Dora sighed. "Hardly a unique story."
Pinchik stared at her. "I saved the best for last. Her real name is Helene Thomson."
Dora returned his stare. "I don't understand, Greg. Her brother's name is Turner Pierce. Different fathers? Adopted? Or what?"
"Lady," he said softly, "they're not brother and sister. They're husband and wife. Turner Pierce married Helene Thomson. They're still married, as far as I know."
Dora took a deep breath. "You're absolutely sure about this, Greg?"
"I told you I know a KC hacker who's cracked city hall. Take a look at this."
He switched on one of his computers, worked the keyboard, and brought up a document on the display panel. He gestured and Dora leaned forward to look. It was a reproduction of a marriage license issued four years previously to Helene Thomson and Turner Pierce.
Dora reached out to pat the computer. "Deus ex ma-china," she said.
"Nah," said Pinchik, "it's an Apple."
She cabbed home, thoughts awhirl, wondering where her primary duty lay. Warn Felicia? Inform Olivia? Tell Clayton? Or keep her mouth shut and let those loopy people solve their own problems or strangle on their craziness. One person, she decided, who had to know was Detective John Wenden. If he and Terry Ortiz were going to brace Turner Pierce, knowing of his "secret" marriage to Helene might be of use.
Her taxi was heading north on Park Avenue, had crossed 34th Street, when it suddenly slowed. Dora craned to look ahead and saw a tangle of parked police cars, fire engines, and ambulances spilling out of a side street. A uniformed officer was directing single-lane traffic around the jam of official vehicles.
"Something happened," her cabbie said. "Cop cars and fire engines. Maybe it was a bombing. We haven't had one of those for a couple of days."
"That's nice," Dora said.
The moment she was back in her hotel suite she phoned Wenden. He wasn't in, so she left a message asking him to call her as soon as possible; it was extremely important.
Then, faced with the task of entering Gregor Pinchik's revelations in her notebook, she said aloud, "The hell with it," kicked off her shoes and got into bed, fully clothed, for a pre-noon nap. She had never done that before, and it was a treat.
But a short one. For the second time that day she was awakened from a sweet sleep by the shrilling phone.
"John," Wenden said. "What's extremely important?"
"I've got to tell-" she started.
"Wait a minute," he interrupted. "There's something I've got to tell you. I'm calling from a drugstore on Lex. I've just come from Turner Pierce's apartment in Murray Hill. He's dead as the proverbial doornail. Stabbed many, many times-and I do mean many. There goes my cozy little chat. I told you if we waited long enough everyone in this case would get whacked out."
"In Murray Hill?" Dora said. "I went by in a cab. There were fire engines."
"Yeah," he said, "that's how Pierce was found. Felicia Starrett iced him last night and then, this morning, set the place on fire. Neighbors smelled smoke and called in the alarm."
"Is Felicia alive?"
"If you can call it that. She was naked and looked like last week's corpse. And so zonked out on drugs that she couldn't do anything but dribble."
"Are you sure she killed him?"
"Red! She was still gripping the knife, so hard that we had to pry her fingers loose. They took her to Bellevue. Maybe when she gets detoxed she'll be able to tell us what happened. Listen, I've got to run."
"Wait!" Dora cried. "I didn't tell you what I called about. Turner and Helene Pierce weren't brother and sister; they were married."
"What?" he yelled. "Are you positive?"
"Absolutely. I saw a copy of their marriage license. John, do me a favor. Even if it looks certain that Felicia stabbed Turner, check out Helene's whereabouts last night. Okay?"
"Yeah," he said tensely, "I better do that. Thanks for the tip, Red. I'll get back to you later today."
"When?" she demanded.
"Look, I've got a million things to do. I don't know when I'll get a break."
"Sooner or later you've got to eat," she argued, "or you'll end up in Bellevue with Felicia. John, I'll stay in all day. You call me when you have time, stop over, and we'll grab a bite in the cocktail lounge downstairs. It'll give us a chance to compare notes."
"That makes sense," he said. "You'll hear from me."
