The Eighth Commandment (43 page)

“Tacchino di festa!”
he cried, and showed his shopping list.

“Salami?” she said, reading. “And sweet sausage? With turkey?”

“For the stuffing,” he explained. “Trust me.”

“Okay,” she said happily.

They invited twelve guests, family and friends, and the dining room of their snug cottage was crowded. But everyone praised the turkey as Mario’s masterpiece, and the numerous side dishes and gallons of jug wine made for a real
festa.

There was enough food left over, Dora figured, for two more dinners, but it was not to be. Trevalyan called on Friday morning, although it was supposed to be a holiday.

“Better pack,” he said, “and get down to the office. I’ll brief you here.”

“Where am I going?” she asked.

“Manhattan.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“How much is involved?”

“Three million,” he said. “Whole life.”

“Whee!” Dora said. “Natural death?”

“Not very,” Trevalyan said.

H
ELENE PIERCE WATCHED HIM
dress. He had a good body—not great, but good. Flab was beginning to collect on his abdomen and his ass was starting to sink, but for a guy of forty-six, what did you expect?

“I wish you could stay,” she said. “I could order up some food. Maybe that chicken you like with rosemary and garlic.”

He was standing before the long mirror on the bathroom door, flipping his tie into a Windsor knot.

“No can do,” Clayton Starrett said. “Eleanor wants me home early. Another of her charity bashes.”

“Where?”

“At the Plaza. For children with AIDS. I had to buy a table.”

“A party so soon after the funeral?”

He turned and shrugged into his vest. “You know Eleanor and her charity bashes. Besides, all the clichés are true: Life really does go on. He’s been dead—how long? A week tomorrow. People used to mourn for a year. Women wore black. Or, if they were Italian, for the rest of their lives. No more. Now people mourn for a week.”

“Or less,” she said.

He stood before the mirror again, adjusting the hang of his jacket. Everything must be just so.

“Or less,” he agreed. “You know who’s taking it hardest?”

“Your sister?” Helene guessed.

He turned to look at her. “How did you know? Her eyes are still swollen. I’ve heard her crying in her room. I never would have thought it would hit her like that; Felicia is such a fruitcake.”

“What about your mother?”

“You know her: strictly the ‘God’s-will-be-done’ type. Since it happened, she’s practically been living with that guru of hers. I’d love to know how much she’s been paying him. Plenty, I bet. But that’s her problem.”

“Have the police discovered anything new?” Helene asked.

“If they have, they’re not telling us. They still think it was a mugger. Probably a doper. Could be. Father was the kind of man who wouldn’t hand over his wallet without a fight.”

“Clay, he was seventy years old.”

Starrett shook his head. “He could have been ninety, and he still would have put up a struggle. He was a mean, cantankerous old bastard, but he had balls.”

He took up his velvet-collared chesterfield. He came over to sit on the edge of the bed. He stared down at her. She was still naked, and he put one hand lightly on her tawny thigh.

“What will you do tonight?” he asked.

“I’ll call my brother and see if he’s got anything planned. If not, maybe we’ll have dinner together.”

“Good. If you see him, tell him everything is going beautifully. No hitches.”

“I’ll tell him,” she promised.

He leaned down to kiss a bare breast. She gasped.

“You’re getting me horny again,” she said.

He laughed, stood up, pulled on his topcoat. “Oh,” he said, “I almost forgot.” He fished into his jacket pocket, took out a small suede pouch closed with a drawstring. “Another bauble to add to your collection,” he said. “Almost three carats. D color. Cushion cut. A nice little rock.”

“Thank you, Clay,” she said faintly.

He started to leave, then snapped his fingers and turned back.

“Something else,” he said. “The claims adjuster on the life insurance policy is in town asking questions. A woman. I’ve already talked to her, and she’s planning to see mother, Eleanor and Felicia. It’s possible she may want to talk to our friends. If she looks you up, answer all her questions honestly but don’t volunteer any information.”

“I can handle it,” Helene said. “What’s her name?”

“Dora Conti.”

“What’s she like?”

“Red-haired. Short and plump. A real butterball.”

“Doesn’t sound like an insurance snoop.”

