“Hey!” Guthrie cried. “What the hell do you think—”
But then the stranger was inside, crouching over him, the door was slammed, and the cab took off with a chirp of tires.
“What—” Guthrie started again, and then felt a sear in his abdomen, a flash of fire he couldn’t understand until he looked down, saw the man stab him again. He tried to writhe away from that naming blade, but he was pressed back into a corner, his homburg and glasses falling off as the man stabbed again and again, sliding the steel in smoothly, withdrawing, inserting it. Then he stopped.
“Make sure,” the driver said, not turning.
“I’m sure,” the assailant said, and pushed Guthrie’s body onto the floor. Then he sat down, wiped his blade clean on Solomon’s overcoat, and returned the knife to a handsome leather sheath strapped to his right shin.
The cab stopped for the light at 72nd Street. When it turned green, it went south to 71st, made a right into the dead-end street, drove slowly between parked cars to a turnaround at the western end.
The cab stopped on the curve and the two men looked about casually. There was a woman walking a Doberman farther east, but no one else was on the street.
“Let’s go,” the driver said.
Both men got out of the cab and closed the doors. They paused a moment to light cigarettes, then walked toward West End Avenue, not too fast, not too slow.
14
“HOW DO YOU FEEL?” she asked.
“Still got the sniffles,” John Wenden said, “but I’ll live to play the violin again. Actually, I feel a helluva lot better. It was the tea and brandy that did it.”
“It was a good night’s sleep that did it,” Dora insisted. “You were whacked-out. Want to take a hot shower?”
“You bet.”
“Help yourself. There are plenty of towels. If you want to shave, you can borrow my razor. I’ll even throw in a fresh blade.”
“Thanks, but I’ll skip. I keep an electric shaver in my office; the beard can wait till I get there. Sorry I crashed last night, Red.”
“You’re entitled. While you’re showering I’ll make us a cup of coffee. But it’ll be instant and black. Okay?”
“My favorite brew,” he said.
She was preparing coffee when she suddenly thought of what to buy her husband for Christmas. An espresso machine! One of those neat, shiny gadgets that make both espresso and cappuccino. Mario, a coffee maven, would be delighted.
They stood at the sink and sipped their black instant. Wenden looked at her reflectively.
“You think Father Callaway was the perp, don’t you?” he said.
Dora shrugged. “I think he’s the front-runner. You’re going to check him out, aren’t you? And the Pierces.”
“Oh sure. I’ll start the ball rolling as soon as I get back to my desk. What’re you doing today?”
“I’ve got a ten o’clock appointment with Clayton at the Starrett Building. It was the only time he could fit me in.”
“What do you expect to get from him?”
“I’m getting confusing signals on how the Pierces became such good friends with the Starrett family. Whether it was before or after Turner Pierce landed Starrett Fine Jewelry as a client and designed then-new computer system. I’d also like to know if Father Callaway made the introduction.”
He looked at her admiringly. “You’re a real Sherlock. You enjoy your job?”
“Oh hell, yes.”
“What does your husband think of your being a gumshoe?”
She flipped a hand back and forth. “He doesn’t mind what I do. What he doesn’t like is my being away from home so much. It means he has to cook for only one—which isn’t much fun. Mario is a super chef. Do you prepare your own meals?”
“Not exactly,” Wenden said. “I have a cook—Mrs. Paul. Listen, Red, I’ve got to run. Thanks again for the brandy. And the shower. And the coffee. I owe you.”
“Just remember you said that,” Dora told him. “I may call in my chits.”
“Anytime,” the detective assured her.
She let him kiss her cheek before he left.
She spent a few minutes straightening up the suite, not accustomed to maid service. Then she went out into a raw morning. It was too cold to hike all the way, so she took a Fifth Avenue bus south and then walked east to Park Avenue, stopping frequently to look in the shop windows on 57th Street.
She was on time for her appointment but had to wait awhile in a cramped reception room. Most of the magazines on the cocktail table were jewelry trade journals, but there was one copy of Town & Country. Leafing through it, Dora spotted a full-page Starrett ad. It showed a magnificent necklace of alternating white and yellow diamonds draped across a woman’s bare breasts (the nipples hidden). The only print on the page, in a small, discreet script, read: Starrett Fine Jewelry. Simply Superior.
