen, there's a bottle of Scotch in that sideboard over there, and glasses. Would you pour us a drink while I call down and have my driver bring the car around."

  She poured him a stiff shot of whiskey, but none for herself. He finished on the phone and downed his drink in two gulps. Then he coughed, and his eyes began to water again.

  "Let's go," he said hoarsely.

  On the drive uptown he kept his head turned away from her, staring out the limousine's tinted windows at the mean streets of his city.

  "How old a man was he, Mr. Starrett?"

  "Sol was sixty-three."

  "Married?"

  "A widower. He has two grown sons, but they don't live in New York. They'll have to be notified as soon as possible. I hope we have their addresses in our personnel file."

  "The police will find them," Dora assured him. "Did they say if the killer had been caught?"

  "They didn't say."

  "What do you suppose he was doing there-where his body was found?"

  "Probably on his way to work. He lived on Eighty-sixth and Riverside Drive."

  They found West 71st Street blocked by two uniformed police officers. Clayton Starrett identified himself and the limo was allowed to move slowly down to the far end of the block. There were squad cars, an ambulance, a van from the police lab, all parked in a jagged semicircle around a yellow cab with opened doors. Crime scene tape, tied to trees and iron fences, held back a small throng of gawkers.

  A burly man wearing a plaid mackinaw, ID clipped to his lapel, came over to them.

  "Mr. Starrett?"

  Clayton nodded.

  "I'm Detective Stanley Morris. I spoke to you on the phone. Thanks for helping us out. We need positive identification. This way, please."

  He took Clayton firmly by the arm and started to lead him toward the cab.

  "Can I come?" Dora asked.

  The detective stopped, looked back at her. "Who are you?"

  "Dora Conti. I'm a friend of Mr. Starrett."

  "Did you know the victim?"

  "No," she said.

  "Then you stay here."

  Left alone, she looked about and saw John Wenden leaning against the door of a squad car, talking to a uniformed officer. She moved around to his line of sight and waved her arm wildly. He spotted her and came over, face expressionless.

  "What the hell are you doing here, Red?" he asked her.

  "I was in Clayton's office when he got the call. I thought he should have someone with him."

  "How did he take the news?"

  "Total shock. And he wasn't faking. This Solomon Guth-rie-he was stabbed?"

  Wenden nodded.

  "Like Lewis Starrett?"

  "No. From the front. And more than one wound. Several, in fact."

  "Same kind of knife? An eight-inch triangular blade?"

  "I doubt it. It looks more like a kind of stiletto, but we won't know for sure until the autopsy."

  "Any leads?"

  "Nothing worth a shit."

  "What about the cab?"

  "It was stolen early this morning from Broadway and Seventy-ninth. The driver parked for a minute to run into a deli to pick up a coffee and bagel. He left his motor running-the schmuck! When he came out, the cab was gone. It ended up here."

  "Robbery?"

  "Doesn't look like it. Guthrie's wallet and credit cards are all there. And a gold Starrett pocket watch. Nothing was touched. He was carrying a briefcase full of Starrett business papers. That's how come Clayton was called."

  Dora shook her head. "I don't get it. Clayton says he was probably on his way to work. Then the driver turns in here, goes to the dead end, stops, gets out of the cab, opens the back door, stabs his passenger to death, and walks away. Do you believe it?"

  "No," John said, "it doesn't fit. The victim would have plenty of time to scream or get out the other side of the cab or put up a fight. But there's no sign of a struggle. I'm betting on two perps: the driver and another guy in back with Guthrie."

  "A planned homicide?"

  "I'd guess so. Probably professionals. A contract killing most likely. They knew exactly what they were doing. The lab crew is vacuuming the cab now. They'll be able to tell us more. What does this do to your theory that Father Callaway offed Lewis Starrett?"

  "Knocks it into left field," Dora admitted. "The chairman and principal stockholder of Starrett Fine Jewelry gets stabbed to death on East Eighty-third Street. Then the chief financial officer of Starrett gets knifed on West Seventy-first. You don't believe in coincidences, do you?"

  "Hell, no. Not in this business."

  "So where does that leave your official theory that Lewis Starrett's death was a random killing by a st
ranger?"

  "Right next to yours," he said, "out in left field. It seems obvious the two homicides are connected, and Starrett Jewelry is probably the key. So now we start searching through their files for fired employees or someone who might have a grudge against the company and decided to knock off its executives to get even."

