The seventh commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  Eleanor came over to his chair and turned her back. Obediently he reached up and pulled down the long zipper. He saw her pale, bony back.

  "Losing too much weight, aren't you, hon?" he said.

  "I don't think so," she said lightly. "You know the saying: You can never be too rich or too thin."

  She went into the bedroom to undress. He sipped his brandy and thought of Bob Farber's new wife. Luscious!

  Eleanor returned pulling on a crimson silk bathrobe.

  Before she knotted the sash, he saw how thin she really was. There was a time, before their son died, before Eleanor changed, when to watch her dress and undress in his presence was a joy. He had cherished those moments of warm domesticity. But now all the fervor had disappeared from their intimacy. His joy had dried up, just as Eleanor's body had become juiceless and her passions spent on table settings for charity benefits.

  She took one sip of her brandy, then handed him the glass. "You finish it," she said. "I'm going to bed."

  She swooped to kiss his cheek, then went back into the bedroom. He knew she would don a sleep mask and insert ear stopples. He suspected the mask and plugs were intended as armor, to protect herself from unwanted physical overtures. That didn't offend him, though it saddened him; he had no intention of forcing himself upon her. His last attempt, almost two years ago, had been a disaster that ended with tears and hysterical recriminations.

  He finished his brandy, put the glass aside, and drank from Eleanor's. He saw the bedroom light go out, and wondered how much longer he could endure this marriage that was all form and no content.

  Since meeting Helene Pierce, he had become concerned about age and the passing of time. It seemed to be accelerating. My God, here it was Christmas again! A year almost over, so quickly, gone in a flash. He felt the weight of his years: His mind was sharp as ever, he was convinced, but the body inexorably slowing, gravity claiming paunch and ass, vigor dulled and, worst of all, his capacity for fun dwindling-except when he was with Helene. She restored him: the best medicine a man could want.

  Bob Farber had done it, and so had a dozen other friends and acquaintances. It was easy to make crude jokes about old goats and young women, but there was more to it than a toss in the hay and proving your manhood. There was rejuvenation, a rebirth of energy and resolve.

  It would be difficult, he acknowledged. He would have to move slowly and carefully. If he could not win his mother's approval, at least he would need her neutrality. As things stood now, she was, in effect, the owner of Star-rett Fine Jewelry, and he could not risk her displeasure.

  As for Helene, he could not see her rejecting him even if he was old enough to be her father. In addition to her physical attractions, she had a sharp mind, a real bottom-line mentality. He knew of no other lovers she had, and while he was no Adonis, he offered enough in the way of financial security to convince her to disregard his age. And, of course, Turner Pierce was dependent on Starrett Jewelry for a large hunk of his income. He could count on Turner's endorsement.

  Eleanor would be saddened. Naturally. But there were many women in Manhattan, in their circle, who had endured the same experience. There was nothing like a generous cash settlement to cushion the shock.

  Clayton finished the brandy, rose and stretched. The matter would demand heavy deliberation and prudent judgment. But he thought it was doable and needed only a clever game plan to make it a reality.

  He went to bed, thought more of his decision and how it might be implemented. And never once, in all his speculation, did he put a name to what he planned. Just as, not too long ago, people spoke of cancer as the Big C, because naming the tragedy was too shocking. So Clayton Starrett never said, even to himself, "Divorce." Or even the Big D.

  Chapter 9

  The Company's Hartford office opened officially at 9:00 A.M., but Dora knew Mike Trevalyan arrived every morning at eight to get his day's work organized. She called him early on his private line and grinned to hear his surly growl.

  "Tough night, Mike?" she asked.

  "No tougher than usual. I had to go to a testimonial dinner for a cop who's retiring. A very wet party. What's up?"

  She told him what she wanted: Run Brian Callaway through the computer and see if there was anything on him. And get her some inside poop on Starrett Fine Jewelry: who owned it, their assets, revenues, profits, and so forth.

  "Callaway will be easy," Trevalyan said. "I should have an answer for you later today. Starrett will take some time. It's a privately held company, so there won't be much public disclosure. But I have some contacts in the jewelry trade, and I'll see what I can dig up."

