Dial Me for Murder (30 page)

“And what way was that?” I had a pretty good idea how the game was played, but I wanted to hear the rules.

“It was a simple trade agreement,” she said. “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. He said he would protect me and my girls and my agency from the authorities if I gave him free, unlimited access to the merchandise—
all
of the merchandise—whenever and wherever he wanted it. He was a very virile man, he said. He needed a lot of sex and a lot of variety, and if I would take care of his needs, he would take care of mine.”

“So you shook hands and became friends.”

“There was nothing friendly about it,” she grumbled. “I totally despise the man, and he thinks I’m a pompous bitch. We’ve each kept up our end of the bargain, though, and we’ve both benefited from it.”

“But what about Virginia?” I wailed, squirming in outrage. “O’Connor must have seen her murdered body! He had to know that she was Melody! And he couldn’t possibly conduct an honest and thorough investigation without disclosing his relations with the victim—and his deal with you.”

“Precisely,” Sabrina said. “O’Connor was in the hot seat. He couldn’t break the case without breaking himself. So he took— as you would expect—the corrupt way out. He kept everything he knew about Melody under wraps and launched a phony, totally superficial investigation into the death of Virginia Pratt. He even kept her picture out of the paper, so nobody would recognize her and put the two names together. On the one hand, this worked in my favor. It saved me and my girls from exposure and prosecution. On the other hand, it meant Melody’s murder would probably never be solved.”

“And this was acceptable to you?” I felt sick to my stomach again. So sad and angry that I wanted to scream.

“Of course not!” Sabrina said. “I called
you
, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you didn’t give me the dirty details. You didn’t tell me you were in collusion with—”

“Whatever you may think of me,” Sabrina cut in, “I was— and still am—horrified and disgusted by the whole situation. I hate O’Connor for who he is, and I hate myself for collaborating with him. Believe me, Paige, if I could have found any other way to save my business and secure my girls, I would have taken that route. But there really was no other way. And now I’m stuck—in bed, so to speak—with O’Connor, and I have to keep our connection secret.”

“Meanwhile, Melody’s murderer goes free,” I said in my most cynical and disapproving tone.

“But it won’t be for long!” Sabrina protested. “With
you
on the case, who needs O’Connor? We’re getting really close now, Paige. With my leads and your legwork, we’re going to nail the bastard soon.”

“Not if Dan has anything to say about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Dan’s on the case now, too,” I said. “I’m not sure how it happened, or how much he knows, but I’m certain he’s participating in the investigation. He’s aware that I’ve been conducting a search for Virginia’s killer, and he’s
very
upset about it. He thinks the murder is related to the mob war that’s going on in the city, and that I’m in danger because of it. He ordered me to stay home and keep my doors locked.”

Sabrina was quiet for a second or two, then asked, “Has Dan discovered that Virginia was a call girl?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about that.”

“Did he mention me or my agency?”

“No, he didn’t. But if he hasn’t found out about you yet, he will soon.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the next time I see him, I’m going to tell him myself.”

Chapter 32

IT TOOK ME A WHILE TO CONVINCE SABRINA that telling Dan the whole truth was the right (actually, the only) way to go. Understandably, she didn’t want to cause harm to her girls, or lose her entire income, or be sent to jail, or be unable to continue her support of Charlotte and of Melody’s retarded twin brother. After I explained the seriousness of the situation more thoroughly, though, and promised to speak to Dan and the other authorities on her behalf, she started to come around. And then—when it finally sank in that the Mafia really could be involved in Melody’s murder and that my life, as well as Dan’s, might really be at risk—she gave in.

“I’ve been such a fool,” she said, choking back tears. “I thought I could see to it that Melody’s killer was brought to justice without sacrificing myself or anybody else. I should have known that would be impossible. I’m so sorry I dragged you into this, Paige.”

“You didn’t drag me anywhere,” I sadly admitted. “I jumped in with both feet and started running around like a beheaded chicken. I just wish we’d had enough sense to tell Dan the truth from the start. He probably would have caught the murderer by now . . . and I would still have a job.”
Not to mention a boyfriend,
I whimpered to myself.

“It’s all my fault,” Sabrina said. “I should have let you bring Dan into the case that very first day. He would have conducted an honest investigation. I should have given you permission to write the story, too. At least I would have known that the coverage would be fair.”

When I heard the word
story
, I perked up considerably. “It’s not too late, you know. I can still write the story, whether I’m working for
Daring Detective
or not. Once the scandal breaks, every newspaper and magazine in the city—maybe even the whole country—will fight for the rights to an exclusive inside report.”