Dora spent the afternoon scribbling in her notebook, happy that she wouldn't be making many more notes. The tangled skein was unraveling, and what she didn't know, she could guess. She even dragged out that nonsensical diagram she had drawn with the names of all the involved characters in boxes connected by straight or squiggly lines. But now the connections seemed clear to her, and infinitely sad. She wondered if all humans are born with an innate capacity to screw up their lives.
John called a little after five o'clock, said he was going to shove his job for an hour, and didn't care if the entire island of Manhattan slid into the Upper Bay while he was off duty. Dora brushed her hair and went down to the cocktail lounge. She took the table which she and Felicia Starrett had occupied during their first meeting.
But when Wenden entered, he went directly to the bar and asked for a shot of rye. He tossed it down, then ordered a bottle of beer and brought it over to Dora's table.
"You'd think I'd be used to seeing clunks, wouldn't you?" he said angrily. "I'm not. But at least I don't upchuck anymore. My God, Red, I can't tell you how bad it was. Not only the remains but also that madwoman. And the apartment-a shithouse!"
"John, you're wired," Dora said, putting a hand on his arm. "Sip your beer and try to settle down. I'll order club sandwiches. All right?"
"Whatever."
He seemed to be operating on pure adrenaline, and she wondered if he might collapse when the rush faded.
"You were right," he said, speaking rapidly and gulping his beer. "I checked with the concierge at Helene's apartment house. She left the place last night about eight o'clock and didn't return until two in the morning. The guy said she was soaked through and looked like she had been walking in the storm. I don't know what that means- do you?"
"That she was at Turner's apartment last night. Will you dust the knife handle for prints?"
"What good will that do? I told you we had to twist it out of Felicia's hand. If there were other prints on it, they'd be smeared to nothing."
"Then check cups and glasses," Dora urged. "I'm sure you'll find Helene's prints."
"So what? She'll claim they were made weeks ago during a visit."
"Then vacuum the place," Dora said desperately. "You may find some long hairs-just like the ones you found in the room where Sidney Loftus was killed."
Wenden glared at her. "Are you trying to tell me that Helene knifed Turner Pierce?"
"No," Dora said, "I don't believe that. But I do think she went there last night."
"What for?"
"To tell Felicia that she was the wife of the man Felicia hoped to marry. She knew what condition that poor woman was in and figured to push her over the edge. Helene may not have actually stabbed Turner, but she guided the knife. She wanted her husband dead."
John took a deep breath, blew it out, and slumped in his chair, suddenly slack and relaxed. "You may be right," he said quietly, "but it's not illegal for a wife to tell another woman that her lover is already hitched."
Then they were silent while their fat club sandwiches were served. John stared at his.
"I'm not sure I can handle that," he said. "My stomach is still churning."
"Try," Dora pleaded. "You need it. You look like death warmed over."
He took a small bite, chewed determinedly, and swallowed. He waited a moment, then smiled and nodded.
"I'm going to be okay," he said. "Tastes good. About those hairs found in the back room of the Church of the Holy Oneness-you're probably right about Helene being there on the murder night. I took the photographs over to that waiter at the Twenty-eig
hth Street restaurant, and he definitely identified Helene as being the woman Loftus was with the night he was blanked. But that's all circumstantial, Red. A waiter's ID and a couple of hairs-we'd never get a conviction out of that."
"You mean," Dora demanded hotly, "she's going to go free?"
Wenden nodded. "Unless we can come up with something more than we've got. Besides, I'm not so sure Helene did it. I still think the Lewis Starrett, Sol Guthrie, and Sid Loftus homicides were all related and connected somehow to the laundering of drug money."
Dora ignored her sandwich. "Detective Wenden," she said as calmly as she could, "you're full of you-know-what."
"All right," he said equably, "you tell me what you think went down."
"There were four homicides," Dora began. "Four deaths. Four different killers. And four different motives.
"One: Lewis Starrett was murdered by Sidney Loftus, then using the name of Father Brian Callaway. His motive? Eleanor Starrett told me in our first meeting. I put it in my report but didn't see the significance until my boss in Hartford caught it. Lewis had ordered his wife not to give another penny to Callaway's phony church, and Olivia was the good Father's heaviest contributor. No way was that swindler going to lose his richest sucker. So he offed Lewis with the chefs knife taken from the Starrett apartment on the night of the cocktail party. He knew Lewis's death would leave Olivia an even wealthier woman.
