The seventh commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  Dora smiled shyly. "You don't have to do that, Mr. Rush-kin."

  "I know I don't have to," he said, "but I want to. If you ever tire of your job and decide to relocate to New York, please let me know. I can promise you that your investigative talents will be well rewarded here."

  "Thank you, sir," she said. "I'll keep it in mind."

  Out on Fifth Avenue, in a frigid drizzle, she wondered why she was grinning and walking with a bouncy step. Then she realized it was because her professional performance had been praised and she had been offered a job. That did wonders for the old ego and supplied confidence for the meeting with Mike Trevalyan in Hartford the following day. That tete-a-tete, she knew, would be a brannigan.

  Just for the hell of it, she walked over to Park Avenue. As Rushkin had said, the flagship store of Starrett Fine Jewelry was shuttered. The display windows were stripped of gems, and a sign proclaimed: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. But Dora was amused to note it didn't deter a mink-swathed matron who was shading her eyes to peer within and furiously rattling the knob of the locked door.

  She bused up Madison Avenue, then walked over to the Starrett apartment on Fifth. Charles, looking as funereal as ever, let her enter and left her standing in the foyer while he shuffled away to announce her arrival.

  Mrs. Olivia Starrett was sharing the chubby love seat with a diminutive man swaddled in a voluminous white djellaba. He popped to his feet when Dora entered, his robe swung briefly open, and she caught a quick glimpse of skinny shins half-covered with black socks suspended from old-fashioned garters.

  "Dora!" Olivia said. "I'm so happy to see you, dear. I want you to meet the Maharishi Ziggy Gupta, a very wise man who is teaching me the spiritual truths of the Sacred Harmony."

  The little man grinned and bobbed his head at Dora. She nodded in return.

  "Pliz," he said, "forgive my language, but I am mostly happy to be making your-your-" He turned to Olivia for help.

  "Acquaintance," she suggested.

  "Yiss," the Maharishi said. "Your acquaintance."

  Dora smiled and nodded again. "Mrs. Starrett," she said, "I just wanted to stop by to offer my sympathy. I know the events of the past few days must be a terrible burden. Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "How sweet of you," Olivia said. "But with Ziggy's instruction I am learning to endure. Think of life as a great symphony, and all of us are but individual notes. To know the Sacred Harmony we must contribute our personal sorrows and joys so that the holy music rises to heaven and is pleasing to God."

  "Iss so," the guru said, grinning. "For He is the Great Conductor who leads us with His stick."

  "Baton," Olivia said. "I can't tell you what a comfort the Maharishi has been to me. He has come from Bombay to bring America his inspiring message of hope and redemption. We were just discussing how we might set up a school in New York, The Academy of the Sacred Harmony, so more pilgrims may achieve spiritual tranquillity by learning how each of us can add to the symphonic universe."

  "Yes," Dora said, dazed. "Well, I must be going. I'm happy to see you in good spirits, Mrs. Starrett."

  "I am contributing my note," Olivia said with a beatific smile. "To the chords that shall become part of the exalted rhapsody. Did I say that right, Ziggy?"

  "Eggsactly," he said, grinning.

  Dora fled, found her parka in the foyer closet, and left that apartment. She refused to laugh at Olivia's hopeless hope. That long-suffering woman was entitled to any solace she could find.

  When she exited from the elevator, she saw Eleanor Starrett come striding across the lobby, gripping a furled umbrella as if she'd like to wring its neck. She spotted Dora, rushed up, squeezed her arm tightly.

  "Did you just see Olivia?" she demanded.

  Dora nodded.

  "Is she up and about?"

  "She's doing fine."

  "Thank God!" Eleanor cried. "She's got to give me some money. Did you hear about Clayton?"

  "Yes, I heard."

  "They can fry that moron in the electric chair for all I care," Eleanor said angrily, "but what about me? My lawyer says the government will claim there was a pattern of racketeering, and if he's convicted Clay will be subject to RICO penalties. Do you know what that means? I'll tell you what it means-that they can take everything he's got: money, cars, real estate, jewelry, the fillings in his teeth. So where does that leave me? What kind of a settlement am I going to get if the government strips that imbecile down to his Jockey shorts? You know what it makes me? A bag lady rooting in garbage cans for my dejeuner."

  Dora stared at her in astonishment, then noted the Starrett pearl choker at her throat, the Starrett gold brooch on her lapel, the Starrett tennis bracelet of two-carat diamonds, the several Starrett rings of emeralds, sapphires, rubies.

  "Boohoo," Dora said mockingly, turned, and walked away.

  Chapter 45

  She took special pains with her grooming that evening, brushing her hair until it gleamed, snugging on her "good" dress, adding the bracelet Mario had given her for Christmas. Finally she dabbed on a wee drop of Obsession-and wondered why she was tarting herself up. She hadn't been so nervous since her first prom, and breaking a fingernail did nothing to calm her down.

