Dial Me for Murder (33 page)

I couldn’t hold my tongue one second longer. “But how can that be?” I spluttered. “You can’t book a man for murder based on the word of a Mafia stoolie! You’ve got to have solid evidence—and a heck of a lot of it!”

Dan chuckled and sat up straighter. “I was coming to that part, Paige, but since you’re too impatient to sit still and listen, I think you’d better get up and pour me a cup of coffee—use up some of that nervous energy.”

If he hadn’t given me a really sexy smile when he said that, I would have had a hissy fit and refused to move. As it was, though, I stabbed out my cigarette, jumped out of my chair, hopped over to the stove, filled two mugs with coffee, and brought them back to the table in a flash.

I couldn’t wait to hear the rest of Dan’s story.

And I hoped to earn another sexy smile.

 
BY THE TIME THE COFFEEPOT WAS EMPTY, both of my goals had been realized. Dan had smiled at me twice during the course of his detailed account, and when he concluded his lengthy monologue, I knew every single step leading up to his sudden—but completely lawful—arrest of Tony Corona for the murder of Virginia Pratt.

I would repeat Dan’s report for you word for word, but that would take too many pages and tax my wretched memory beyond its capacity. I hope, therefore, that you’ll be satisfied with the following summary.

As soon as Dan got the scoop from his stoolie, he went looking for proof that the story was true. He didn’t bother searching for evidence of Costello’s involvement because he knew he’d never find any. So he focused all his energy and effort on proving Corona’s guilt. He hung out at the Copa at night—watching Corona and his entourage in action, listening in on private conversations at the bar and in the men’s room—and he spent the rest of his time digging for evidence at the Plaza Hotel.

Dan spoke with the maid responsible for cleaning Corona’s suite and learned that the day after the murder a sheet was missing from the suspect’s bed. And as she was replacing it with a new one, the maid remembered, a faint but distinct odor of turpentine had wafted up from the mattress. She never mentioned the odor or the missing sheet to her supervisor for fear she’d be blamed for both, but when Dan asked her to give him the replacement sheet for evidence, she readily complied. And when this sheet was compared with the one Virginia’s body had been wrapped in, it proved to be the same size and have the same label, stitching, and thread count as the original. Traces of turpentine were detected in both examples.

Dan discovered more incriminating evidence in Corona’s suite, which he entered one evening after Corona and his henchmen left for the Copa. In a cabinet under the bathroom sink he found a length of rope, a roll of adhesive tape, a box of cotton, and a small can of turpentine. Astounded that Corona had held on to these damning indications of his guilt—that he hadn’t even attempted to hide them!—Dan confiscated the items and had the lab compare them with the rope, tape, and turpentine-soaked cotton used to bind, gag, and asphyxiate Virginia. Each test showed a perfect match.

Dan could have arrested Corona at this point. He had plenty of proof. He was afraid, though, that it wouldn’t hold up in court; that the defense would argue the evidence had been planted; and that—due to the all-too-neat and convenient stash of incriminating articles under the sink—the jury would believe the claim. So, to nip this possible scenario in the bud, Dan continued searching for something more conclusive—an irrefutable verification of the facts.

And this he got, in very short order, from Corona’s frightened, loose-lipped chauffeur. Thinking the driver might have had something to do with transporting Virginia’s corpse from the Plaza to Central Park, Dan cornered him in the garage of the hotel, grilled him about the night of the murder, and accused him of being an accomplice in the crime. The hapless chauffeur broke down in tears and started shaking uncontrollably, saying he’d been forced to do what he did, and that he’d be killed if he told anybody what happened. But after Dan convinced him that he’d probably be killed anyway, and then promised him a new identity and a new life in Arizona in exchange for the truth, he admitted that he’d helped Corona and his strong-arm man, Little Pete, dispose of the body.

He said they had wrapped the dead girl and her belongings in a sheet, hidden the bundle under a pile of linens in a hotel laundry cart, and then wheeled the cart into a service elevator and taken it down to the garage. He said Little Pete lifted the bundle into the trunk of the limousine and then went with him to unload the body in Central Park. Corona went back upstairs.