  "You going to put a guard on Clayton?"

  "We can't baby-sit him twenty-four hours a day. Haven't got the manpower. But we'll warn him and suggest he beef up security at his stores and hire personal bodyguards for himself, his family and top executives. He can afford it. Oh-oh, here he comes now."

  Clayton Starrett, supported by Detective Stanley Morris, returned to the limousine. He was almost tottering; his face was ashen.

  "I'll ride back to his office with him," Dora said, "or to his home, if that's where he wants to go. Listen, John, will you call me tonight if anything new breaks on this case?"

  "I'll call you tonight even if nothing breaks," Wenden said. "Okay, Red?"

  "Sure," Dora said. "I'm glad you shaved. Keep up the good work."

  Chapter 15

  "I'm ready," Felicia Starrett said.

  "You're always ready," Turner Pierce said, and she giggled.

  The bedroom of Turner's sublet in Murray Hill was like the rest of the apartment: dark with heavy oak furniture, worn oriental rugs, and drapes of tarnished brocade. On every flat surface was artfully arranged the owner's collection of porcelain figurines: shepherds, ballerinas, courtiers, elves and fairies-all in pinks and lavenders.

  Few of Turner's possessions were in view: mostly scattered newspapers, magazines, and computer trade journals. A closed Compaq laptop was on the marble sideboard and, in the bedroom, a bottle of Tanqueray vodka was in an aluminum bucket of ice cubes alongside the bed. Also thrust into the bucket was a clump of baby Vidalia onions.

  Felicia rose naked from the crumpled sheets, stood shakily. She put hands on her hips and drew a deep breath before heading into the bathroom.

  Turner stretched to pour himself a wineglass of chilled vodka. He selected one of the onions and began to gnaw on the white bulb. Felicia came from the bathroom, tugging snarls from her hair with a wide-toothed comb. She paused to pull on Turner's shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed and watched him drink and chew his onion. He oflFered her the glass of vodka, but she shook her head.

  "Not my shtick," she said, "as you well know. Where did you learn to make love like that?"

  "My mother taught me," he said.

  She laughed. "Not your sister?"

  "No, she taught dad."

  Felicia laughed again. "You bastard," she said, "you always top me. Listen, I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse."

  "Oh?" he said, dropping an ice cube into his vodka.

  "When the insurance money comes in, I'm going to have a cool million. I own ten percent of Starrett Fine Jewelry, and that pays me about fifty grand a year in dividends. And when mother shuffles off, I'll be a very, very wealthy lady."

  "So?"

  "I want to buy you," she said. "I'm proposing, you stinker. Marry me, and you'll be set for life. I'll sign any kind of a prenuptial agreement your shyster comes up with."

  He showed no sign of surprise or shock; just began to nibble on the green onion top.

  "Why would you want to do that?" he asked.

  "Because I'm tired of alley-catting around. I'm tired of one-night stands. I'm tired of burned-out men who are scared of making a commitment. I'm tired of living in my father's house, now my mother's. I want my own home and my own man. I'm about ten years older than you-correct?"

  "More like fifteen," he said casually.

  "Swine!" she said. "But what the hell difference does age make? I'm as young as you in bed. Right or wrong?"

  "Right," he said.

  "You betcha. There's nothing you've asked me to do that I haven't done. I can keep up with you. The body's not so bad, is it?"

  "The body's good," he acknowledged.

  "It should be-the money I spend on it. I may not be a centerfold, but I'm not a dried-out husk either. And you'll be getting financial security for the rest of your life. What do you say?"

  He poured more vodka, and this time she lifted the drink from his fingers and took a gulp. She grimaced and handed back the glass.

  "What would your family say?" he asked. "Your mother? Clayton?"

  "Screw my family," she said wrathfully. "I've got my own life to live. I can't keep living it the way they want me to. I'll bet you don't let Helene run your life."

  "Your mother could disown you," he pointed out.

  "Not without a helluva court fight," Felicia said. "If she dies and I don't get half the estate, some lawyer is going to earn mucho dinero representing me. But that's all in the future. Right now I've got enough loot so that you and I could live the lush life. Well?"

  "Interesting proposition," Turner said. "I'll have to think about it."

  "Sure," she said. "Run it through your little computer and see if it doesn't make sense. Now let me prove that marrying me would be the smartest deal you ever made."

  He finished his vodka, set the empty glass on the floor. "I have something for you," he said. "Want it now?"

