One Dangerous Lady (7 page)

“What do you mean, he likes the low life?”

“Oh, there have always been rumors about Max and his dark side. But I understand from people who know him—I don't, personally—that he's very conscious of who's who and what's what. And that he's extremely fond of money and ladies who have a lot of it—well born or not. Why are you so interested in Lord Vermilion?”

There was no point in beating around the bush with Larry, who found out everything anyway.

“I sat next to him in Barbados. Betty's trying to fix me up.”

“
And . . . ?
”

“Nothing. He was very charming. But I think he's going out with Lulu Cole.”

Larry gave a dismissive little wave of his hand. “From what I hear, he goes out with a lot of people. He's considered a great catch.”

“I don't want to catch him, Larry. I just thought he was interesting, that's all. Betty and June are always trying to fix me up. They don't think a woman can be happy without a man.”

“People always want to fix me up, too. They never believe you if you tell them you prefer being alone.”

There was a kind of sad resignation in his voice. In all the years we'd known each other, I was never aware of Larry being involved with anyone, although he had many women friends whom he escorted here and there. His own story was tragic. A wealthy psychopath had killed his wife years ago. Then, due to fancy legal maneuvering and a team of high-priced lawyers, the man got off with a ridiculously light sentence. Having lost the love of his life, Larry went into a deep depression. He once told me that through that experience he not only saw the dark side of human nature, but of himself. Though he managed to pull himself away from the brink of the abyss just in time, he apparently was left with a psychological wound that would not heal.

The gruesome death of Helena Locket then became the defining factor of Larry's life—one of those unforeseen obstacles in midstream that can change the course of a person's destiny for better or ill. In Larry's case, the wrenching loss of his beloved partner turned his journalistic bent into a brilliant writing career and a crusade for justice. His targets were primarily rich miscreants, who, like his wife's killer, managed to evade just punishment because they had plenty of money and a team of smart lawyers.

The elevator arrived. I gave Larry a hug and kiss good-bye and wished him a safe journey.

“Wish me luck,” he said.

“Say hi to Carla for me,” I told him. “Tell her I'm thinking of her.”

And I was, with genuine curiosity.

 

Chapter 8

T
he next morning, Caspar drove me downtown. It was another cold, gray January day, and I would have preferred to stay at home and catch up on my mail, but I had to get some important business out of the way.

Every four months, like clockwork, I visited David Millstein, a diamond dealer who operated out of one of the nondescript buildings on Fifth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street, right around the corner from the Diamond District. Security was tight. A uniformed guard sat behind a desk at the entrance, asking people where they were going and directing them to sign in. I added my name to a lengthy list and rode up with two Hassidic Jews dressed in their black suits and hats, and a delivery boy from a local deli carrying an order that reeked of garlic. I got off at the seventh floor, walked down the long, gray corridor to suite 720, and pressed the button to the side of the door. As I waited, I glanced up at the security camera poised overhead. After a few seconds, I was buzzed in and greeted by Mr. Millstein himself, a stocky, middle-aged man with a jowly face that reminded me of a beagle. Loosely pinned to the back of his curly salt-and-pepper hair was a yarmulke. He was wearing baggy black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just below the elbow—no tie or jacket. His left hand was burrowed deep into his pants pocket, his right hand suspended in midair ready to greet me.

“Mrs. Slater,” he said in his usual forthright and friendly manner, shaking my hand. “Good to see you.”

The plain-looking, young blonde secretary sitting behind a desk in the front room gave me a brief nod as Millstein led me back into his office, a small space with white walls, fluorescent overhead lights, a desk, and a large safe crouched like a big, black bear in the far corner of the room. Two grimy paned windows faced north with a view of Rockefeller Center. Millstein walked over to the safe, the heavy door of which was ajar. He pulled out two small, thin, white paper packets from a stack of identical packets secured with a rubber band. Replacing the stack in the safe, he brought the two packets over to his desk, sat down, and motioned me to do likewise.

Carefully unfolding the first packet, he revealed a sparkly little diamond, which he secured with a pair of tweezers and placed on the digital diamond scale in front of him to weigh it.

“Four-point-eight-six carats,” he said, picking up the diamond again with the tweezers. He stopped for an instant, holding it up to the light for a critical look. “Nice goods,” he said before dropping it back into its little paper envelope.

He wrote the weight of the stone with a ballpoint pen on one corner of the wrapper.

“Your diamond and your GIA certificate,” he said, handing me the first packet across the desk along with a laminated card from the Gemological Institute documenting the diamond's particular specifications, including weight, color, cut, clarity, inclusions, etc.

He repeated the entire process with the same precision on another stone with similar characteristics.