Dan found plenty of evidence to substantiate the chauffeur’s story—several rope fibers and a splotch of turpentine in the bottom of the linen cart, numerous long blonde hairs and a diamond stud earring in the trunk of the limousine—and decided that, combined with the chauffeur’s testimony and the evidence he’d already collected, it was more than enough to convict Corona.

So while Abby and I were drinking champagne and watching Corona perform at the Copa, Dan was taking the terrified chauffeur into custody, making sure he would be kept safe and comfortable until he could testify at the trial and then begin his new life in Phoenix.

And while Abby and I were doing our dumb Gina and Cherry act in Corona’s dressing room, Dan was checking his hat and coat and taking a seat at the Copa bar, waiting for the right moment to make his move.

And then later that night (which was just
last
night, if you can believe it!)—after I had rescued Dan from certain death with my clever prostitute impression and he had driven Abby and me home in a heedless, fire-breathing fury—Detective Sergeant Dan Street made a hasty (and, if you ask me, heroic) return to the Copacabana and arrested the club’s (maybe the whole galaxy’s) star entertainer for murder.

Chapter 36

“GREAT WORK, DAN,” I SAID, WHEN HE FINISHED his arresting tale. “You are, without a doubt, the world’s best dick. I’m so proud of you! And I can’t wait to tell Sabrina that Virginia’s killer has been caught. She’ll be so grateful.”

“Does she know about Jocelyn?”

“Not yet. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her. I’ll call her as soon as you leave. Meanwhile, we’ve still got our work cut out for us. It’s one murder down and one to go.”

“Yeah,” he said, with a hefty sigh. “But the next one won’t be so easy to crack.”

“It may be easier than you think.”

Dan gave me a quizzical look. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I know who did it, that’s why.” I straightened my shoulders and puffed out my chest in pride.

“Oh, really?” He didn’t snicker, but he might as well have.

“Yes, really!” I snapped.

“Then suppose you tell me who it is.” Here came that sexy smile again.

“I will, if you promise not to laugh at me,” I said. “I’m not in the mood to be ridiculed.”

Dan’s smile vanished, and a look of pure sincerity took its place. “Don’t worry, Paige, I won’t laugh. Murder’s not a laughing matter . . . and neither are you.”

That was all I needed to hear. “Okay, I’ll tell you,” I said, “even though you’ll think I’m nuts. I’m convinced—
way
beyond the shadow of a doubt—that Jocelyn Fritz was killed by District Attorney Sam Hogarth.”

He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t applaud my sleuthing genius, either. He just raised one eyebrow and said, “Twenty minutes ago you would have sent Tony Corona to the electric chair for the same crime.”

“I know that, Dan!” I croaked, getting snippy again. “But this time is different! This time I’m
right
!” I banged my fist on the tabletop for emphasis. (Okay, so your baby brother does the same thing when he’s cranky—but does that make me a petulant child? Don’t answer that!)

“Simmer down, babe,” Dan said, leaning forward and looking me straight in the eye. “You don’t have to be so defensive. I didn’t say you were wrong about Hogarth. In fact, I’m sort of inclined to agree with you.”

“What?” If the man yanked one more squirming bunny out of his hat, I’d faint dead away on the spot. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“I’m not kidding you
or
laughing at you,” Dan soothed. “As much as I hate to admit it, the district attorney
does
seem to be a likely suspect.
I’m
not at all sure that he’s guilty, but I would like to know why
you
are.”

I felt as though I’d just been crowned Miss Manhattan: rhinestone tiara, velvet cape, armful of roses, and all. Eager to walk down the runway and share my brilliant deductions with Dan and the rest of my worshipful fans, I held my head high, took a deep breath, and declared, “It’s because of Corona’s St. Christopher medal!”

“Come again?” Dan said. I had surprised
him
for a change.

“The medal!” I exclaimed, trying, but failing, to curb my excitement. “Hogarth swiped it from Corona’s dressing room at the Copa, and then planted it in the Barbizon pool after he drowned Jocelyn. I’m certain of it!”

“What makes you say that? Don’t you think you’re—”

“Jumping to conclusions? No way, Doris Day! Hogarth wanted Jocelyn dead, and he wanted the murder pinned on Corona, so he decided to kill both birds with one stone.”

Dan was skeptical but intrigued. “Why did he want Jocelyn dead?”