  "I thought you'd never ask," she said. "Where is it?"

  "Top bureau drawer."

  "How much?"

  "A gram."

  "You darling!" she cried.

  Chapter 16

  Two days before Christmas, Dora Conti went home to Hartford, lugging an espresso machine in a bulky carton. She had spent more than she intended, but it was a marvelous gadget. Not only did it make espresso and cappuccino, but it also ground coffee beans. And it had enough shiny spigots, valves, dials, and switches to keep Mario happily busy for days while he learned to brew a perfect cup of coffee.

  Before she left New York, Dora called John Wenden. He reported there was nothing new on either the Lewis Star-rett or Solomon Guthrie homicides. The Department was checking out all discharged employees of Starrett Fine Jewelry, but it was going to be an arduous task.

  "We got their employment records," Wenden said, "but there's been a big turnover in the last two years. This is going to take a long, long time."

  "Did you get anything from Records about Callaway or the Pierces?"

  "Not yet. They say they're working on it, and if I push them, they're liable to get pissed off and stall just to teach me a lesson. That's the way the world works."

  "Tell me about it," Dora said. "I have the same problem in my shop."

  Then she told him she would return to Manhattan on January 2nd and would call him when she got back. She wished him a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

  "Likewise," John said.

  So she went home, feeling guilty about leaving him alone for the holidays, and thinking what an irrational emotion that was. But he seemed such a weary, lost man that she worried about him and wished she had bought him a Christmas gift. A maroon cashmere muffler would have been nice. But then she wondered if NYPD detectives wore mufflers.

  Mario was at work when Dora arrived home, so she was able to conceal his gift in the back of her closet. In the living room he had erected a bushy six-foot Douglas fir and alongside it, brought up from the basement, were boxes of ornaments, tinsel, garlands, and strings of lights. There was a big bottle of Frascati in the fridge, and in the wine rack on the countertop were bottles of Lacrima Cristi, Soave, Valpolicella, and-Dora's favorite-Asti Spumante.

  They had a splendid holiday, all the better because they spent it alone. On Christmas Eve they made love under the glittering tree because it seemed a holy thing to do. Mario gave her a marvelous tennis bracelet, and even if the diamonds were pebbles compared to the rocks that Star-rett women wore, Dora thought it the most beautiful gift she had ever received, and her happiness was doubled by Mario's joy with his new espresso machine.

  During the remainder of the week, Dora went to the office every day and wrote a progress report on the word processor, consulting h
er spiral notebook to make certain she could justify her surmises and conclusions. She left the nineteen-page report on Mike Trevalyan's desk late one evening, and the next morning she was summoned to his office, a dank chamber cluttered with files and bundles of computer printout tied with twine. The air was fetid with cigar smoke; during crises or explosions of temper, Tre-valyan was known to keep two cigars going at once.

  He was a porcine man with small eyes, a pouty mouth, and all the sweet reasonableness of a Marine drill instructor. But the Company didn't pay him an enormous salary for affability. They wanted him to be irascible, suspicious, and to scan every insurance claim as if the money was coming out of his own pocket. He had worked as a claims adjuster all his life, expected chicanery and, it was said, was furiously disappointed when he couldn't find it.

  "This case," he said, pointing his cigar at Dora's report, "it reeketh in the nostrils of the righteous. There's frigging in the rigging going on here, kiddo, and I'm not paying a cent until we know more."

  "I agree," Dora said. "Too many unanswered questions."

  "The cops think it was a disgruntled ex-employee taking out his grudge on Starrett executives?"

  "That's what they think," she said.

  "You know what's wrong with that theory?" Trevalyan demanded.

  "Of course "I know," Dora said. "It doesn't account for the knife disappearing from the Starretts' apartment, maybe on the night Lewis was killed. That's the first thing I want to check out when I get back to New York."

  "This Detective Wenden you mention-he should have seen that. Is the guy a bubblehead?"

  "No, he's just overworked, running a half-dozen homicide cases at the same time. He happens to be a very experienced and conscientious professional."

  Trevalyan stared at her. "You wouldn't have the hots for this guy, would you?"

  "Oh Mike, don't be such an asshole. No, I haven't got the hots for him. Yes, we are friends. You want me to make an enemy of the detective handling the case?"

  "Just don't get too close," he warned. "It's your brains I'm buying, not your glands. If he's as overworked as you say, he might try to sweep the whole thing under the rug."