Dial Me for Murder

by Amanda Matetsky

  “Does she know about Jocelyn?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her. I’ll call her as soon as you leave. Meanwhile, we’ve still got our work cut out for us. It’s one murder down and one to go.”

  “Yeah,” he said, with a hefty sigh. “But the next one won’t be so easy to crack.”

  “It may be easier than you think.”

  Dan gave me a quizzical look. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know who did it, that’s why.” I straightened my shoulders and puffed out my chest in pride.

  “Oh, really?” He didn’t snicker, but he might as well have.

  “Yes, really!” I snapped.

  “Then suppose you tell me who it is.” Here came that sexy smile again.

  “I will, if you promise not to laugh at me,” I said. “I’m not in the mood to be ridiculed.”

  Dan’s smile vanished, and a look of pure sincerity took its place. “Don’t worry, Paige, I won’t laugh. Murder’s not a laughing matter . . . and neither are you.”

  That was all I needed to hear. “Okay, I’ll tell you,” I said, “even though you’ll think I’m nuts. I’m convinced—way beyond the shadow of a doubt—that Jocelyn Fritz was killed by District Attorney Sam Hogarth.”

  He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t applaud my sleuthing genius, either. He just raised one eyebrow and said, “Twenty minutes ago you would have sent Tony Corona to the electric chair for the same crime.”

  “I know that, Dan!” I croaked, getting snippy again. “But this time is different! This time I’m right!” I banged my fist on the tabletop for emphasis. (Okay, so your baby brother does the same thing when he’s cranky—but does that make me a petulant child? Don’t answer that!)

  “Simmer down, babe,” Dan said, leaning forward and looking me straight in the eye. “You don’t have to be so defensive. I didn’t say you were wrong about Hogarth. In fact, I’m sort of inclined to agree with you.”

  “What?” If the man yanked one more squirming bunny out of his hat, I’d faint dead away on the spot. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I’m not kidding you or laughing at you,” Dan soothed. “As much as I hate to admit it, the district attorney does seem to be a likely suspect. I’m not at all sure that he’s guilty, but I would like to know why you are.”

  I felt as though I’d just been crowned Miss Manhattan: rhinestone tiara, velvet cape, armful of roses, and all. Eager to walk down the runway and share my brilliant deductions with Dan and the rest of my worshipful fans, I held my head high, took a deep breath, and declared, “It’s because of Corona’s St. Christopher medal!”

  “Come again?” Dan said. I had surprised him for a change.

  “The medal!” I exclaimed, trying, but failing, to curb my excitement. “Hogarth swiped it from Corona’s dressing room at the Copa, and then planted it in the Barbizon pool after he drowned Jocelyn. I’m certain of it!”

  “What makes you say that? Don’t you think you’re—”

  “Jumping to conclusions? No way, Doris Day! Hogarth wanted Jocelyn dead, and he wanted the murder pinned on Corona, so he decided to kill both birds with one stone.”

  Dan was skeptical but intrigued. “Why did he want Jocelyn dead?”

  “Because she threatened him, that’s why! She told me all about it in the ladies’ lounge last night. She said she spoke to Hogarth at the bar, and when she brought up the subject of Melody’s murder, he smirked and pretended not to know who she was talking about. And this made Jocelyn hopping mad. Melody had been her best friend, and she couldn’t let Hogarth’s smirking denial go unchallenged. She lost her head and threatened to expose him.”

  “And this all happened at the Copa last night?”

  “Right.”

  “I didn’t know Hogarth was there. I didn’t see him at the bar.”

  “By the time you came in, he was up in the mezzanine, having dinner with his wife.”

  “How do you know he went to Corona’s dressing room?”

  “When Abby and I were there, Corona asked Little Pete if Hogarth was waiting in the hall to see him. Little Pete told him the DA was having dinner upstairs and would come down to see him later.”

  Dan’s face was flaming, and his eyes were shooting sparks across the table. I thought he was furious that Hogarth had been chummy with Corona. I thought he was going to start ranting about strange bedfellows, and shared hookers, and power-mad politicians and mobsters, and the deceitfulness of our degenerate DA, and the vile corruption in our city’s criminal justice system—but he didn’t. All he said was, “What the hell were you and Abby doing in Corona’s dressing room?”

