She propped one hand on her hip and rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “And how do you plan to do that, Nat? Make a person-to-person phone call? Dispatch a carrier pigeon? Send him a singing telegram?”
“Stop it! This isn’t a joking matter. I’ve got to find Dan at the bar right now and give him the lowdown.”
“And how are you going to explain the wig, my friend? Or that skimpy dress you’re wearing? If Dan sees you like this, he’s going to kill you.”
“Who cares?” I cried. “Dan’s life is more important to me than my own!” (That sounds really sappy, I know, but what do you want from me? A woman who’s wildly in love is supposed to be sappy.)
Abby shrugged and rolled her eyes again. “Have it your way, Doris Day,” she said. “It’s your funeral.”
I stuck my head out from behind the big white-and-gold palm tree and searched the bar area for Dan. This time I spied him at once. He was sitting at the end of the bar, his back to the counter, smoking a cigarette, and gazing at the crowd. He looked very relaxed and handsome in his dark gray suit and royal blue tie. I ducked back behind the palm tree, pulse racing out of control.
“Dan’s at the bar, Abby! I saw him! He’s sitting at the end closest to the entrance. So here’s what I want you to do. Walk straight through the club and out into the lobby and over to the checkroom to get our coats. Turn your face away when you walk past the bar. Don’t walk too fast, or too slow, or wiggle your hips, or wink at any guys, or draw attention to yourself in any way. Just get our coats and wait for me in the lobby near the exit. Think you can handle that?”
She gave me a dirty look. “I guess so, Mommy, but I’m too scared to be alone. Can’t I stay with you and hold your hand?” Her phony little girl voice set my nerves on edge.
“Please stop it, Ab. You know I have to do this as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. There’s no telling who’ll be watching. So just pick up our coats and wait for me at the door, okay? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Oh, all right!” she said, petulantly stomping one foot on the floor. “You’re no fun anymore, you know that?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard. Now pull yourself together and trot on out to the lobby like a good little cowgirl. Go ahead. Giddyap. Go!”
Chapter 30
“HELLO, STRANGER,” I SAID, SAUNTERING UP TO Dan at the bar. “Got a light?” I raised the cigarette I had ready in my hand to my lips and leaned close to him, cupping my fingers around my mouth and lowering my voice to a whisper. “Don’t be shocked, Dan,” I said, eyes begging him not to explode. “Pretend you don’t know me. Pretend I’m a prostitute making a pitch. It’s a matter of life and death!” I was doing my best to act cool, but I was so fearful and self-conscious—and my heart was beating so hard and so fast—I thought I would turn into a blob of quivering jelly on the spot.
Dan, on the other hand, grew stony-faced and rigid as a post. He didn’t say a single word to me, but his intense emotions— astonishment, dismay, concern, outrage, and anger—were clearly visible in his jet-black eyes. Teeth clenched so tight you could see the hard knots of his jaw muscles, he took his Zippo out of his pocket, flipped it open, and lit my cigarette.
“Thanks, handsome!” I said, turning up the volume, throwing my shoulders back and my hips forward, putting on a big show for the bartender and any snoopy boozers (or mobsters) who might be tuning in. “Hey, you know what, big boy? You’re my kind of guy. A real gent. Want to buy a thirsty girl a drink?” I was smiling and posturing and flapping my lashes like crazy—playing my phony call girl role to the hilt—hoping that Dan would get the message and play along with me.
Sharp, insightful detective that he was, he did.
“Sure, babe,” he said, giving me a sexy wink and an arrogant, exaggerated once-over. (I knew he was appalled by the blonde wig and the indecent way I was dressed, but—to his credit and my profound relief—he didn’t let his disapproval show.) “What’ll you have, sweetheart?” he said, putting on a show of his own, playing the part of a potential john to perfection. “Name your poison.”
“I’ll have a screwdriver,” I said, loudly emphasizing the first part of the word. “Won’t you have one with me?” I giggled my head off for a few seconds, then draped my arm around his neck, cuddled up to his side and started whispering in his ear again, trying to give all onlookers the impression that I was offering him my body for the night and quoting my price. “They’re on to you, Dan,” I hissed. “Corona knows who you are and why you’re here. He’s going to talk to Costello about having you bumped off. Maybe tonight! You’ve got to get out of here. Now!”