“Don’t let her looks fool you,” he said. “I get the feeling she’s a sharpie. Just watch what you say. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She rose and followed him into the living room. She locked, bolted, and chained the door behind him. She brought the little suede pouch over to her corner desk and switched on the gooseneck lamp. She took a jeweler’s loupe from the top drawer, opened the pouch, spilled the diamond onto the desk blotter.

She leaned close, loupe to her eye, and turned the stone this way and that. She couldn’t spot a flaw, and it seemed to be an icy white. She held it up to the light and admired the gleam. Then she replaced the gem in the pouch and added it to a wooden cigar box, almost filled. Her treasures went into the bottom desk drawer.

She knew she should take the unset diamonds to her safe deposit box. She had been telling herself that for a year. But she could not do it,
could not.
She liked their sharp feel, their hard glitter. She liked to sit at her desk, heap up the shining stones, let them drift through her fingers.

She called Turner Pierce.

“He’s left,” she reported. “Going to a society bash at the Plaza with his wife. How about dinner?”

“Sure,” he said. “But I’ll have to split by ten. I’m meeting Ramon uptown at eleven.”

“Plenty of time,” she assured him. “Suppose I meet you at seven at that Italian place on Lex. The one with the double veal chops.”

“Vito’s,” he said. “Sounds good to me. Don’t get gussied up. I’m wearing black leather tonight.”

“You would,” she said, laughing.

They sat at a table in a dim corner, and three waiters fussed about them, knowing he tipped like a rajah. They both had Tanqueray vodka on ice with a lime wedge. Then they studied the menus.

“What did you get?” Turner asked in a low voice.

“Almost three carats,” Helene said. “Icy white. Cushion cut.”

“Nice,” he said. “But you earned it.”

“He said to tell you everything is going beautifully. No hitches.”

“I’m glad he thinks so. I have a feeling Ramon isn’t all that happy. I think he wants more action.”

“I thought the idea was to go slowly at first, get everything set up and functioning, and then build up the gross gradually.”

“That was the idea, but Ramon is getting antsy since his New Orleans contact was charged.”

“Will he talk?”

“The New Orleans man? I doubt that very much. He had an accident.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“His car exploded. He was in it.”

She raised her head to stare at him. “Turner,” she said, “watch your back with Ramon.”

“I never drive my car to visit him,” he said, grinning. “I always take a cab.”

They had double veal chops, rare, and split orders of pasta all’olio and Caesar salad. They also shared a bottle of Pinot Grigio. They both had good appetites and finished everything.

“Not like Kansas City, is it?” Turner said, sitting back.

“Thank God,” she said. “How many hamburgers can you eat? Listen, Clayton said there’s an insurance claim adjuster in town asking questions. A woman named Dora Conti. He thinks she’s a sharpie and says she may want to talk to Lewis Starrett’s friends.”

“No sweat,” he said. “You know, I liked the old man. Well, maybe not liked, but I admired him. He inherited a little hole-in-the-wall store on West Forty-seventh Street, and he built it into Starrett Fine Jewelry. They may not be Tiffany or Cartier, but they do all right. How many shops? Sixteen, I think. All over the world. Plenty of loot there.”

“There was,” Helene said, “until Clayton brought in those kooky designers. Then the ink turned red.”

“That was last year,” Turner said. “He’s on the right track now. Let’s have espresso and Frangelico at the bar; I’ve got time.”

They sat close together, knees touching, at the little bar near the entrance.

“Felicia phoned me again,” Turner said.

“Oh? What did she want?”

“You know.”

“Clayton called her a fruitcake.”

“That she is. In spades. But she could be a problem. So I’ll play along.”

“Dear,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, “how long have we got? A year? Two? Three?”

“Three, I hope. Maybe two. I’ll know when it’s coming to a screeching halt.”

“And then?”

“Off we go into the wild blue yonder. You know what my cut is. We’ll have enough in one year, plenty in two, super plenty in three. And you’ll have your rock collection. We deserve it; we’re nice people.”

She laughed, lifted his hand to her lips, kissed his knuckles. “Dangerous game,” she observed.

He shrugged. “The first law of investing,” he said. “The higher the return, the bigger the risk.”

“Busy tomorrow?” she asked casually. “I’m meeting Felicia for an early lunch. The afternoon’s open.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said.