  "Thanks, Mike," Dora said. One of the things she liked about her boss was that he never asked unnecessary questions, like, "What do you need this stuff for?" She couldn't have answered that.

  She had an appointment at noon with Helene and Turner Pierce. It gave her enough time to have a leisurely New York breakfast (lox and cream cheese on bagel) and then wander about the selling floors of Starrett's store on Park Avenue. Miniature Christmas trees were everywhere, decorated with gold tinsel, and muted carols were coming from concealed speakers. There were few customers, but not a single clerk came forward to ask, "May I help you?"

  Dora spent almost an hour inspecting jewelry in showcases and silver, crystal, and china on open display. All price tags were turned facedown or tucked discreetly beneath the items. But Dora knew she could never afford the things she liked-except, perhaps, a sterling silver barrette in the shape of a dolphin.

  She arrived at Helene Pierce's apartment house a little before noon. It was a shiny new high-rise on Second Avenue, all glass and rosy brick with a gourmet food shop and a designer's boutique on the street level. The doorman wore a plumed shako and military cape of crimson wool. Inside, the concierge behind a marble counter wore a swallowtail of white silk. Dora was impressed and wondered what kind of rent Helene Pierce was paying. Even if the apartments were co-ops or condos, she figured the maintenance would be stiff; plumed shakos and silk swallowtails cost. And so do elevators lined with ebony panels and antiqued mirrors.

  The woman who opened the door of the 16th-floor apartment looked to be ten years younger than Dora, six inches taller, and thirty pounds lighter. She had the masklike features of a high-fashion model, her smile distant. She was wearing a cognac-colored jumpsuit belted with what seemed to be a silver bicycle chain. Her long feet were bare.

  "Dora Conti?" she asked, voice flat and drawly.

  "Yes, Miss Pierce. Thank you for seeing me. I promise not to take too much of your time."

  "Come on in. My brother should be along any minute."

  The apartment was not as lavish as Dora expected. The rugs and furnishings were attractive, but hardly luxurious. The living room had a curiously unlived-in look, as if it might be a model room in a department store. Dora got the feeling of impermanence, the occupant a transient just passing through.

  They sat at opposite ends of a couch covered with beige linen and both half-turned to face each other.

  "What a lovely building," Dora said. "The lobby is quite unusual."

  Helene's smile was mocking. "A little garish," she said. "I would have preferred something a bit more subdued, a bit more elegant. But apparently people like it; all the apartments have been sold."

  "It's a co-op?"

  "That's correct."

  "How long have you lived here, Miss Pierce?"

  "Oh… let me see… It's been a little over a year now."

  "I hope you don't mind my saying, but you don't talk like a New Yorker. The Midwest, I'd guess."

  Helene stared at her, then reached for a pack of cigarettes on the end table. "Would you like one?" she asked.

  "No, thank you."

  "Do you mind if I smoke?"

  "Not at all."

  Dora watched her light up slowly, wondering if this lovely, self-possessed young woman was stalling.

  "Yes, you're quite right," Helene said with a short laugh. "The Midw
est it is."

  "Oh?" Dora said, trying to keep her prying light and casual. "Where?"

  "Kansas City."

  "Which one? Missouri or Kansas?"

  "Missouri. Does it show?"

  "Only in your voice," Dora said. "Believe me, your looks are pure Manhattan."

  "I hope that's a compliment."

  "It is. Have you ever modeled, Miss Pierce?"

  "No. I've been asked to, but-" There was a knock at the hallway door. "That must be my brother. Excuse me a moment."

  The man who followed Helene back into the living room was wearing a mink-collared cashmere topcoat slung carelessly over his shoulders like a cape. There was a hint of swagger in his walk, and when he leaned down to shake Dora's hand, she caught a whiff of something else. Cigar smoke, she guessed. Or perhaps brandy.

  "Miss Conti," he said, smiling. "A pleasure. What's this? My sister didn't offer you a drink?"

