“We don’t tell the media everything. Another thing we didn’t release was that the crime scene guys and the lab think the perp may have been a woman.”
Dora put down her fork and stared at him. “A woman? You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure. They vacuumed up a few long hairs and particles of face powder.”
“What color hair?”
“Black, but it may have been colored. We sent the hairs to the FBI lab to see if they can definitely ID the color and also what kind of shampoo or hair spray was used, if any.”
They were silent while their steaks and baked potatoes were served. Dora looked down at her plate with amazement. “I’ll never be able to eat all that.”
“Sure you will,” Wenden said. “I’m betting on you.”
“So it was a sex scene?”
“Looks like it started out that way, but that’s not how it ended. He hadn’t had an ejaculation before he died. Too bad. A loser all around.”
Dora ate in silence a few moments, pondering. Then: “Any cigarette butts?”
“Nope,” Wenden said. “Just butts from those cigarillos he smoked. But when they took up the floorboards, guess what they found.”
“Not Judge Crater?”
“About three grams of high-grade coke.”
Dora paused with a forkful of steak half-raised. “You mean he was snorting?”
Wenden nodded. “Recently enough so that there were traces in his urine.” He laughed. “What a splendid man of the cloth that old schnorrer was! Does Olivia Starrett still believe in him?”
“She seems to, and I didn’t tell her any differently. Not even Callaway’s real name or how he died. This steak is something else again, and I’m going to finish every bite.”
“I thought you would. It’s aged meat. They scrape off the green mold before they broil it.”
“I hope you’re kidding.”
“Sure I am.” He sat back and sighed. “Great food, and screw cholesterol. Now I’m going to have coffee and a shot of Bushmills Black, just to put the icing on the cake. How about you?”
“I’ll have coffee, but Irish Whiskey is a little raunchy for me.”
“Tell you what: Have a half-and-half of Bushmills and Irish Mist on the rocks. You’ll love it.”
“All right, I’m game. I hope you’ll let me pay for all this, John. It’ll go on the pad.”
“Nope,” he said. “It’s my turn. You’ve fed me enough.”
“Salami sandwiches,” she scoffed. “This is food.”
They dawdled over their coffee and postprandial drinks.
“John,” she said, “you think Loftus picked up some floozy off the street?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t see him as a guy who had to rent a hooker. Also, there was loose cash in the back room, credit cards, and some valuable jewelry, including a Starrett wristwatch. A streetwalker would have snaffled the lot. No, I think his playmate was someone he knew. Whoever it was went along with his kinky idea of fun. He couldn’t have tied his own wrists to the bedposts.”
“And then the party got rough?”
He stared at her. “Doesn’t make much sense, does it? But that’s the way it looks.”
Did your guys come up with anything at local bars and restaurants?”
“Negative. But as they say in the tabloids, the manhunt is widening.”
“Was there any evidence that drugs had been done that night, before he was killed?”
He shook his head again. “The coke we found was in sealed glassine envelopes. There was nothing to indicate coke or anything else had been used. Analysis of his blood showed he had had a few drinks, but he wasn’t drunk. How do you like your drink?”
She rolled her eyes. “Heavenly. I’d like to fill a bathtub with this stuff, roll around in it, and then drink my way out.”
He laughed. “Talk about kinky! More coffee?”
“Maybe a half-cup. You working tonight?”
“No, I’m starting a forty-eighter. And I’m going to sleep all of it away.”
“I hope so,” Dora said. “You look beat. How do you feel?”
“A hundred percent better than I did two hours ago.”
“A rare steak will do that.”
“It’s really a rare you,” he said, looking at her. “You always give me a lift.”
He drove her back to the Bedlington and double-parked outside.
“Thanks for a memorable dinner,” she said.
“Thanks for sharing the memory.”
“You want to come up for a nightcap?” she asked hesitantly.
“I’d love to,” he said, “but I’m not going to. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me, and then I want to hit the sack. Raincheck?”