T
HE COMPANY KEPT A
corporate suite at the Hotel Bedlington on Madison Avenue, and that’s where Dora stayed. She called Mario to tell him about the sitting room with television set and fully equipped wet bar, the neat little pantry, and the two bedrooms, each with a king-size bed.

“Great for orgies,” Dora told him.

Mario lapsed into trucker talk, and she giggled and hung up.

The hotel had a cocktail lounge off the lobby and, in the rear, a rather frowsty dining room that seemed to be patronized mostly by blue-haired women and epicene older men who carried handkerchiefs up their sleeve cuffs. The food was edible but tasteless; everything lacked seasoning. They needed a chef, Dora decided, who had Mario’s faculty with herbs and spices.

But that’s where she had lunch with Detective John Wenden, NYPD. They met in the lobby and examined each other’s ID. Then he inspected her.

“You know,” he said, “if you lost thirty pounds you’d be a very attractive woman.”

“You know,” she said, “if you were Robert Redford you’d be a very attractive man.”

He laughed and held up his palms. “So-ree,” he said. “It was a stupid thing to say, and I apologize. Okay?”

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s go eat.”

“You got a swindle sheet?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll have a steak.”

“Take my advice and use plenty of salt and pepper. The food is solid but has no flavor.”

“Ketchup covers a multitude of sins,” he said.

The ancient maître d’ showed them to a table against the wall. Detective Wenden looked around at the oldsters working on their watercress sandwiches and chamomile tea.

“Think I could get a Geritol on the rocks?” he said.

“Whatever turns you on,” Dora said.

But he ordered a light beer with his club steak. Dora also had a beer with her chef’s salad.

“You married?” Wenden asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “Happily. You?”

“Divorced,” he said. “All New York cops are divorced—didn’t you know? Occupational hazard. How much was the Starrett insurance?”

“Three million.”

“That’s sweet. Who gets it?”

“Thirds; equal shares to his wife, son, and daughter. Hey, I’m supposed to be asking the questions. That’s why I’m buying you a steak—to pick your brain.”

“Not much to pick.” He paused while the creaking waiter served their beers. Then: “You read the clips?”

She nodded. “A lot of nothing.”

“That’s all we’ve got—nothing.”

His steak was served. He cut off a corner and tasted it cautiously. “You’re right,” he said. “Cardboard.” He sprinkled the meat heavily with salt and pepper as Dora dug into her salad.

“You can talk with your mouth full, you know,” she said. “I won’t be offended.”

“Okay,” he said equably, “let me give you a quick recap.

“The victim is Lewis Starrett, seventy, white male, retired president of Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc. But he’s still chairman and principal stockholder. Shows up every working day for a few hours at their flagship store on Park Avenue. Lives in an eighteen-room duplex on Fifth Avenue with his wife, daughter, son and son’s wife. Also two live-in servants, a butler and a cook-housekeeper, a married couple. The deceased was supposed to be a nasty, opinionated old bastard but everyone agrees he was fearless. His first mistake; it doesn’t pay to be fearless in this city.

“Every evening at nine o’clock, Lewis Starrett takes a stroll. His second mistake; you don’t walk at night in this city unless you have to. He goes down Fifth to Fifty-ninth Street, east on Fifty-ninth to Lexington Avenue where he stops at a cigar store and buys the one daily cigar his doctor allows.

“Then he continues north on Lex to Eighty-third Street, smoking his cigar. West on Eighty-third Street to his apartment house on Fifth. They say you could set your watch by him. His third mistake; he never varied his route or time.

“On the fatal night, as the tabloids like to say, he starts his walk at the usual time, buys his cigar at the Lexington Avenue shop, lights up and starts home. But he never makes it. His body is found facedown on the sidewalk between Lex and Park. He’s been stabbed once, practically between the shoulder blades. Instant blotto. No witnesses. And that’s it.”

Detective Wenden’s timing was perfect; he finished his story at the same time he finished his lunch. He started to light a cigarette, but the maître d’ came hobbling over to tell him the whole dining room was a no-smoking area.

“Unless you want dessert and coffee,” Dora said, “let’s go into the cocktail lounge and have another beer. We can smoke in there.”

“You got a deal,” he said.

They were the only customers in the bar. They sat on uncomfortable black vinyl chairs at a black Formica table, sipped their beers, smoked their cigarettes.