  Uh-oh. Dan wasn’t going to like this part of the movie.

  “Well, um, er,” I stammered, looking for a way to bypass the sexual aspects of the dressing room scene. (The last thing I needed at that point was to make Dan jealous.) I quickly realized, however, that it would be impossible to avoid the sex angle without lying, so I gave up and took the next best way out:

  I put the blame on Abby.

  “The whole thing was Abby’s idea!” I blustered. (Well, it was the truth, you know!) “She thought the easiest and fastest way for us to observe and question Corona in person would be to masquerade as call girls. So we spoke to Sabrina, told her our plan, and asked her to arrange it. Sabrina then called Corona, told him two new girls had just joined her agency, gave him first choice of the fresh recruits, and offered to send us to the Copa for his inspection. Corona took the bait and invited us to dinner and the eight o’clock show, and to his dressing room afterward.

  “And it was darn lucky for you that we went!” I barreled on, talking as fast as I could, not giving Dan a chance to express his disapproval. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have heard Corona tell Little Pete to get rid of you! I wouldn’t have heard him say that he wanted you ‘put down,’ and that he wanted your head on a platter, and that he was going to talk to Costello about it that very night! And I wouldn’t have raced like the wind out of that dressing room to find you at the bar and warn you that your life was in immediate danger!”

  Dan’s jealous scowl melted into something soft and kind of swoony. It wasn’t a smile, exactly; it was more like an honest, open, goofy look of love. “I’m sorry, Paige,” he said. “I should have thanked you for that before. You did a very brave and daring thing, and I’m lucky to have such a clever, quick-thinking girlfriend.”

  My heart did a double cartwheel. “You’re pretty fast on your feet yourself, babe,” I replied. “Pretending to arrest me was downright inspired.”

  Dan grinned and gave me a sexy wink. “So you liked that, did you?”

  “It was very exciting,” I admitted.

  Chuckling and rolling his sleeves up another notch, he shoved his chair back from the table and stood up. “Then I think I’ll arrest you again,” he said. “Right now.”

  The next thing I knew, he scooped me up in his arms and carried me over to the couch. And the next thing I knew after that, he grabbed a fistful of my clammy hair, pulled my head away from his shoulder, and lowered his hot, luscious, demanding mouth onto mine. Then he pressed me all the way down into the seat cushion and climbed on top of me, burying the length of my body in his writhing warmth, covering my face and neck with ravenous kisses, breathing hotly in my ear, driving me out of my mind, making me cry out for more. . . .

  What can I say? I was dying for it. Who gave a flying fig about marriage? I wanted Dan to make love to me, and I wanted it now. This very instant. Diaphragm or no diaphragm. “Take me, baby!” I begged. “I want you so much I can’t stand it. Please take me now!”

  (A word to all sex-crazed girlfriends: Be careful what you beg for. If you get it, you might feel screwed. If you don’t get it, you’ll feel like a dope.)

  Dan pushed himself away from me, swung around to a sitting position, rubbed his face in his hands, and dropped his chin to his chest. He was panting like a racehorse.

  “I’m sorry, Paige,” he groa
ned, chest heaving. “I can’t go through with it.”

  “What’s wrong?” I gasped. (I was panting a bit myself.) “Is it the chlorine? I’ll run upstairs and take a shower if you—”

  “No! It’s nothing like that!”

  “Then what is it? I don’t turn you on anymore?” I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest. “Maybe I should put the blonde wig back on.” I was kidding, but just barely.

  Dan smiled and put his arm around my shoulders. “You turn me on as much as ever, Paige,” he said, holding me tight. “Even more, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Under the circumstances, I find that a weensy bit hard to believe.” I wasn’t kidding at all now. I was dead serious and teetering on the verge of a king-size crying jag.

  “But it’s true, babe,” Dan said. “I love you and want you more than ever.”

  “Then what’s the problem? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not the right time.”

  Aaargh!

  “Right time?!” I screeched. “I’m so hot I’m screaming for it, and you say it’s not the right time? What time would be good for you? Greenwich time? Mountain time? Alaska time? Suppertime?”