  Wenden had wanted to pick her up at the hotel, but not knowing how their dinner-date might end, Dora thought it wiser to have her own transportation. So she drove over to Vito's in the Escort-and then had to park two blocks away and walk back.

  John was already there, seated at a small bar just inside the door. He, too, had obviously made efforts to spruce up. His suit was pressed, shoes shined, shirt fresh, tie unstained, and he even had a clean white handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. Dora thought he looked quite handsome.

  They had extra-dry martinis at the bar, then carried refills to the back of the dining room. The detective was on his best behavior, anxious that she was satisfied with their table, holding the chair for her, asking if the room was too cold. Too hot? Too bright? Too noisy?

  "John," she said, smiling, "it's just fine. I like it, I really do."

  The waiter brought menus, and with no hesitation they both ordered broiled veal chops, pasta with salsa piccante, and a salad of arugula and endive. The wine list was left at Wenden's elbow, but Dora said she'd settle for a glass.

  "Or two," she said. "I've got to get up early, and I have a long drive ahead of me. John, what's happening with Clayton Starrett?"

  "Singing like a birdie," he said. "Ortiz thinks we're really going to nail Ramon Schnabl this time. He's already been charged, but he's out on bond. The judge made him turn in his passport, but Terry is keeping an eye on him just in case."

  "What about Helene Pierce?"

  "She came in voluntarily for questioning and wouldn't even admit she was at Turner's apartment the night he was offed. I'd love to get a few of her hairs to see if they match up with the ones we found at the Loftus scene, but I don't know how to do it."

  "Does she have a cleaning woman?"

  Wenden looked at her. "I don't know. Why?"

  "Maybe a cleaning woman could get you a few hairs from Helene's brush."

  He laughed. "Your brain never stops clicking, does it, Red. Well, it's worth a try. Ah, here's our salad. Wine now?"

  "A glass of white with the salad," Dora said, "and a glass of red with the veal. And that's it. Definitely."

  They started on their salads, along with chunks of hot garlic toast from a napkined basket. They were both hungry and didn't talk much while they were eating. John did say, "You look very attractive tonight," and Dora said, "Thank you. So do you," and they both laughed and reached for more garlic toast.

  The veal chops were just the way they wanted them: charred black on the outside; white, moist, and tender inside.

  The pasta sauce was a little more piccante than they had expected, but the red wine arrived in time to cool their palates. Dora attacked her food with fierce determination, and Wenden was anything but picky. They finished and sat back,
staring with bemusement at the denuded chop bones.

  "Think we could get in the Guinness Book of World Records?" John asked. "Fastest time for demolishing double veal chops."

  "A scrumptious meal," Dora said.

  "Dessert?"

  "No, no, and no!" she said. "It's diet time again."

  Wenden said nothing. She was conscious that he was staring at her, but she would not, could not raise her eyes to his. But she was aware that the lightheartedness of the evening was waning.

  John consulted the wine list, then summoned their waiter.

  "A bottle of Mumm's Cordon Rouge, please," he said. "As cold as you can make it."

  Then Dora looked at him. "Hey," she said, "why the celebration?"

  "Not a celebration," Wenden said. "A wake. The answer s no, isn't it, Red?"

  She nodded. "You're a good detective."

  "It's a downer," he said. "I imagined you had a thing for me."

  She reached out to cover his hand with hers. "I love you, John," she said quietly. "I truly do. But I also love my husband."

  "I'm not sure," he said, trying to smile, "but that may be illegal."

  His reply, even in jest, angered her. "Can't I love two men at the same time? Why not? Men can love two or more women at the same time, and frequently do. What am I-a second-class citizen?"

  He held up his palms in surrender. But then the waiter brought their chilled champagne and glasses. They were silent while he went through the ceremony of uncorking the bottle. He poured a bit into John's glass and waited expectantly. But John handed it to Dora.

  "You first," he said.

  She sampled it. "Just right," she proclaimed.

  The waiter filled their flutes, left the bottle in a bucket of ice, and departed. They raised their glasses to each other in a silent toast.

  Dora said slowly, "I wish I could explain to you the way I feel in a clear, logical way, but I can't. Because this is something that's got nothing to do with logic. It's a mishmash of emotions and fears and upbringing and education and God knows what else."

  "But the bottom line is no," he said.

  "That's right," Dora said decisively. "I'm not going to bed with you. But you've got to believe me; I do love you."

  They both smiled sadly.

  "Look at us," Dora said. "Me, an overweight housewife. You, a burned-out cop. I wish I could understand it, but I can't."

  "It happens," John said. "Do you have to understand it? Can't you just accept it?"

  "I do accept it," she said. "The love part. Not the infidelity. It's not so much wanting to be faithful to Mario, it's wanting to be faithful to myself. Does that make sense?"

  "No," he said, and filled their glasses again.