“Of course.”
He turned sideways to face her. He put an arm along the back of her seat, not touching her. But she stiffened and continued to stare straight ahead through the windshield.
“I’ll tell you something,” he said, his voice sounding rusty. “You may not believe it, but it’s the truth. When I first met you—and later, too—I know I pitched you, coming on like a hotrock. I figured a toss in the hay would be nice—why the hell not?”
“John,” she said softly.
“No, let me finish. But now it’s more than that. I think about you all the time. I dream up excuses to call you or see you, and then I don’t do it. You know why? Because I’m ashamed of acting like a schmo by bugging you all the time. And also, I’m afraid of rejection. I’ve been rejected before and shrugged it off because I didn’t give a damn. Now I give a damn. I don’t know what I feel about you, I don’t know how to label it, but I wasn’t lying when I said that just being with you gives me a lift. It’s like I’m hooked, and I get a rush every time I see you.”
“Maybe it’s because we’re working together,” she. said quietly. “People who work in the same office, for instance, or on the same project, develop a special intimacy: shared work and hopes and aims.”
“Sure, that’s part of it,” he agreed. “But I could be a shoe salesman or you could be a telephone operator and I know I’d feel the same way. It’s more than just the job. This is something strictly between you and me.”
Then she turned to look at him. “Don’t think I haven’t been aware of it. At first I thought you were just a stud looking for a one-night stand. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. But now I think you’re telling the truth because my feelings toward you have changed.” She laughed nervously. “I can even tell you exactly when it happened: when I suddenly realized I should have bought you a maroon cashmere muffler for Christmas. Nutsy—right? But as I’ve said many times, I’m married, and as I’ve said many, many times, happily married.”
“And that’s the most important thing in your life?”
“It was. Damn you!” she burst out, trying to smile. “You’ve upset my nice, neat applecart. You’re the one who’s making me question what really is important to me. I was sure before I met you. Now I’m not sure anymore.”
They’d never know whether she kissed him first or he kissed her. But they came together on the front seat of that ramshackle car, held each other tightly, clinging like frightened people, and kissed.
He was the first to break away. “I’ll take that nightcap now,” he said hoarsely.
“No, you won’t,” Dora said unsteadily. “You’ll drive home carefully and grab some Z’s. And I’ll go up to my bedroom by myself.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” he argued.
“I know,” she agreed. “But I need time to figure this out. Good night, darling. Get a good night’s sleep.”
“Fat chance,” he said mournfully, and they kissed just one more time. A quickie.
33
“HIYA, LADY. THIS IS Gregor Pinchik.”
“Hello, Mr. Pinchik. I’m glad to hear from you again.”
“Mr. Pinchik! Hey, you can call me Greg; I won’t get sore.”
“All right, Greg. And you can call me Dora instead of
lady; I won’t get sore.”
“Sure, I can do that. Listen, this guy you got me tracing, this Turner Pierce—it’s really getting interesting.”
“You’ve found out more about him?”
“I’m almost positive it’s him. About five years ago or so a hacker shows up in Denver calling himself Theodore Parker. Same initials, T and P—right? Like Thomas Powell in Dallas. But in Denver he’s got a wide black mustache just like you described, so I figure it’s gotta be him.”
“Sounds like it. What was he up to in Denver?”
“Still pulling telephone scams. But now he’s selling access codes. Those are the numbers companies issue to their employees so they can call long distance from outside the office and have it billed to the company. Like a salesman on the road can call headquarters and have the charges reversed by punching out his access code.”
“How did Theodore Parker get hold of the codes?”
“Oh hell, there are a dozen different ways. You invade a company’s computers and pick them up. Or you buy software that dials four-digit numbers in sequence until you hit one that works. Or maybe you steal the salesman’s code card. Then you’re in like Flynn. It’s easier when the company has an 800 number, but you can also get on their lines through their switchboard.”