"Two: The murder of Solomon Guthrie. You're right about that one; Sol sensed something was fishy about Star-rett's gold trading, probably made a fuss about it to Clayton, and took his suspicions to Arthur Rushkin, the attorney. When Clayton, Turner Pierce, and Ramon Schnabl heard about that, they got rid of the threat to their operation by getting rid of Guthrie. I imagine Schnabl provided the hit men; it had all the marks of a professional contract kill.
"Three: Sidney Loftus. This is the iffiest one of the lot, and I admit my ideas are mostly guesswork. Sid Loftus and the Pierces were buddy-buddy in Kansas City, and he had to know they were married. But in New York he had his church scam going and they were clipping the Starretts, so all the sharks were making a nice buck and no one rocked the boat. But then Clayton announced he was going to get a divorce and marry Helene. Loftus saw the chance for a profitable shakedown and put the bite on the Pierces. They weren't about to sit still for blackmail and decided to eliminate their old pal Sidney. Helene made a date with him, maybe promising sex, and put him down in the back room of his fake tabernacle.
"Four: the stabbing of Turner Pierce. I've already told you how I think that went. Turner was going nuts trying to keep Felicia under control with drugs-probably supplied by Ramon Schnabl-and Helene figured who needs Turner? With her hubby out of the picture she really could marry Clayton Starrett with all the goodies that promised. So she egged on Felicia to do the dirty work for her. I think that's the way it happened. One of the reasons I'm sure Helene did it is that I just don't like the woman."
Dora finished, sat back, and waited for Wenden's critique.
"Are you going to eat your sandwich?" he asked.
"Half of it," she said. "You want the other half?"
He nodded, and she lifted it carefully to his plate. They both began chomping.
"I like your ideas," John said. "Everything you say makes sense. If you're right, the Lewis Starrett file is closed because the killer, Sid Loftus, is dead. As for nailing the guys who aced Guthrie, I don't think there's much chance of that unless someone rats on Schnabl, which I don't see happening. And as for Loftus's murder, I'm just as convinced as you are that Helene is the perp, but right now there's not enough evidence to charge her, let alone indict and convict. And maybe she did trigger the stabbing of Turner by Felicia but, as I told you, what she did might have been wicked and immoral but it wasn't illegal. Felicia will get treatment for her drug addiction, and I doubt if she'll do time for an act committed when she was, as her lawyer will claim, temporarily insane while under the influence of dope supplied by the man she killed after learning he had betrayed her. So, as far as I can see, there were four brutal killings, and no one is going to spend a day in jail for any one of them."
"What happened to justice?" Dora cried.
"The law is one thing," Wenden said with a strained smile, "and justice is another. Unless you believe in divine retribution. And if you do, there's a bridge in Brooklyn you may be interested in buying."
"I hate it!" Dora burst out. "Just hate it!"
"The guilty not being punished?" John said. "I have to live with it. Every day."
They had finished their sandwiches and now sat back, gripping empty beer glasses, looking at each other.
"I suppose this just about winds it up for you," John said.
Dora nodded. "I have things to do tomorrow. Then I'll probably take off early Friday morning."
"Back to Hartford?"
"Uh-huh. I think I'll drive home. I can turn in the Escort up there."
"Can we have dinner tomorrow night?"
"Sure," she said. "I'd like that."
"When I called you from Lexington Avenue this afternoon I spotted an Italian restaurant. There was a menu in the window, and it looked okay. The place is called Vito's. Want to try it?"
"I'm game for anything," Dora said.
"I hope so," Wenden said.
Chapter 44
Attorney Arthur Rushkin came from his inner office to greet her with a beamy smile, looking spiffy in hounds-tooth jacket and suede waistcoat, a butterfly bow tie flaring under his suety chin.
"Mrs. Conti!" he boomed, shaking her hand. "How nice to see you again. I was hoping you'd stop by."
"I'm leaving tomorrow morning," she told him, "and felt I owed you a report."