Dan yanked his head away from mine and stared deep into my eyes for a few tense, probing seconds. Then he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me so tight to his chest that my feet left the floor. “Message received,” he said, breathing his words directly into my ear. “Thanks for the tip. Now hold on to your wig, Blondie. It’s time for act two.”
He let go of my waist and my feet dropped back to the carpet. Then he stood up from the bar stool, grabbed my shoulder with one hand, shoved me out to arm’s length and—looking so forceful and hot I thought my flesh would melt right off my bones—whipped out his badge.
“You’re under arrest,” he said to me, speaking loud enough for everyone at the bar to hear. Then he turned toward the excited eavesdroppers and—holding his badge high in the air for them to see—made the following announcement: “I’m an officer of the NYPD. This woman just offered me sex for money. I have placed her under arrest for solicitation, and I’m taking her into custody now. You are all witnesses to this fact.”
Dan stuck his badge back in his pocket and—still gripping me by the shoulder—plucked the burning cigarette out of my hand and dropped it in his drink. “Don’t give me any trouble, sister,” he bellowed, “or I’ll clap on the cuffs.” Then he lowered his angry grip to my elbow and led me—breathless, stunned, and limp as a rag doll—out to the lobby.
ABBY WAS WAITING AT THE DOOR WITH OUR coats. When she saw that Dan was with me, her face lit up like the sun. She didn’t say anything, but her relief was dangerously conspicuous. She gave a little whoop and started to run toward us.
“Hold it right there, miss!” Dan shouted across the lobby, sticking his hand up like a stop sign, then quickly retrieving his hat and coat from the checkroom. “I’m an officer of the law, and this woman is under arrest. I’m taking her to the station house now. Please clear the exit and vacate the premises immediately!”
Abby caught on quick. She spun around and sprang through the door like a virgin on the run from the Cossacks.
“Hang your head and don’t look back,” Dan said to me, putting on his hat and flinging his trench coat around my shoulders. He grabbed hold of my arm again and propelled me across the lobby floor. “Just keep your mouth shut and keep walking.”
I followed his orders, and within several suspenseful seconds we were out on the sidewalk, sweeping past the doorman and the photographers and the new herd of people clamoring for admittance, heading for Fifth Avenue in a big fat hurry. We met up with Abby at the corner.
“Keep walking,” Dan said to both of us, still gripping my arm so hard it hurt. (Did he think I would try to escape?) “My car’s right down the street.”
Abby fell into step with us, and we made it to the car without incident. Once we were seated inside and zooming down Fifth, however, all hell broke lose.
“Whooooeee!” Abby squealed at the top of her lungs. “What a gas that was! Scary and sexy at the same time! I never had so much fun in my whole freaking life! Let’s go back and do it again!” She was bouncing up and down on the back seat like a teenybopper at a Pat Boone concert.
“For Christ’s sake, Abby!” I shrieked, feeling as though my brain would burst. “How can you say such things?!” I spun around to glare at her over the backrest of the front seat. “Don’t you realize the danger we were in?” I cried.” Dan could have been killed, and—”
“We
all could have been killed!” Dan roared, pounding his fist on the steering wheel and stomping on the gas pedal. He was speeding downtown in a fury, honking the horn repeatedly, screeching and swerving through traffic like a madman. (Did he think we were being followed?) “You’re both criminally insane!” he howled. “I ought to arrest you for real and lock you up for life!” The undercover car we were in had no siren, otherwise it would have been howling, too.
Cowed by Dan’s ferocious anger and wild speed, I turned around to face the windshield, holding on to the edge of my seat like a drowning woman clinging to a life raft. Now I was just as afraid of being killed in an automobile accident—or at the hands of my menacing, out-of-control boyfriend—as I was of being silenced by a sadistic murderer.