  Dan sniggered and shook his head. “Where’s your patience, Paige? We’ve already waited so long, I didn’t think it would hurt us to wait a few weeks longer.”

  “A few weeks? What for? What possible difference could a few weeks make?” I was getting more confused by the second.

  “It would give us some time to get our ducks in a row,” Dan said.

  “Ducks? What ducks? I don’t know any ducks.”

  Dan laughed, and pulled me closer. “Look, what I meant was a lot could happen in a few weeks’ time. A promise could be made. A license could be issued. Blood could be sent to the lab for testing. A ring could be found. A killer could be caught. A date for the execution could be set . . .”

  I almost wet my pants. Was Dan saying what I thought he was saying? Afraid of jumping to conclusions—especially this conclusion—I peered deep into his laughing black eyes and asked, “What’s on your mind, Detective, murder or marriage?”

  “Both,” he said—which, to my way of thinking, was the perfect answer.

  Chapter 37

  RENEWING OUR RESOLVE TO SAVE THE MAIN event for our wedding night, Dan and I decided to celebrate our engagement by indulging in another sensual experience we’d never shared before—a home-cooked breakfast. Dan went downstairs to buy the essentials—bread, eggs, bacon, juice— and I ran (okay, floated) upstairs to shower and change my clothes. Chlorinated capris and a matted Angora sweater just didn’t seem festive enough for our first feast together as husband and wife. (Okay, okay! What I meant was future husband and wife. You don’t have to be so persnickety about it!)

  By the time Dan got back to the apartment with the food, I was back downstairs in the kitchen, playing the happy little homemaker, looking very wifely in my clean black capris, fuzzy pink sweater, and ruffled blue-and-white-checked apron. I set the table with my best china (okay, two of my four melamine plates), put up another pot of coffee, and hoisted my almost-never-used, two-ton cast-iron skillet out of the cabinet and lugged it over to the stove. (And I thought hauling around the office Coffeemaster was hard!)

  While Dan unpacked the groceries and poured the orange juice, I heated the skillet and cooked the bacon. While Dan sat at the table sipping juice and smoking a cigarette, I fried four sunny-side up eggs in the bacon grease and sliced, toasted, and buttered the bread. Then I poured us some more coffee, dished up the food, and brought everything to the table.

  “To us!” I said, sitting down and holding my juice glass up for a toast.

  Dan grinned and clinked his glass against mine. “And to many more conjugal breakfasts like this!” He shot me a cocky smile, downed the rest of his juice, then dunked a piece of toast into one of his egg yolks and started eating. “And now that we’re going to be married,” he said between mouthfuls, “I want you to think about quitting your job.”

  I almost choked on my first bite of bacon. “Jesus, Dan!” I cried. “We’ve been engaged for less than an hour and already you’ve got me chained to the stove and giving up my career?! What’s next? A baby every year?” I was only half teasing. Maybe this whole marriage thing wasn’t such a good idea. . . .

  Dan laughed and shoveled an entire egg white into his mouth. He chewed it up, swallowed, and said, “I didn’t mean it that way, Paige, and you know it. Yes, I do want you to leave your dangerous job at Daring Detective, but I’m not asking you to give up your writing career. I’m just saying you don’t have to work nine-to-five anymore. I can support us both. Besides, things have been so lousy for you at DD lately, I thought you’d want to quit.”

  “I couldn’t quit under any circumstances,” I said.

  Dan’s face fell into a deep, dark frown. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t work there anymore.”

  “You mean you already quit?” His frown flipped into a mile-wide grin.

  “No, I think I was fired.”

  “What? . . . When? . . . Why?” His eyes were in shock, but his grin was still firmly in place.

  “It happened Thursday afternoon,” I said. “Pomeroy had a holy hemorrhage over the fact that I sent Lenny home early on deadline day. He said I was insolent and insubordinate, and he told Mr. Crockett that he and Harrington both wanted me terminated immediately. Since Harrington was involved in the decision, Crockett had no choice but to let me go.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Dan said, shaking his head. He wasn’t grinning anymore. “You’re the best damn reporter that magazine ever had, and Harrington’s never shown any concern about your conduct before.”