  "Listen," Dora said, almost desperately, "let me take a stab at it. I'm a Catholic. I went to a parochial school. My husband is a Catholic. But neither of us has been to confession for I don't remember how long. Our Catholic friends don't go either. So I don't think fear of sin has anything to do with it. But maybe, deep down inside me, it does because of the way I was raised, and I'm just not conscious of it."

  "All right," Wenden said, "assuming it's not fear of sin, then what is it?"

  "It's a lot of things," she said, "and I'm sure you'll laugh at all of them. Look at the people we've been involved with: the Starrett crew and their pals. All of them cheating like mad. You've got to admit they're a scurvy lot; they give adultery a bad name. They make it so vulgar. Someone once said morality is a luxury few can afford. Well, / can afford it, even if it costs me.

  "That's one thing. Another is that it scares me. It really does. I said I love you, and that's the truth. But what if we get it off together, and I like it. Then we drift apart, for whatever reason, and I say to myself, 'Hey, that wasn't so bad. As a matter of fact, it was fun. I think I'll find myself another lover.' Then I'm on my way to bimbo-land. It could happen, John."

  "What you're saying is that you don't trust yourself."

  "You're exactly right; I don't trust myself. I don't dare take the chance. If that makes me a coward, then I'm a coward."

  "Or smart," he said with a twisty grin. "Well, Red, I guess you've been doing a lot of heavy thinking about this, and that's kind of a compliment to me. But did you also think about how you might feel tomorrow, next week, next year, ten years from now? No regrets?"

  She leaned across the table to stroke his cheek. "You shaved for me," she said. "How nice! Let me tell you something, John. It's like you're driving along a highway. You know where you're going. Then you see a side road leading away. It looks great. All leafy. Beautiful. You're tempted to turn off and explore it. Find out where it goes. But you don't. And maybe you think of that side road a lot in the years to come. Regret is too strong a word, but the curiosity is there. You may never stop wondering where that road led."

  He reached for the champagne bottle and poured what was left into their glasses.

  "That's what will happen to me," Dora said. "What will happen to you?"

  "Nothing," he said. "Which is what usually happens to me. Oh, I'll survive. I've been unhappy before, and I'll be unhappy again. You've been unhappy, haven't you?"

  "Yeah," Dora said. "Like right now. Listen, John, why don't you come up to Hartford and visit with us for a weekend-or as long as you like. We've got an extra bedroom."

  He stared at her. "I don't think that would be so smart, Red-do you?"

  "No," Dora said miserably, "I don't."

  John lifted the champagne bottle and tried to pour. It was empty, and he shoved it, neck down, into the melted ice.

  "The bubbles are gone," he said.

  Chapter 46

  She returned to Hartford the following morning and went directly to the office. She composed her final report on her word processor. Then Dora filled out the forms all claims adjusters were required to submit. She dumped all her papers on the desk of Mike Trevalyan's secretary and went back to her cubicle. She put her feet up on her desk, drank a diet cola, and smoked too many cigarettes.

  The summons didn't come until late in the afternoon, and when she walked into Trevalyan's cluttered office, she knew the shit was going to hit the fan; he had two cigars going at once.

  "You're approving the claim?" he shouted at her. "You're actually approving it?"

  "Of course," she said calmly. "None of the beneficiaries had a thing to do with the murder of Lewis Starrett. You want to fight it? You want a lawsuit? Be my guest."

  "And look at this!" he howled, waving a fistful of her expense account vouchers. "What the hell were you doing-buying food and booze for every cop in New York?"

  "If you read my report," Dora said, "you know what I was doing: helping to break up a fraud for laundering drug money and helping to solve four homicides. Aren't you happy to see a little justice done?"

  "Screw justice!" Mike said wrathfully. "All I know is that this is going to cost the Company three million smackers. And what do you think the Accounting Department is going to say when I submit those humongous bills from your so-called computer expert, that Gregor Pinchik. They'll have my balls for hiring that guy."

  "Oh Mike, don't be so cheap. Gregor provided the key to the whole case. Look, you want to come out of this smelling like a rose?"

  He looked at her suspiciously. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Pinchik didn't bill for his long-distance calls or modem time because he used our telephone access codes. They were on an electronic bulletin board he subscribes to. But he admitted he's been into our computers and rummaged around. If he can do it, then any smart hacker can do it. Persuade the Company to hire Pinchik as a consultant, to upgrade our computer security with state-of-the-art safeguards. If we don't do it, it's just a matter of time before we start paying out claims to some larcenous hacker who's invaded our records."

  Trevalyan thought about that a moment. "Yeah," he said finally, "you got a point there, kiddo. Listen, how about us going out for some food and talking about what I should put in my memo to th
e brass."

  "No, thanks," she said. "I want to get home to Mario."

  "You just want one of his gourmet dinners," Mike said grumpily.

  Dora smiled serenely. "There's a lot to be said for home cooking."

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