He was still energized when Helene opened the door of her apartment. He embraced her, laughing, and really didn’t calm down until she persuaded him to take off his hat and coat and sit in a living room armchair while she poured him a vodka. He gulped it greedily as he told her of the conversation with his mother.
“She’ll go along,” he predicted confidently. “Maybe it knocked her for a loop at first, but she’ll get used to the idea. I’ll hit her again in a day or so, and gradually she’ll accept it.”
“Then she’s not going to fire you?”
“No,” he said, grinning, “I don’t think so.”
“I hope you’re right, Clay,” Helene said. “I’d hate to be the cause of a breakup between you and Olivia.”
“You won’t be. She thinks you’re too young for me, but I told her that’s your decision to make.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said you won’t turn me down; you’re not that foolish.”
Helene’s smile was chilly. “Sometimes you and your family treat Olivia like she was a bubblehead. She happens to be a very wise lady.”
“If you say so. Are you ready to become Mrs. Helene Starrett the day after my divorce is granted?”
“Oh Clay, that’s months and months away. It seems to me you’re rushing things.”
“Look, if you’re going to do something, then do it. You still haven’t answered my question.”
“You really want to marry me?”
“Absolutely!”
She came up close, pressed her softness against his arm, caressed the back of his neck. “Then why don’t we go practice,” she said throatily. “Right now.”
“You’re on,” he said at once and stood up. He put his drink aside and began to take off his jacket.
“What about your advertising people, darling?” she said, unbuttoning his shirt.
“Let them wait,” he said. “I own them; they don’t own me.”
22
THE PHONE RANG A little before eight o’clock, and Dora roused from a deep sleep. “H’lo,” she said groggily.
“Did I wake you up, kiddo?” Mike Trevalyan said. “Good. That makes my day.”
“Yeah, it would,” she said, swinging her legs out of bed. “Is that why you called—just to wake me up?”
“Listen, you asked me to check on which managers got canned from which Starrett branch stores a year ago.”
“You got it?”
“Nope, I struck out on that one. My contacts in the jewelry business were no help. I even had a researcher go through jewelry trade journals for the past few years, but she came up with zilch. Sometimes those magazines publish personnel changes in the business, but only when the company involved sends them press releases. I guess Starrett didn’t want to publicize the firings.”
“Thanks anyway, Mike. I appreciate your trying.”
“How you coming on the Starrett claim?” he asked.
“Slowly,” Dora said. “It gets curiouser and curiouser the deeper I dig. By the way, I found that statement in my report that gives a good motive for Father Brian Callaway killing Lewis Starrett.”
Trevalyan laughed. “You should read your own reports more often. You think Callaway aka Sidney Loftus did the dirty deed?”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “He’s got a perfect alibi for the Solomon Guthrie murder.”
“Maybe the two killings aren’t connected.”
“Come on, Mike. The two victims were old friends and worked for the same company. There’s got to be a connection.”
“Then find it,” her boss said. “Now go back to sleep.”
“Fat chance,” Dora said, but he had already hung up.
She sat on the edge of the bed yawning and knuckling her scalp. She reflected, not for the first time, that she really should do morning exercises. Maybe a few deep knee-bends, a few push-ups. The thought depressed her, and she went into the bathroom to take a hot shower.
She was standing in the kitchen, drinking her first decaf of the day and thinking of what Mike had said, when she realized where she might be able to get the information she wanted. She phoned Detective John Wenden and was surprised to find him at his desk.
“What are you doing at work so early?” she asked.
“I didn’t get home last night,” Wenden said. “We had a mini-riot down in the East Village, and all available troops were called in.”
“What was the riot about?”
“About who can use a public park. How does that grab you? This city is nutsville—right? What’s up, Red?”
“John, you told me the Department was going through employment records from Starrett Fine Jewelry to find someone who was fired and was sore enough to snuff Lewis Starrett and Solomon Guthrie.”
“Yeah, we’re working on it. Nothing so far.”
“Well, about a year ago Starrett terminated a bunch of managers at their branch stores. Could you check the records and find out how many managers were canned and at which stores?”
“I could probably dig that out,” he said slowly, “but why should I?”
“As a favor for me?” Dora said hopefully.
“Red, this isn’t a one-way street, you know. It can’t be caviar for you and beans for me. If you want that information, you better tell me what’s percolating in that devious mind of yours.”
She hesitated a moment. “All right,” she said finally, “I can understand that. If you get me what I want, I’ll tell you why I need it.”
“You’re all heart,” Wenden said, sighing. “Okay, Red, I’ll get the skinny for you. But only on condition that I deliver it in person. I want to see you again.”
“And I want to see you.”
“Just so you can pick my brain?”
She didn’t answer.
“Well?” he said. “I’m waiting.”
“No,” Dora said faintly, “I just want to see you.”
“That’s a plus,” he said. “A small plus. I’ll let you know when I’ve got the info.”
She hung up the phone, wondering why her hand was shaking. It wasn’t much of a tremor, but it was there. To stop that nonsense, she immediately called Mario. There was no answer. He was probably at work, and he didn’t like to be phoned there. So Dora had another cup of coffee and resolutely banished John Wenden from her thoughts. For at least five minutes.