A secretary with an English accent ushered her into Clayton Starrett’s office at about 10:15. He bounced up from behind his desk, beaming and apparently chockablock with early-morning energy.
“Good morning!” he caroled, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “Sorry to keep you waiting. The Christmas season, you know—our busiest time. Here, let me take your coat. Now you sit right here. Dreadful office, isn’t it? So dark and gloomy. I’m having the whole place done over. Bright colors. Much livelier. Well, I hope you’ve brought me good news about the insurance.”
“Not quite yet, Mr. Starrett,” Dora said with a set smile, “but we’re getting there. We’d like the mystery of your father’s death cleared up before the claim is approved. As I’m sure you would.”
“Of course, of course,” he cried. “Anything I can do to help. Anything at all.”
He seemed in an antic mood, and she decided to take advantage of it. “Just a few little questions. Really extraneous to my investigation, but I like to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Could you tell me how you and your family met Helene and Turner Pierce?”
He was startled by the question, then sat back, tapped fingertips together. “How did we meet the Pierces? Now let me see … I think it was a few years ago. Yes, at least two. Father Callaway was over for dinner and I happened to mention something about the inadequacy of our computers. The Father said he had just the man for me, a management consultant who specialized in designing and upgrading computer systems. So I said to send him around. He was Turner Pierce, and he’s done a marvelous job for us. And through Turner I met his sister Helene. A charming couple. They came over for dinner several times, and we all became good friends.”
“I see,” Dora said. “And did you investigate Turner’s credentials before you—”
But then the phone on Starrett’s desk jangled, and he looked at it, frowning.
“Damn it,” he said. “I told my secretary to hold all my calls. Excuse me a moment, please.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and picked up the phone. “Yes? Who? All right, put him on.” He looked up at Dora, puzzled. “A police officer,” he said. Then: “Hello? Yes, this is Clayton Starrett. That’s correct. What? What? Oh my God! When did this happen? Oh God, how awful! Yes, of course. I understand. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
He hung up. He stared blankly at Dora, and she rose to her feet, fearing he might collapse. He was stricken, face broken and sagging, eyes wide and staring, lips trembling.
“The police,” he said, voice cracking. “They say Solomon Guthrie has been killed. Murdered.”
“Who?”
“Sol Guthrie, our chief financial officer. He’s been with Starrett forty years. A good friend of my father.”
He began to blink rapidly, but it didn’t work; tears overflowed. He wiped them away angrily with the back of his hand.
“How was he killed?” Dora asked.
“Stabbed to death. Like father. Oh, this lousy, rotten city! I hate it, just hate it!”
“It’s not only New York, Mr. Starrett. It’s happening everywhere.”
He nodded, st
ood up, took a deep breath. “I’ve got to go. The police asked me to come to, uh, where Sol was found. They want me to, uh, identify the body. West End Avenue and Seventy-first Street. Yes, that’s what he said.”
Dora moved behind the desk to put a hand on his arm. “Mr. Starrett, would you like me to go with you? Perhaps it would be a little easier if you weren’t alone.”
He looked at her, face twisted. “Would you do that? Thank you. Yes, please come with me. I’d really appreciate it. Listen, there’s a bottle of Scotch in that sideboard over there, and glasses. Would you pour us a drink while I call down and have my driver bring the car around.”
She poured him a stiff shot of whiskey, but none for herself. He finished on the phone and downed his drink in two gulps. Then he coughed, and his eyes began to water again.
“Let’s go,” he said hoarsely.
On the drive uptown he kept his head turned away from her, staring out the limousine’s tinted windows at the mean streets of his city.
“How old a man was he, Mr. Starrett?”
“Sol was sixty-three.”
“Married?”
“A widower. He has two grown sons, but they don’t live in New York. They’ll have to be notified as soon as possible. I hope we have their addresses in our personnel file.”
“The police will find them,” Dora assured him. “Did they say if the killer had been caught?”
“They didn’t say.”
“What do you suppose he was doing there—where his body was found?”