He took her anorak and hung it away. Then he ushered her into his private office and got her settled in the armchair alongside his antique partners' desk. He lowered his bulk into the leather swivel chair.
"Mr. Rushkin," Dora said, "I assume you're aware of what's been going on the last few days."
He nodded. "Sadly, I am. Starrett Fine Jewelry and all its branches have been closed. Temporarily, I hope. After that dreadful business in Murray Hill-aren't the tabloids having a field day?-Felicia is receiving medical treatment. The last I heard is that she will survive, but recovery will be a long and arduous process. And expensive, I might add."
"And Clayton?"
The attorney twisted his face into a wry grimace. "My godson? He has not yet been charged, but it's only a matter of time. At the moment he is being questioned by representatives of the U.S. Attorney's office. I can't represent Clayton-there would be a potential conflict of interest there-but I've been able to obtain for him the services of an extremely capable criminal defense attorney. On his advice, Clayton is answering all questions completely and honestly. He can't do much less; the authorities have already seized Starrett's business records, including those dealing with the fraudulent gold trading."
"Do you think Clayton will go to prison, Mr. Rushkin?"
The lawyer linked fingers across his thick midsection and sighed deeply. "I'm afraid so. But if he continues to cooperate, his punishment may be more lenient than you might think. The authorities are not interested in Clayton Star-rett so much as they are in Ramon Schnabl, the drug dealer. If Clay helps them put Schnabl behind bars, I think they'll be inclined to settle for a light sentence and a heavy fine. I do believe a deal will be made."
"I intend to see Mrs. Olivia Starrett before I leave. How is she taking all this? Have you spoken to her?"
"I have indeed, and the woman's resilience is amazing. She'll be all right. Mrs. Conti, I have a fairly complete understanding of how the gold trading was jiggered, but I have less knowledge of the homicides it spawned. Can you enlighten me?"
Dora repeated the explanation of the four killings she had given Wenden. The lawyer listened intently, and when she finished he sighed again and shook his great head so sharply that his jowls wobbled.
"Of course a lot of that is supposition," Dora
pointed out. "Some of it can never be proved."
"But I suspect you're right," Rushkin said. "It's a depressing example of chronic greed. That's the disease; violence is a symptom."
"What makes me furious," Dora said, "is that Detective John Wenden doesn't think there's much chance of Helene Pierce going to jail for what she did."
"Policemen have a tendency to be gloomy," the attorney said with a wintry smile. "Quite understandable." Then he leaned across the desk toward Dora. "Let me tell you something, Mrs. Conti. The law is like the Lord: It giveth and it taketh away. In re Helene Pierce, I think it quite likely that the prosecutors may feel she had guilty knowledge. In other words, she was fully cognizant of the gold trading fraud-indeed she profited from it-but did not inform the proper authorities as required. I believe Clayton will testify as to her involvement."
"Are you sure?" Dora asked anxiously.
Rushkin laughed. "Congreve wrote of the fury of a woman scorned. I assure you, Mrs. Conti, a scorned woman's virulence can be matched by the bitterness of a middle-aged man who realizes he has been played for a fool, a patsy, by a piece of fluff half his age. Oh yes, I think Clayton will be more than willing to testify against Helene Pierce. And if the guilty-knowledge ploy doesn't hold up in court, the government has another arrow in its quiver. I'm sure the IRS will be interested in learning if Helene declared all those gifts of money and diamonds that Clayton gave her. In addition, the idiot bought her co-op and was paying the maintenance by check. That left a paper trail the IRS will be happy to follow. No, I don't believe Helene Pierce will cha-cha her way to freedom."
"That makes me feel better," Dora said. She rose and slung her shoulder bag. "I hope you no longer feel guilty about Solomon Guthrie. You gave me his computer printout, and eventually that led to the solution."
The attorney was suddenly somber, his meaty features sagging. "I am not entirely free from regret, but at my age I can't expect to be. Mrs. Conti, thank you for all your efforts on my behalf and on behalf of Starrett Fine Jewelry. I intend to write to your employer expressing my deep appreciation of your excellent work as strongly as I can."
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