  I finished the piece of bacon and took a sip of coffee. “It’s not my conduct he’s concerned about. It’s his own.”

  “His connections with Sabrina and Melody, you mean.”

  “Right. I’m sure that’s the real reason Harrington wanted me fired—so I wouldn’t write a story about Melody’s murder for DD and, during my investigation, uncover the truth about his sex life. His marriage probably couldn’t stand the strain of such a scandal. And divorce can be very expensive, you know.”

  “Tell me about it,” Dan grunted, referring to his own costly trek through divorce court. (His promiscuous ex-wife had secured a good settlement by seducing the judge.) Wolfing down another yolk-dipped piece of toast and following it with a slug of coffee, Dan asked, “Was Harrington sleeping with Jocelyn, too?”

  “Not according to Sabrina. She fixed Brigitte up with him a few times a couple of years ago, but after Melody joined the agency and Harrington started dating her, he wouldn’t settle for anybody else.”

  “So you don’t think he’s a suspect?”

  “No,” I said, in my firmest tone. “Sam Hogarth killed Jocelyn. I know it. We’ve got to concentrate all our skills and energy on proving his guilt. Anything else would be a waste of time.”

  “I wish I was as convinced as you are.”

  “You will be—just as soon as you start digging up the evidence.”

  “But that will be next to impossible, Paige. Just think about it. This is the Manhattan district attorney we’re talking about! The most powerful prosecutor in the city. He’s rich, smart, politically connected, and very well protected. The commissioner will never put me on Hogarth’s tail. He’ll never put any detective on his tail.”

  “No, but he’ll put you on Jocelyn’s murder case once you tell him it’s connected to the Virginia Pratt case. He’ll see right away that you’re a better man for the job than Mudd.” I forked a gooey piece of egg into my mouth and chewed it slowly. “And you don’t have to mention Hogarth to the commissioner at all,” I said when I’d swallowed. “You can investigate him on your own and in secret—the same way you did Corona.”

  “Yeah, sure. I can do that. But it won’t make any difference. I still won’t be able to get the goods on Hogarth. He’s as insulated as Frank Costello. Nobody can tou
ch him.” Dan finished off his last egg and the rest of the bacon. “And what proof could I find, anyway? Lipstick on his collar? A smear of chlorine in his clothes? Believe me, everything Hogarth was wearing last night is already at the cleaners. And that St. Christopher medal you’re so proud of? It doesn’t prove a thing. You didn’t actually see Hogarth snitch it from Corona’s dressing room, and you’re the only person alive who knows it was found at the scene of the crime.

  “I’ve got news for you, babe,” he added. “It would be a hell of a lot easier to pin this murder on you than on Hogarth.

  “Well, that’s not very comforting!” I said, shuddering.

  “No, but it’s the truth,” he gloomily replied.

  “But what if Sabrina comes forward and tells the press about Hogarth’s relationship with Jocelyn?” I sputtered. “Wouldn’t that point to the DA’s guilt?”

  “Pointing isn’t proving. And besides, didn’t you say that Hogarth and Jocelyn were seeing each other on the sneak? Sabrina didn’t even know about their arrangement until you filled her in. So how could she go to the papers with an undocumented story like that? It’s nothing but hearsay, and no respectable crime reporter would risk his career and reputation—not to mention his all-important relations with the DA’s office!—to print it.

  “I hate to say this, Paige,” Dan concluded, “but if Hogarth is the one who killed Jocelyn, there’s a damn good chance he’s going to get away with it.”

  I couldn’t finish my breakfast. One more bite would have made me throw up. “But that’s unthinkable!” I cried, jumping up from the table and pacing from one end of the kitchen to the other. “We can’t let it happen, Dan! We can’t just back away and let the bastard go free! There’s got to be something we can do!”

  Dan stood up and stepped into the middle of the room, blocking me in my tracks. He grabbed hold of my shoulders and squeezed them hard. “Listen to me very carefully,” he said, staring into my eyes like an ultrastrict father (or husband). “There is nothing you can do. Nothing whatsoever. Do you hear what I’m saying? You are through with this investigation as of now! You’re going to lock yourself in this apartment and stay here until I come back.”