“Because she threatened him, that’s why! She told me all about it in the ladies’ lounge last night. She said she spoke to Hogarth at the bar, and when she brought up the subject of Melody’s murder, he smirked and pretended not to know who she was talking about. And this made Jocelyn hopping mad. Melody had been her best friend, and she couldn’t let Hogarth’s smirking denial go unchallenged. She lost her head and threatened to expose him.”

“And this all happened at the Copa last night?”

“Right.”

“I didn’t know Hogarth was there. I didn’t see him at the bar.”

“By the time you came in, he was up in the mezzanine, having dinner with his wife.”

“How do you know he went to Corona’s dressing room?”

“When Abby and I were there, Corona asked Little Pete if Hogarth was waiting in the hall to see him. Little Pete told him the DA was having dinner upstairs and would come down to see him later.”

Dan’s face was flaming, and his eyes were shooting sparks across the table. I thought he was furious that Hogarth had been chummy with Corona. I thought he was going to start ranting about strange bedfellows, and shared hookers, and power-mad politicians and mobsters, and the deceitfulness of our degenerate DA, and the vile corruption in our city’s criminal justice system—but he didn’t. All he said was, “What the hell were you and Abby doing in Corona’s dressing room?”

Uh-oh
. Dan wasn’t going to like this part of the movie.

“Well, um, er,” I stammered, looking for a way to bypass the sexual aspects of the dressing room scene. (The last thing I needed at that point was to make Dan jealous.) I quickly realized, however, that it would be impossible to avoid the sex angle without lying, so I gave up and took the next best way out:

I put the blame on Abby.

“The whole thing was Abby’s idea!” I blustered. (Well, it was the truth, you know!) “She thought the easiest and fastest way for us to observe and question Corona in person would be to masquerade as call girls. So we spoke to Sabrina, told her our plan, and asked her to arrange it. Sabrina then called Corona, told him two new girls had just joined her agency, gave him first choice of the fresh recruits, and offered to send us to the Copa for his inspection. Corona took the bait and invited us to dinner and the eight o’clock show, and to his dressing room afterward.

“And it was darn lucky for you that we went!” I barreled on, talking as fast as I could, not giving Dan a chance to express his disapproval. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have heard Corona tell Little Pete to get rid of you! I wouldn’t have heard him say that he wanted you ‘put down,’ and that he wanted your head on a platter, and that he was going to talk to Costello about it that very night! And I wouldn’t have raced like the wind out of that dressing room to find you at the bar and warn you that your life was in immediate danger!”

Dan’s jealous scowl melted into something soft and kind of swoony. It wasn’t a smile, exactly; it was more like an honest, open, goofy look of love. “I’m sorry, Paige,” he said. “I should have thanked you for that before. You did a very brave and daring thing, and I’m lucky to have such a clever, quick-thinking girlfriend.”

My heart did a double cartwheel. “You’re pretty fast on your feet yourself, babe,” I replied. “Pretending to arrest me was downright inspired.”

Dan grinned and gave me a sexy wink. “So you liked that, did you?”

“It was very exciting,” I admitted.

Chuckling and rolling his sleeves up another notch, he shoved his chair back from the table and stood up. “Then I think I’ll arrest you again,” he said. “Right now.”

The next thing I knew, he scooped me up in his arms and carried me over to the couch. And the next thing I knew after that, he grabbed a fistful of my clammy hair, pulled my head away from his shoulder, and lowered his hot, luscious, demanding mouth onto mine. Then he pressed me all the way down into the seat cushion and climbed on top of me, burying the length of my body in his writhing warmth, covering my face and neck with ravenous kisses, breathing hotly in my ear, driving me out of my mind, making me cry out for more. . . .

What can I say? I was dying for it. Who gave a flying fig about marriage? I wanted Dan to make love to me, and I wanted it
now
. This very instant. Diaphragm or no diaphragm. “Take me, baby!” I begged. “I want you so much I can’t stand it. Please take me now!”

(A word to all sex-crazed girlfriends: Be careful what you beg for. If you get it, you might feel screwed. If you
don’t
get it, you’ll feel like a dope.)

Dan pushed himself away from me, swung around to a sitting position, rubbed his face in his hands, and dropped his chin to his chest. He was panting like a racehorse.