“Probably on his way to work. He lived on Eighty-sixth and Riverside Drive.”
They found West 71st Street blocked by two uniformed police officers. Clayton Starrett identified himself and the limo was allowed to move slowly down to the far end of the block. There were squad cars, an ambulance, a van from the police lab, all parked in a jagged semicircle around a yellow cab with opened doors. Crime scene tape, tied to trees and iron fences, held back a small throng of gawkers.
A burly man wearing a plaid mackinaw, ID clipped to his lapel, came over to them.
“Mr. Starrett?”
Clayton nodded.
“I’m Detective Stanley Morris. I spoke to you on the phone. Thanks for helping us out. We need positive identification. This way, please.”
He took Clayton firmly by the arm and started to lead him toward the cab.
“Can I come?” Dora asked.
The detective stopped, looked back at her. “Who are you?”
“Dora Conti. I’m a friend of Mr. Starrett.”
“Did you know the victim?”
“No,” she said.
“Then you stay here.”
Left alone, she looked about and saw John Wenden leaning against the door of a squad car, talking to a uniformed officer. She moved around to his line of sight and waved her arm wildly. He spotted her and came over, face expressionless.
“What the hell are you doing here, Red?” he asked her.
“I was in Clayton’s office when he got the call. I thought he should have someone with him.”
“How did he take the news?”
“Total shock. And he wasn’t faking. This Solomon Guthrie—he was stabbed?”
Wenden nodded.
“Like Lewis Starrett?”
“No. From the front. And more than one wound. Several, in fact.”
“Same kind of knife? An eight-inch triangular blade?”
“I doubt it. It looks more like a kind of stiletto, but we won’t know for sure until the autopsy.”
“Any leads?”
“Nothing worth a shit.”
“What about the cab?”
“It was stolen early this morning from Broadway and Seventy-ninth. The driver parked for a minute to run into a deli to pick up a coffee and bagel. He left his motor running—the schmuck! When he came out, the cab was gone. It ended up here.”
“Robbery?”
“Doesn’t look like it. Guthrie’s wallet and credit cards are all there. And a gold Starrett pocket watch. Nothing was touched. He was carrying a briefcase full of Starrett business papers. That’s how come Clayton was called.”
Dora shook her head. “I don’t get it. Clayton says he was probably on his way to work. Then the driver turns in here, goes to the dead end, stops, gets out of the cab, opens the back door, stabs his passenger to death, and walks away. Do you believe it?”
“No,” John said, “it doesn’t fit. The victim would have plenty of time to scream or get out the other side of the cab or put up a fight. But there’s no sign of a struggle. I’m betting on two perps: the driver and another guy in back with Guthrie.”
“A planned homicide?”
“I’d guess so. Probably professionals. A contract killing most likely. They knew exactly what they were doing. The lab crew is vacuuming the cab now. They’ll be able to tell us more. What does this do to your theory that Father Callaway offed Lewis Starrett?”
“Knocks it into left field,” Dora admitted. “The chairman and principal stockholder of Starrett Fine Jewelry gets stabbed to death on East Eighty-third Street. Then the chief financial officer of Starrett gets knifed on West Seventy-first. You don’t believe in coincidences, do you?”
“Hell, no. Not in this business.”
“So where does that leave your official theory that Lewis Starrett’s death was a random killing by a stranger?”
“Right next to yours,” he said, “out in left field. It seems obvious the two homicides are connected, and Starrett Jewelry is probably the key. So now we start searching through their files for fired employees or someone who might have a grudge against the company and decided to knock off its executives to get even.”
“You going to put a guard on Clayton?”
“We can’t baby-sit him twenty-four hours a day. Haven’t got the manpower. But we’ll warn him and suggest he beef up security at his stores and hire personal bodyguards for himself, his family and top executives. He can afford it. Oh-oh, here he comes now.”
Clayton Starrett, supported by Detective Stanley Morris, returned to the limousine. He was almost tottering; his face was ashen.
“I’ll ride back to his office with him,” Dora said, “or to his home, if that’s where he wants to go. Listen, John, will you call me tonight if anything new breaks on this case?”
“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.”
15
“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 offered 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?”
&n
bsp; “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.
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