“And he was peddling the codes?”
“That’s right. Mostly to college students and soldiers away from home, but also to heavies who made a lot of long-distance calls to places like Bolivia and Colombia and Panama and didn’t want to run the risk of having their own phone lines tapped.”
“What a world!”
“You can say that again. Anyway, this Theodore Parker had a nice business going. He was even selling the codes to penny-ante crooks who were running what they call ‘telephone rooms.’ These are places you can go and for a buck or two call anyplace on earth and talk as long as you like. It would all be billed to the company that owned the access codes the crooks bought from Parker.”
“Beautiful. And what happened to him?”
“The Denver hackers I contacted told me the gendarmes were getting close, so Theodore Parker skedaddled. For Kansas City. How does that grab you?”
“I love it. Any mention of a woman skedaddling along with him?”
“I struck out there. Everyone says he was a loner, just like in Dallas. Plenty of women, but no one resembling Helene Pierce the way you described her. That’s all I’ve got so far.”
“Greg, I’ve received your hourly bills and sent them on to the Company. But you didn’t list the expense of all the long-distance calls you’ve been making or your modem time. The Company will pay for that.”
“They are. I’m using their access codes.”
“You stinker! Did you invade their computers again?”
“Nah. Listen, you can buy a long-distance access code on the street for five or ten bucks. But I didn’t even have to spend that. Your Company’s access codes are listed on an electronic bulletin board I use. I picked the numbers up from that. Well, I’m going to start on Kansas City now. I’ll let you know how I make out.”
“Please. As soon as possible.”
“Nice talking to you, lady.”
Dora hung up smiling and then jotted a précis of Pinchik’s information in her notebook. She sat a moment recalling her initial reaction to Turner and Helene Pierce: supercilious people with more aloof pride than they were entitled to. It was comforting to learn that Turner was apparently a two-bit lowlife scrambling to stay one step ahead of the law.
She glanced at her watch, then took a look in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. She was wearing the one “good” dress she had brought from Hartford: a black silk crepe chemise that wasn’t exactly haute couture but did conceal her tubbiness. She fluffed her red hair and vowed, again, that one of these days she was going to do something with it. Then she went down to the Bedlington cocktail lounge, hoping Felicia Starrett wouldn’t be too late.
Surprisingly, she was already there, sitting at a corner table and sipping daintily from a tall pilsner of beer.
“Surely I’m not late,” Dora said.
The woman looked up at her. “What?” she said.
“Have you been waiting long?”
Felicia shook her head. “I’m out of it, Nora.”
“Dora. What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
No reply. Dora looked at her closely. She was thinner, drawn. The cords in her neck were prominent enough to be plucked. Her nose had become a knuckle, and her stare was unfocused.
Dora went over to the bar and ordered a beer. While she waited, she observed Felicia in the mirror. She was sitting rigidly and when she raised the glass to her lips, her movements were slow, slow, as if she had planned every motion carefully and was dutifully obeying her mind’s command.
She was wearing a belted cloth coat, buttoned to the neck although the cocktail lounge was overheated. And she had not removed her soiled kidskin gloves. She was hatless; her long black hair appeared stringy and unwashed.
Dora carried her beer back to the table. “Would you like something to eat?” she asked, taking the chair opposite. “Perhaps a sandwich?”
“What?”
“Are you hungry?”
“No,” Felicia said, and looked about vaguely. “Where am I?”
Dora wasn’t certain how to handle this. Felicia didn’t appear drunk or high on anything else. But certainly she was detached. The woman was floating.
“The cocktail lounge of the Hotel Bedlington,” Dora said. “I’m Dora Conti. Thank you for meeting me for a drink.”
“A cigarette,” Felicia said.
Dora fished a crumpled pack from her shoulder bag. But when she offered it, Felicia made no move to take a cigarette. Dora pat the pack on the table.
