The Seventh Commandment (11 page)

"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."

"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.

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 her 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."

"No," Dora said firmly, "John would never do that."

"Oh-ho," Trevalyan said, mashing out his cigar butt in an overflowing ashtray, "it's John, is it? Watch yourself, sister. This big-city slicker may be warm for your form, and is feeding you just enough inside poop to keep you coming back to him. And meanwhile he's working an angle you haven't even thought of."

"You're crazy!" she said angrily. "It's me that gave him the scoop on the missing knife and Callaway's record. I'm way ahead of him."

"Keep it that way," Trevalyan advised, lighting a fresh cigar. "If he's not playing you, like you claim, then you play him. Don't tell him everything; just enough to make him want to cooperate. What else are you planning when you get back to Sodom on the Hudson?"

"A couple of things," Dora said. "Mostly I want to dig deeper on how Father Callaway fits into the picture. Like where was he and what was he doing the morning Solomon Guthrie was stabbed to death."

"You think Callaway did it?"

"I'm not sure about Guthrie, but I think there's a good possibility he killed Lewis Starrett."

Trevalyan inspected the glowing end of his cigar. "What was his motive?"

"I haven't figured that out yet. I guess Starrett said some nasty things to him, but nothing dirty enough to trigger a murder."

Mike looked up at her and laughed. "Dora, you better read your own report again. Callaway's motive is in there."

"What?"

"You heard me. Your report includes a very logical reason why Callaway might have iced Lewis Starrett."

"Mike, what is it?"

He shook his head. "You find it; it's your case. And keep an eye on that New York cop. I still think he's trying to get in your drawers."

"Where the hell were you when God was handing out couth?" she said indignantly.

"Waiting for seconds in the cynics' line," he said. "Now let's go drink some lunch. Your treat."

He was exaggerating, of course; they actually had food for lunch: thick corned beef sandwiches with french fries and a schooner of beer each at an Irish bar near the Company's headquarters. And while they lunched, Mike told her what he had been able to pick up about Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc.

Little was known because it was a privately held corporation, and public disclosure of its structuring and current financial condition was not required. But through rumors and hearsay, Trevalyan had learned that Olivia, Clayton, and Felicia each owned ten percent of the stock. Lewis had owned seventy percent which, presumably, would go to his widow.

"So as of now," Dora said, "Olivia really controls the whole shebang."

Mike nodded. "From what I hear, back in the 1950s and '60s, Starrett Fine Jewelry was a cash cow. That's when they opened all their branch stores. Then, beginning about ten years ago, their sales and profits went down, down, down. The problem was a-g-e. Their clientele was getting older, putting money in annuities and Treasury bonds instead of diamonds. And the baby-boomers were doing their jewelry shopping at trendier places. They thought Starrett was old-fashioned and stuffy. So about two years ago Lewis went into semiretirement and turned over the reins to Clayton.

"Well, Clayton's first year at the helm was a disaster. He brought in a bunch of kooky designers and started pushing a line of what was really horribly overpriced costume jewelry. Not only did it not attract the yuppies, but it turned off what few old customers were left. Starrett was drowning in red ink, and there was talk in the trade that they might end up in Chapter Eleven. Then, about a year ago, Clayton turned the whole thing around. He got rid of all the designers with ponytails and went back to Starrett's classic fine jewelry. He fired most of his branch managers and brought in young hotshots who knew something about modern merchandising. And he started trading bullion, buying gold overseas at a good price and selling it to small independent jewelers in this country at a nice markup. From what I heard, Starrett is back in the bucks again, and everyone is happy."

"Except Lewis," Dora said. "And Solomon Guthrie."

"Yeah," Trevalyan said, "except them. Have you talked to Starrett's attorney yet?"

"Not yet, but he's on my list."

"He probably won't tell you a thing, but it's worth a try. Ask him if Lewis kept a bimbo on the side."

Dora stared at him. "Why should I ask him that?"

"Just for the fun of it. You never know."

She sighed. "All right, Mike, I'll ask him. Now I'm going to pay for our lunch. But I warn you, I'm putting it on my expense account."