The lights of the city streaked by as Dan rocketed south— past the RCA Building and Rockefeller Center and the New York Public Library—giving us a whiplash tour of midtown Manhattan. Racing through more than a few red lights, and still honking to clear a path through the traffic, he kept his jaw clenched tight and his demon eyes fixed on the road ahead. Careening past the Empire State Building, Dan hooked a hard right on 34th Street, tore past Macy’s, then swung left on Seventh Avenue, whizzing by the enormous stone structure of Pennsylvania Station—with its marble columns and colossal stone eagles—like a cab driver out of hell. I wished I could jump out of the car and hop a train to New Jersey.
When we reached the Village, we were all still in one piece. (Physically, I mean. I had lost my sanity somewhere along the way, but I don’t think it showed.) Dan hung a left on Bleecker, shot down the narrow street, and brought the car to a screeching halt at the curb across from our building.
“Get out,” he said, still staring straight ahead with his jaw in knots. It was an order, not a suggestion.
I couldn’t move. My body was locked in position and my fingers were frozen—clawlike—to the edge of the seat.
Abby, on the other hand, hopped out of the car and flounced gaily across the street. “Good night, all!” she shouted, turning to wave at us through the car window. “Jimmy’s here!” She gestured toward the shadowy figure sitting on the stoop, then—tucking my (or, rather, her) chinchilla jacket under one arm and grinning like a darn fool—reached out and pulled the bearded Birmingham to his feet. Otto was hanging on to Jimmy’s arm for dear life. (I knew how the little dog felt.) “We’re going upstairs now, okay?” Abby called out. “I’ll catch you later!” She blew me a kiss and unlocked the front door. Then the Three Musketeers disappeared in the stairwell.
Dan and I sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity but was probably just a millisecond. Finally, he spoke. “I said get out,” he growled. “Go upstairs and lock yourself in. Don’t open the door to anybody.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?” I was in a real panic now. Dan looked so mad I felt that if he left, he’d never come back.
“No. I have some unfinished business to attend to.” His profile was set in stone, but in the yellowish light from the street lamp, I could see that a vein in his temple was throbbing.
“But you’ve got to let me explain!” I cried.
“What’s to explain?” He turned and aimed his merciless black gaze at me. “The writing’s on the goddamn wall. You broke your promise to me again. You’re working on another unsolved murder story, and you’re in a shitload of danger because of it. That’s all I need to know.”
“No, it’s not!” I screamed, kicking my foot against the dashboard. (I was a little upset myself.) “There’s a lot more you need to know, Dan, and I have to tell you about it now! Please come upstairs with me and listen to what I have to say. It’s a long and complicated story, but it’s really, really important! A lot of lives and reputations are at stake.”
“You should have thought of that before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you lied to me and made a complete mess of everything.”
“What?” Now I was hurt as well as angry. (I mean, is that any way for a boyfriend to talk after you’ve just saved his life?)
“You heard me,” Dan said. “Your lying has compromised my current murder investigation and put both of us in grave danger.”
“Murder investigation?” I shrieked. (I’d been doing a lot of that lately.) “You said you were investigating the mob war!”
“And so I am!” he raged, spitting his furious words in my face. “The mob war and the hideous murder of a young woman that resulted from it.”
My heart came to a sudden standstill. Was he talking about—?
“Don’t look so shocked, Paige,” he sputtered. “Do you really think you’re the only person in the whole damn city who’s been trying to find out who killed Virginia Pratt?”
I was speechless—or, to put it more precisely, struck dumb. My mouth was hanging open, but no sound was coming out of it.
“Go upstairs,” Dan said, leaning across me and opening the passenger door from the inside. “Right this minute! Lock your doors and windows and don’t go anywhere or do anything until you hear from me. I mean it, Paige!” he yelled, practically shoving me out onto the sidewalk. “I’ve got to leave now. Go upstairs and stay there!”
“Okay,” I said, standing on the pavement in shock as Dan jerked the car door closed. Then I pulled his trench coat tighter around my shivering shoulders and slunk across the street like an anxious alley cat. As I opened the door to my building and ducked into the stairwell, I heard Dan peel away from the curb and blast down Bleecker, burning rubber all the way.