She spent the day doing research at the public library on Fifth Avenue. She started with the basics: The atomic number of gold was 79, its symbol was Au, it melted at 1064°C and boiled at 2875°. It had been discovered in prehistoric times and used in jewelry and coinage almost as long.
She then started reading about the mining and smelting of gold, and its casting into ingots, bars, and sheets, including gold leaf so thin (four millionths of an inch) you could tear it with a sneeze.
She took a break at 12:30, packed up all her notes, and went out into a drizzly day to look for lunch. There was a vendor on 42nd Street selling croissant sandwiches from an umbrella stand, and Dora had one ham and one cheese, washed down with a can of Diet Dr. Pepper. By the time she returned to the library, she figured she was two pounds heavier, but half of that was in her sodden parka.
In the afternoon she concentrated on jewelry: how it was designed and fabricated, the metals and alloys used. By four o’clock, eyes aching, her shoulder bag crammed with photocopies and notes, she left the library, slogged over to Madison Avenue, and bused uptown to the Bedlington.
She peeled off her cold, wet clothes, took a hot shower, and popped a couple of aspirin, just in case. Then she made a pot of tea, put on her reading glasses, and settled down in her bathrobe to try to find some answers in her research. She found no answers, but she did find a new puzzle and was mulling over that when John Wenden called around 7:30.
“Miserable day and miserable night,” he said. “You eat yet, Red?”
“No, not yet.”
“Neither have I, but I wouldn’t ask you to come out on a lousy night like
this. You like Chinese food?”
“Right now I’d like anything edible.”
“Suppose I stop by a take-out place and pick up some stuff. I’ll get it to the hotel while it’s still warm.”
“Sounds good to me,” Dora said. “I have a thing for shrimp in lobster sauce. Could you get some of that?”
“Sure, with wonton soup, fried rice, tea, and fortune cookies.”
“You can skip the tea,” she said. “I can provide that. But load up on the hot mustard.”
“All right,” he said. “See you in an hour.”
She put all her research away in a closet and dressed hurriedly in a tweed skirt and black turtle-neck pullover floppy enough to hide her thickening waist.
Monday starts the diet, kiddo, she told herself sternly. I really mean that.
She had a fresh pot of tea ready by the time John arrived. His coat and hat were pimpled with rain, and his ungloved hands were reddened and icy. Dora poured him a pony of brandy to chase the chill while she opened the Chinese food he had brought. All the cartons were arranged on the cocktail table in front of the couch, and Dora set out plates, cutlery, and mugs for their tea.
He hadn’t forgotten the shrimp in lobster sauce, and there was also a big container of sweet and sour pork cooked with chunks of pineapple and green and red peppers. Also egg rolls, barbecued ribs, and ginger ice cream.
“A feast!” Dora exulted. “I’m going to stuff myself.”
“Be my guest,” Wenden said. “You’re looking good, Red. Losing weight?”
Dora laughed. “You sweet liar,” she said. “No, I haven’t lost any weight, and I’m not about to if you keep feeding me like this. I’ll be a real Fatty, Fatty, two-by-four.”
“More of you to love,” he said, and when she didn’t reply, he busied himself with a barbecued rib.
“Let’s talk business,” Dora said, smearing an egg roll with hot mustard. “Were you able to get the information about which Starrett branch managers were fired a year ago?”
“Yeah, I got it. And you said you’d tell me why you want it.”
“All right,” she said. “Did you know that Starrett has been dealing in gold bullion for about a year now?”
“Sure, I knew that,” Wenden said, filling his plate with fried rice and sweet and sour pork.
Dora was startled. “How did you know?” she asked.
He looked up at her and grinned. “Surprised that we’re not total stupes? When Solomon Guthrie was knocked off, he was carrying a briefcase stuffed with company business papers. We went through it. Most of it was about Christmas bonuses for Starrett employees. But there was also a file on recent purchases and sales of gold bullion.”
“Oh,” she said, somewhat discomfited. “Did you do anything about it?”
“Wow!” he said, wiping his forehead with a paper napkin. “That mustard is rough. Sure, I did something about it; I asked Clayton Starrett what gives. He said the company buys the gold overseas at a good price and sells it to small jewelry stores around the country at a nice markup. He showed me his records. Everything looks to be on the up-and-up. Isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” Dora said. “I got hold of a computer printout showing all of Starrett’s gold business for the last three months, and it—”
“Whoa!” the detective said, holding up a palm. “Wait a minute. Where did you get the printout?”
“Let’s just say it was from a reliable source. Will you accept that?”
He ate a moment without answering. Then: “For the time being.”
“Well, I went over the printout many, many times and finally found something interesting. In addition to its flagship store on Park Avenue, Starrett has fifteen branches all over the world. Seven of them are overseas, and eight are in the U.S., including Honolulu. All the gold bullion Starrett was selling went to the domestic branches, none to the foreign stores.”