“I see you’re drinking beer,” she said as lightly as she could. “No Chivas Regal today?”
The woman looked at her blankly. She said, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Dora was shocked by this childish response. “Felicia,” she said, “is there anything I can do?”
“About what?”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I will be.” She paused and slowly the focus of her eyes changed until she was actually looking at Dora. “I’m getting married,” she said suddenly. “Did you know? Of course not; no one knows. But I’m getting married.”
“Why, that’s wonderful,” Dora said. “Congratulations. Who’s the lucky man?”
“I bought him,” Felicia said, mouth stretched in an ugly grin. “I bought the lucky man.”
Dora drank off half her beer, wondering whether to end this mad conversation as soon as possible or take advantage of this poor woman’s derangement. “Turner Pierce?” she asked quietly.
“Oh,” Felicia said, “I did tell you. I forgot. You know Turner?”
“We’ve met. I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“He knows how to make me happy.” She leaned across the table and beckoned with a long forefinger. Dora bent forward to hear. “I’m naked,” Felicia said in a low voice.
“Pardon?”
“Under my coat. I haven’t a stitch on. Look.” She opened two buttons, pulled the neckline apart. Dora saw bare breasts.
“Button up,” she said sharply. “Felicia, why on earth aren’t you dressed?”
“What’s the point? I don’t feel like it. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. And mother can’t make me.” That bony forefinger beckoned again, and again Dora leaned forward. “Clayton is going to marry Helene. Good. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I thought Turner and Helene were making it.”
“Felicia! They’re brother and sister.”
“So? But now it’s all right. Turner is mine. I’ll never give him up.”
She said this so fiercely that Dora was saddened, fearing what might happen to this vulnerable woman. Felicia sat back and looked at her pridefully. “I’ve moved in with
Turner. It’s my home now.”
“And when will the wedding be?”
The focus of Felicia’s eyes flattened, the aimless stare returned. “Soon,” she said. “Real soon. I think I better go. Turner worries about me. He doesn’t like me to be out by myself. He wants me with him all the time. Every minute.”
“That’s nice,” Dora said, not believing a word of all this. “Felicia, please, take care of yourself. And see your mother as often as you can.”
“I don’t think so. Do you have any money?”
Dora was startled. “I have a little with me.”
“Could you give me a twenty for a cab?”
“Of course,” Dora said. She took out her wallet and handed over a bill.
Felicia stood up, steadily enough, and unexpectedly proffered her hand. “I’ve enjoyed our little chat,” she said formally. “So nice seeing you, and we must do this again very soon.”
“Yes,” Dora said.
Felicia turned away, then came back to put an arm across Dora’s shoulders and lean close. “I call him the iceman,” she whispered. “Turner. When we’re getting it off, I say to him, ‘The iceman cometh.’ Isn’t that hilarious?”
Dora nodded and watched her go, feeling horrified and helpless. An avalanche was beginning to move, and there was no way to stop it.
34
THAT DEMENTED CONVERSATION WITH Felicia Starrett spooked her. But it wasn’t only Felicia, Dora acknowledged; the entire case involved befuddled and vexatious characters, all seemingly acting from irrational motives. Their lives were so knotted, ambitions so perverse, plans so Byzantine that she despaired of sorting it all out.
But then, she admitted ruefully, her own life was hardly a model of tidiness. John Wenden’s confession—and implied plea—was never totally banished from her thoughts. An analysis of the way she felt about him was proving as frustrating as untangling the Starrett mishmash. She, whose thinking had always been so ordered and linear, seemed to have been infected by the loonies who peopled this case. She had caught their confusion and was as muddled as they.
Almost for self-preservation, she resolutely decided to concentrate her attention on Solomon Guthrie’s computer printout and what it might reveal about the perplexing gold trading by Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc. Now she was dealing with names, addresses, numbers, transactions: all hard data that had none of the wild emotionalism of the Starrett clan and their intimates.
Seventh Commandment Page 18