  "Sorry about that," Helene said. "Would you like something-hard or soft?"

  "Nothing, thank you," Dora said. "I'll just ask a few questions and then be on my way."

  The Pierces agreed they had attended a small cocktail party at the Starrett apartment the night Lewis had been killed. And no, neither knew of any enemies who might have wished the older Starrett dead. It was true he was sometimes a difficult man to get along with, but his occasional nastiness was hardly a reason for murder.

  "How long have you known the Starretts?" Dora asked, addressing Turner.

  "Oh… perhaps two years," he replied. "Maybe a little longer. It began as a business relationship when I landed Starrett Jewelry as a client. Then Helene and I met the entire family, and we became friends."

  "What kind of business are you in, Mr. Pierce?"

  "I'm a management consultant. It's really a one-man operation. I specialize in computer systems, analyzing a client's needs and devising the most efficient setup to meet those needs. Or sometimes I recommend changing or upgrading a client's existing hardware."

  "And that's the kind of work you did for Starrett?"

  "Yes. Their new state-of-the-art systems integration is just coming on-line now. I think it will make a big difference in back-room efficiency and give Starrett executives the tools to improve their management skills."

  That sounded like a sales pitch to Dora, but she said politely, "Fascinating."

  "I haven't the slightest idea what my brother is talking about," Helene said. "Computers are as mysterious to me as the engine in my car. Do you use computers in your work, Miss Conti?"

  "Oh yes. The insurance business would be lost without them. I'd like to ask both of you an additional question, but first I want to assure you that your replies will be held in strictest confidence. Has either of you, or both, ever noticed any signs of discord between members of the Starrett family? Any arguments, for instance, or other evidence of hostility?"

  The Pierces looked at each other a brief moment.

  "I can't recall anything like that," Turner said slowly. "Can you, sis?"

  She shook her head. "They seem a very happy family. No arguments that I can remember. Sometimes Lewis Starrett would get angry with Father Brian Callaway, but of course the Father is not a member of the family."

  "And even then Lewis was just letting off steam," Turner put in swiftly. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it. It was just his way."

  "What was he angry about?" Dora said.

  Turner rose from his armchair. "May I have one of your cigarettes, sis?" he asked.

  Dora watched him light up, thinking these two used the same shtick to give themselves time to frame their replies.

  Turner Pierce was a tall man, slender and graceful as a fencer. His complexion was dark, almost olive, and he sported a wide black mustache, so sleek it might have been painted. He had the same negligent manner as Helene, but behind his casual attention, Dora imagined, was something else: a streak of uncaring cruelty, as if the opinions or even the suffering of others were a bore, and only his own gratification mattered.

  "I believe," he said carefully, "it concerned the contributions Olivia was making to Father Callaway's church. It was nonsense, of course. The Starretts have all the money in the world, and the Father's church does many worthwhile things for the poor and homeless."

  Dora nodded. "And I understand Mrs. Eleanor is quite active in charity benefits. It seems to me the Starrett women are very generous to the less fortunate."

  "Yes," he said shortly, "they are."

  "Felicia Starrett as well?" she asked suddenly.

  "Oh, Felicia has her private charities," Helene said in her flat drawl. "She does a lot of good, doesn't she, Turner?"

  "Oh yes," he said, "a lot."

  They didn't smile, but Dora was conscious of an inside joke there, a private joke, and she didn't like it.

  "Thank you both very much," she said rising. "I appreciate your kind cooperation."

  Turner stood up, helped her on with her bulky anorak. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, ma'am," he said. "If there's anything more you need, my sister and I will be delighted to help."

  She shook hands with both: identical handclasps, cool and limp. She walked down the marble-tiled corridor to the elevator, thinking those two were taking her lightly; scorn was in their voices. And why not? They were elegant animals, handsome and aloof. And she? She was a plump-mobile, not quite frumpy but no Elle cover girl either.

  It was in the elevator that she decided to start a new diet immediately.