Chapter 31
HAVE YOU EVER HAD THE FEELING THAT YOU’VE just been shot out of a cannon? That you’re hurtling through the air like a big metal ball—or a curled-up clown with orange hair and a red nose? Then you know exactly how I felt as I crashed into my apartment, dropped my purse and Dan’s coat onto the living room chair, kicked Abby’s stilettos into a corner, and fell—with a heavy thud—into a fetus-shaped lump on the couch. And you also understand why I was trembling in fear, and sick with worry, and blubbering in so much confusion and self-pity that my bright red nose was dribbling all over my favorite Woolworth’s throw pillow.
Where had Dan zoomed off to? Would he be safe? Would I ever see him again? How on earth had he discovered that I was investigating another homicide? And how did he know it was the Virginia Pratt murder? And why was Dan involved in the case at all? The papers had said Detective Sergeant Casey O’Connor at the Midtown North Precinct was in charge. Dan was in Midtown South. And the two precincts were so competitive that they practically never joined forces. Something really strange was going on here!
Head swirling and pulse pounding, I bolted to an upright position, yanked off my clown wig, pulled a Kleenex from the box on the table near the phone, and blew my nose. I didn’t have time for a nervous breakdown! A potent mixture of curiosity and dread was surging through my system like an electrical current. All I could think about was digging up some answers to my many burning questions—and finding Melody’s murderer before he murdered Dan.
I was dying to talk to Jocelyn (aka Candy) again, but knowing she wouldn’t be home from her date for hours, I quickly ditched that idea. I figured Melody’s other good friend, Ethel (aka Brigitte), wouldn’t be home, either, but in a frenzy to take some kind of positive action, I decided to call her anyway. Jumping over to the bookcase and snatching Sabrina’s lavender list out of its hiding place in The Maltese Falcon, I returned to the couch, found Ethel’s number, and dialed it.
To my surprise, she answered.
“Hello, Ethel?” I said. “Ethel Maguire?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Paige Turner. I hope I didn’t wake you or your husband up. I’m sorry to call so late, but I—”
“That’s okay,” she broke in. “My husband’s sleeping soundly, and I just got home.”
“Were you out with a client?”
“I was with a client,” she sniffed, “but we didn’t go out.” I could tell from her tone that she found my qu
estion inane. “Look, I wasn’t asleep, Paige, but I am pretty tired. Is there something you need to talk to me about?”
“Just one thing,” I said. “I happened to run into Candy tonight, and she admitted that she’s been seeing two of Melody’s regular clients—Sam Hogarth and Tony Corona—on her own, without Sabrina’s knowledge. Did you know anything about that?”
“No!” Ethel exclaimed, with an audible intake of air. “I can’t believe she would do something like that.”
“Well, she did. She said she did it for the money.”
“But Sabrina has been so good to us! How could Candy deceive her that way? It’s the same as stealing.”
“That’s true, Ethel, but weren’t you ever tempted to—?”
“Never!” she exclaimed. “I’d rather starve than steal from Sabrina. She’s dearer to me than my own mother. I would never hurt her in any way.” Her words were a bit effusive, I thought, but I believed them just the same.
“Well, then, did Sabrina ever fix you up with Hogarth or Corona or any other of Melody’s clients? Either before or after she was killed?”
“I met with Oliver Rice Harrington a few times,” she said. “Next to Melody, he liked me best. I liked him, too. He’s a real gentleman. Very nice and considerate.”
Ha! Either my ex-boss has a split personality, or there are two Oliver Rice Harringtons in this town.
“Have you seen him since the murder?”
“No. I asked Sabrina about him, but she said he hasn’t called to make any new appointments.” Ethel stopped talking for a second, then added, as an afterthought, “But the man I was with tonight used to date Melody, too. Actually, he dates all the girls.”
I almost swallowed my tongue. “What did you say?” I gasped. “Who are you talking about? What’s his name?”
“Umm . . . er . . . I can’t tell you,” she stammered, voice suddenly turning wary. “He’s the one john Sabrina doesn’t want me to discuss with you, and I forgot. I’m sorry, Paige. I made a big mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned him at all.”
Dial Me for Murder Page 22