“Thank you, Mr. Millstein,” I said, slipping both packets into my purse.

Old mine diamonds in original antique settings were more my thing, of course, but I wasn't there to indulge my passion for beautiful jewelry. I was there to get this meeting over with as fast as possible.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Slater.”

My dealings with Mr. Millstein were routine by now. Every four months I trekked down to his office to buy two diamonds worth about fifty thousand dollars each, having prearranged a wire transfer from my bank into his account. These transactions were brief and businesslike. I'd come to Millstein originally explaining that I wanted to buy D-flawless diamonds for “investment purposes.” He understood perfectly, telling me he had several clients who were doing precisely the same thing. “A little hedge against inflation,” he said.

However, I was not being entirely honest with Mr. Millstein. I didn't actually keep the diamonds I bought from him. I wrapped them and sent them along in an unmarked envelope to a post office box in Las Vegas. The investment I was actually making had nothing to do with a hedge against inflation or anything of a prudent economic nature. I was investing in my own future, making sure that a blackmailer I hadn't seen in a very long time kept her mouth shut.

I
went directly from Mr. Millstein's establishment to Pug's for a lunch with Betty and June. Pug's is a clubby little bistro in the East Seventies, which basically serves gourmet school food, and where one is always bound to run into someone one knows. Betty was sitting at the table when I arrived. She was wearing a bright red wool suit that clashed with her red hair, which, though neatly coiffed, looked a little brittle and dried out from the sun. Her skin, however, was a healthy bronze color, making her look more robust than the washed-out, winter-weary faces around her. June was uncharacteristically late, so Betty and I each ordered a glass of white wine and settled in. Betty was still smarting over the disastrous wedding.

“When we got home I said to Gil that we should have just flushed the four hundred thousand dollars down the toilet. God knows it would have been less painful—and less wet.”

“How are the honeymooners?” I said, trying to be upbeat.

“In Paris. No word. A good sign,” she said.

“Have you heard from Carla?”

“Gil spoke to her. She's still down there cruising around. She's offering a million-dollar reward to anyone with any information.”

“If that doesn't work, nothing will.”

It was all I could do not to tell Betty what Carla had told me about Russell having disappeared before. But I was determined to respect my promise to Carla not to say anything about that. The last thing I wanted was to get a reputation like our friend June Kahn.

“So, any word from Lord Viagra?” Betty said, referring to Max Vermilion.

“Nope.”

“I thought you two had hit it off,” she said, disappointed.

“We kind of did. It's difficult to tell with Max. Besides, I think he's sort of involved with Lulu, even if he says he's not.”

“That's never stopped him before, believe me. Junie's close to Lulu. We'll ask her when she comes.”

“No we
won't.
I don't want it broadcast to the world that I'm even vaguely interested in Max Vermilion, thank you very much.”

“
Are
you interested in him, Jo?”

I thought for a moment. “I'm not sure, actually. There's something odd about him that I can't quite put my finger on.”

“Listen, I've known Max for twenty years, okay?” Betty said. “He's a law unto himself. Max loves women and women love Max. He's marvelous company. Very cultivated. And he likes grand ladies. I just know you two would have fun together. You and he have so much in common.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you both love art. You both love to travel. You know a lot of the same people. And wouldn't it be nice to be with a man whose ticket you didn't have to pay for? Someone who might actually give you a good-night kiss? Or more? Frankly, I don't understand what's holding you back, Jo.”

“Holding me back from
what
, may I ask?”

“Calling him. You should just call him up and invite him to something. Or, better yet, give a party for him. Someone's always giving a party for Max and he loves them. Trust me, Jo, he's the type who needs that little extra push.”

“Absolutely not! I realize we live in an age where the rules of courtship have been burned at the stake, but I'm too old to pursue a man in every sense of that statement. You start off on that foot and it never changes, believe me. He's got to make the first move.”

“Oh, that's ridiculous. Jesus, if I'd waited for Gil to call me, we never would have hooked up.” She paused to reflect. “Of course, then we never would have gotten married, Missy never would have been born, and we never would have given that ghastly wedding. So on second thought, maybe you're right.” She gulped down the rest of her white wine and signaled the waiter for another.

Just then, June Kahn, aided by a waiter, hobbled through the front door on crutches. A dark-haired, birdlike woman in her early fifties, June was obviously still maintaining the fiction that a sprained ankle had prevented her from going to Missy's wedding. However, Betty and I both strongly suspected the real reason June had stayed away from Barbados was because she hadn't been invited to the glamorous bridal dinner aboard the Cole yacht. June hated to miss a party—especially one to which she was not invited. But being one of Lulu Cole's best friends, there was no way Carla would have included her. And, as everyone knew, for June Kahn to be excluded from a festivity was an oblivion worse than death. It was better to feign an injury.