Wenden showed no reaction. He helped himself to more fried rice. “So?” he said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know what it means,” Dora said crossly, “but it’s unusual, don’t you think?”
He sat back, swabbed his lips with a paper napkin, took a swig of tea. “There could be a dozen explanations. Maybe the overseas stores buy their gold from local sources. Maybe there are hefty import duties on gold shipped to those countries. Maybe the foreign branches don’t need any gold because they get all their finished jewelry from New York.”
“I guess you’re right,” Dora said forlornly. “I’m just grabbing at straws.”
“On the other hand,” John said, leaning forward again to start on his ice cream, “you may be on to something. About a year ago nine branch managers, including the guy in Manhattan, were fired and replaced with new people. All the firings and replacements were in Starrett’s U.S. branches, none in the foreign stores.”
They stared at each other a moment. Then Dora took a deep breath. “You got any ideas?” she asked.
“Nope,” Wenden said. “You?”
“Not a one. There could be an innocent reason for it.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No.”
“I don’t either,” he said. “Something fishy is going on. Do you know anything you’re not telling me, Red?”
“I’ve told you all I know,” she said, emphasizing the know and figuring that made it only a half-lie.
“Well, keep digging, and if you come up with any ideas, give me a shout. Someone is jerking us around, and I don’t like it.”
She nodded, stood up, and began clearing the mess on the cocktail table. “John, there’s leftovers. Do you want to take it home with you?”
“Nah,” he said. “I’m going back to the office to-night for a few hours, and I won’t be able to heat it up. You keep it. You can have it for breakfast tomorrow.”
“With the hot mustard?” she said, smiling. “That’ll start me off bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Thank you for the banquet. You were a lifesaver.”
“Is the way to a woman’s heart through her stomach?” he asked.
“That’s one way,” she said.
Working together, they cleaned up the place, put uneaten food in the refrigerator, washed plates, cutlery and mugs. Then they returned to the living room and Dora poured them tots of brandy.
“John, you look tired,” Dora said. “Well, you usually look tired, but tonight you look beat. Are you getting enough sleep?”
He shrugged. “Not as much as I’d like. Did you know that in one eight-hour period over New Year’s Eve there were thirteen homicides in New York. Ten by gunshot.”
“That’s terrible.”
“We can’t keep up with it. That’s why I don’t give the Starrett thing the time I should be giving it. I’m depending on you to help me out.”
“I’ll try,” she said faintly, feeling guilty because of the things she hadn’t told him. “Don’t you get days off? A chance to recharge your batteries?”
“Yeah, I get days off occasionally. But they don’t really help. I keep thinking about the cases I’m handling, wondering if I’m missing anything, figuring new ways to tackle them.”
“You’ve got to relax.”
“I know. I need a good, long vacation. About a year. Either that or a good woman.”
She nodded. “That might help.”
“You?” he said.
She tried a smile. “I told you; I’m taken.”
“One of these days you’ll be leaving New York—right? Whether the Starrett thing is cleared up or not. Whether the insurance claim is approved or not. You’ll be going home to Hartford. Correct?”
“That’s right.”
“So we could have a scene while you’re here, knowing it’s not going to last forever. Who’d be hurt?”
She shook her head. “That’s not me.”
“Oh Red,” he said, “life is too short to be faithful. You think your husband is faithful?”
She lifted her chin. “I think he is. But it’s really
his decision, isn’t it? If he’s going to cheat on me because he’s a man or because he’s Mario—that’s his choice. No way can I affect it.”
“Would it kill you to learn he’s been cheating?”
She pondered a moment. “I don’t know how I’d feel. It wouldn’t kill me, but I’d probably take it hard.”
“But you’d forgive him?”
“I probably would,” she said.
“And if things were reversed, he’d probably forgive you.”
“Probably,” Dora said, “but I don’t want to find out. Look, John, you said life is too short to be faithful. But I think the shortness of life is all the more reason to try to make it something decent. I see an awful lot of human corruption on my job—not as much violent corruption as you see, thank God—so I want to try as hard as I can to be a Girl Scout. Maybe it’s because I want to prove I’m superior to the creeps I deal with. Maybe it’s because if I make the one little slip voluntarily, it’ll be a weakening and the first small step down a steep flight of stairs. Whatever, I want to live as straight as I can—which can be a mighty tough assignment at times.”
“Is this one of them?” he asked. “You and me?”
She nodded dumbly.
He finished his drink, rose, and pulled on his damp coat. He looked at her so sadly that she embraced him and tried to kiss his cheek. But he turned to meet her lips and, despite her resolve, she melted. They clung tightly together.
“You better go,” she said huskily, pulling away. “Give me a break.”
“All right,” he said. “For now.”
After he was gone, she locked the door and paced up and down, hugging her elbows. She thought of what he had said and what she had said—and what she might have said, and what the result of that would have been.
She knew she should dig her library research out of the closet and get back to trying to solve the puzzle it contained. But she could not turn her thoughts away from her personal puzzle: what to do about this weary, attractive man who for all his flip talk was serious. Yes, yes, he was a serious man and fully aware that he was on his way to burnout.
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