  She spent the afternoon Christmas shopping. She selected a nice pipe for her father who, since her mother's death, was living alone in Kennebunkport and refused to leave town, even for a visit. And she bought scarves, mittens, brass trivets, soup tureens, books of cartoons, music boxes, hairbrushes, and lots of other keen stuff. She paid with credit cards, had everything gift-wrapped and mailed out to her and her husband's aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends. She still didn't find anything exactly right for Mario.

  She had dinner in a restaurant in the plaza of Rockefeller Center: the best broiled trout she had ever eaten. She had one glass of Chablis, but when the dessert cart was rolled up, her new resolve vanished and she pigged out on a big chocolate-banana mousse. And then punished herself by walking back to her hotel, convinced the calories were melting away during her hike.

  The desk clerk at the Bedlington had a message for her: Call Mike Trevalyan. She went up to her suite, kicked off her shoes, and phoned. Mike sounded much friskier than he was that morning, and Dora figured he had had one of his three-martini lunches.

  "This Brian Callaway you asked about," he said. "Is he a big, beefy guy, heavy through the shoulders and chest, reddish complexion, lots of charm and a hundred-watt smile?"

  "That's the man," Dora said. "You found him?"

  "Finally. In the alias file. His real name, as far as we know, is Sidney Loftus, but he's used a half-dozen fake monikers."

  "Is he a preacher?"

  "A preacher?" Trevalyan said, laughing. "Yeah, I guess he could be a preacher. He's already been a used-car salesman, a psychotherapist, an investment advisor, and-get this-an insurance consultant."

  "Oh-oh," Dora said. "A wrongo?"

  "So twisted you could screw him into the ground. According to the computer, he's never done hard time for any of his scams. He's always worked a deal, made restitution, and got off with a suspended sentence or probation.

  Then he blows town, changes his name, and starts another swindle. About five years ago he put together a stolen car ring. If you couldn't keep up the payments on your jalopy, or needed some ready cash, you'd go to him and he'd arrange to have your car swiped. He never did it himself; he had a crew of dopers working for him. The car would be taken to a chop shop, and by the time the insurers got around to looking for it, the parts were down in Uruguay. The cops infiltrated the ring and were twenty-four hours away from busting Sidney Loftus when he must have been tipped off because he skipped town and hasn't been heard of since, until you asked
about him. You know where he is, Dora?"

  She ignored the question. "Mike," she said, "this stolen car ring-where was it operating?"

  "Kansas City."

  "Which one? Missouri or Kansas?"

  "Missouri."

  "Thank you very much," said Dora.

  Chapter 10

  Despite working for Starrett Fine Jewelry for forty years, CFO Solomon Guthrie knew little about the techniques of jewelry making. All he knew were numbers. "Numbers don't lie," he was fond of remarking. This honest man never fully realized how numbers can be cooked, and how a Park Avenue corporation based on fiddled data might have no more financial stature than an Orchard Street pushcart.

  But despite his naivete, Guthrie could not rid himself of the suspicion that something was wrong with the way Mister Clayton was running the business. All those new branch managers. That new computer systems integration that Sol didn't understand. And the tremendous purchases and sales of gold bullion. He couldn't believe any jewelry store, or chain of stores, could use that much pure gold. And yet, at the end of each month, Starrett showed a nice profit on its bullion deals. Guthrie was bewildered.

  Finally he phoned Arthur Rushkin, who had been Starrett's attorney almost as long as Sol had slaved over Star-rett's ledgers.

  "Baker and Rushkin," the receptionist said.

  "This is Solomon Guthrie of Starrett Jewelry. Can I talk to Mr. Rushkin, please."

  "Sol!" Rushkin said heartily. "When are we going to tear a herring together?"

  "Listen, Art," Guthrie said, "I've got to see you right away. Can you give me an hour this afternoon?"

  "A problem?"

  "I think it is."

  "No problem is worth more than a half-hour. See you here at three o'clock. Okay?"

  "I'll be there."

  He stuffed a roll of computer printout into his battered briefcase and added a copy of Starrett's most recent monthly statement. Then he told his secretary, Claire Heffernan, that he was going over to Arthur Rushkin's office and would probably return by four o'clock.