June was so agitated that when she saw us, she practically threw her crutches at the waiter and strode over to the table, forgetting all about her ankle.

“Welcome to Lourdes,” Betty said under her breath.

We both loved June. She never changed.

“You'll never guess what's happened!” she announced, plunking herself down on one of the wooden chairs. “God, I need a drink.
Waiter!
”

June ordered a martini—an impressive drink for lunch and very uncharacteristic of our friend, who usually had iced tea even when the two of us had wine. Betty and I just looked at each other, wondering what on earth was up.

“I've just heard the most ghastly thing,” June said. “I can't believe it. I cannot
believe
it!
And
I'm going to fight it. You just watch. If she thinks she's going to get away with this, she has another think coming. I won't let this happen and that's that!”

“
What?
” Betty and I cried in unison.

June took a deep breath and leveled the two of us with one of her parakeet-impersonating-a-hawk gazes. “Carla Cole has bid the asking price on the Wilman apartment in
my
building.”

Betty and I looked at each other.

“What about the yacht?” I said.

“Oh, she's selling the yacht,” June said dismissively.

“How do you know?” Betty asked.

“I just know,” June said.

Betty, who knew how easy it was to pry information out of our gossipy friend, said in a threatening tone, “
Juuune,
how do you know?”

June leaned in. “Well, this is to the grave, right?”

“Right,” we both said. After years and years of hearing secrets June was sworn to keep, this was just a formality.

“Lulu told me,” she said.

“And how does Lulu know?” Betty inquired.

“Oh, Lulu knows everything about those two,” June said with an offhand air, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for an ex-wife to keep tabs on her ex-husband and the wife for whom he had left her.

“Well, Carla told me she always hated that boat,” I said, recalling her chilling comment on the day Russell had disappeared. “And she mentioned something to me about coming to New York at the wedding.”

“Is she giving up the search for Russell?” Betty asked.

“Apparently,” June said. “Of course, Lulu's positive she killed him, so why would she hang around searching for someone she already knows is dead? Lulu warned Russell about Carla way before he married her. What they do to one, they'll do to another. She killed her first husband, after all.”

Like all June's friends, Betty and I had long ago come to the realization that the world according to June Kahn was about as reliable as an alien sighting.

Betty sighed in exasperation. “You know, June, we've all heard that rumor about Hernandez shooting himself twice. But there's absolutely no proof that Hernandez was murdered. He committed suicide.”

“I talked to Larry Locket, who says it isn't true, either,” I said.

“Well, Lulu knows it for a
fact
,” June insisted.

I could see Betty getting irritated.

“Has Lulu seen the autopsy report?” Betty asked.

June hesitated, as she always did before she told a lie. “Yes.”

“Oh, June, Hernandez never
had
an autopsy!” Betty said. “That was the whole point. If you ask me, that entire story is a myth, probably concocted by Lulu. It's just one of those facts that's too good to check.” Betty leaned back in her chair and thought for a second. “But if she really is selling the boat . . . now that's pretty interesting.”

“And pretty quick, don't you think?” I said. “What do you think it means?”

“I think it means she knows he's not coming back,” Betty said.

“Of course he's not! I'm telling you. He's
dead
,” June said. “But that doesn't matter. What matters is that Carla wants to move into
my
building.”

June always said “my building” when referring to 831 Fifth Avenue, despite the fact that there were many other tenants. Having been president of the cooperative's board for twelve years, she considered it her own personal fiefdom. June Kahn was the iron fist in that white-glove building and everyone knew it. We both waited for her to elaborate, but her thunderous silence indicated that this maneuver by Carla was the entire basis of her fury.

Finally Betty said, “So what?”

“
So what?
” June cried, throwing up her hands in indignation. “How you can even
ask
that question is beyond me! You think I want to run into a
murderess
in the lobby?”

831 Fifth was one of the most fashionable co-ops in the city—a building so notoriously difficult to get into it was dubbed “Versailles” by savvy real estate agents. Indeed, the politics and snobberies of the entire cooperative apartment market in New York made life at the ancient French court seem sunny and simplistic by comparison. It was almost impossible to get into certain buildings—particularly a luxurious prewar like 831 Fifth. Its famously tough board of directors had a mandate to keep “undesirables” out. Even having pots of money didn't automatically guarantee admittance. Movie stars, newly minted billionaires, and all show-business types were told by real estate agents that they need not even bother to apply there because they had no hope of getting in. In order to be numbered among the very rich and very social tenants, one needed hefty amounts of both cash and cachet.