“Then I want you to write it, Paige. I trust you, and I know you’ll treat me and my girls—especially Melody—with respect.”

“You can count on it,” I promised, feeling a heady resurgence of journalistic energy and purpose. “And you can bet I’ll treat O’Connor, Corona, Hogarth, and Harrington with respect as well—all the respect they deserve.” My voice was oozing with sarcasm.

“Don’t be too hard on Harrington, Paige. I’ve known him a long time, and he’s been very good to me and my girls. I don’t believe he’s the murderer. I put his name on the list only because he was a regular client of Melody’s and called for a date the night she was killed.”

“Reason enough, if you ask me. And you’d be amazed at how often the most innocent-looking suspects commit the most atrocious crimes. It would be a mistake for either one of us to jump to conclusions about Harrington.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said, sighing heavily. “Please be careful, Paige. These are very powerful men. And it’s possible they
all
have connections to organized crime. And since Hogarth and Harrington both know who you are, and what you do for a living, you could already be at the top of some savage Mafioso’s hit list.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, pretending a tad (okay, a lot) more courage than I felt. “I’ll be careful. And once Dan knows all the facts and recruits the rest of his department in a wider, more intense investigation, I’ll be off the case and in safe hands. In the meantime,” I added, feeling a serious surge of adrenaline (and a stupid gush of Brenda Starr bravado), “I’ve got a story to write.”

 
THE INSTANT I CLICKED OFF THE LINE WITH Sabrina, I dialed Jocelyn’s number at the Barbizon. I knew she wouldn’t be there—Sabrina had said she usually didn’t get home from her regular Friday night date until two or three in the morning—but I simply had to do
something
! I was desperate for more information—about O’Connor, Hogarth, Corona, and what went on at the Copa after I left—and Jocelyn was the only one who could provide it. I must’ve let her phone ring a thousand times.

By the time I hung up, I was feeling a bit more composed (i.e., less like a runaway train and more like a ticking time bomb). I was still crazy with worry about Dan, and dying to know how he got involved in the Virginia Pratt case, and struggling to think of a way to ensure his safety, but I was also determined to keep my emotions and actions under tight control—to stay locked in my apartment until I heard from him, just as he’d told me to do.

I rose from the couch and headed into the kitchen, grabbing my cigarettes out of my purse and a Dr. Pepper out of the fridge. Then I darted upstairs to my bedroom. Setting the soda and ciggies on my dresser, I wriggled out of Abby’s tight black dress and somehow freed myself from her horrid push-up bra. After peeling off my girdle and stockings, I put on a normal bra, a fuzzy white sweater, a pair of black capris, and my new ballerina flats.

It was almost one o’clock in the morning. I could have skipped the clothes and gone straight to bed, but with my tangled thoughts and jangled nerves, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. And if Dan came back, I reasoned, I should be decently dressed and fully alert and perfectly prepared to tell him everything I knew about the murder.

Plus, I wanted to get a head start on my story.

Giving my wig-matted hair a quick brush-out, I snatched the soda pop and cigarettes off the dresser and took them into the tiny spare bedroom I had turned into an office. I switched on the gooseneck lamp, sat down at my battered wood desk, and tuned my little white plastic radio to a popular all-night station (The Platters were singing “Only You”). Then I rolled two pieces of paper and a carbon into my baby blue Royal and began typing like a madwoman, making notes on everything that had happened to me since Wednesday morning ( just two and a half days ago!), when I first read the reports of Virginia’s death and received the fateful phone call from Sabrina inviting me to lunch.

One empty Dr. Pepper bottle and an ashtray full of burned-out L&M filter tips later, I had produced a seventeen-page list of notes for my story—plus a carbon copy for Dan, which I figured he could use as a reference in his soon-to-be expanded investigation. I had also typed up a quick prologue to the based-on-fact “novel” I was determined to write about the murder, and—hurrying to get the details down while they were still fresh in my mind—written a few pages of chapter One. (To say that I was charged up would be like calling Jerry Lewis perky.)

It was three-fifteen in the morning. Nat “King” Cole was singing “When I Fall in Love” on the radio, and I was still aching to talk to Jocelyn, who, I figured, would be home from her date by now. Seizing my cigarettes and the carbon copy of my story notes, I turned off the lamp and the radio, bounded out of my office, and headed downstairs for the phone. Tossing the notes on the kitchen table as I scurried by, I leapt into the living room, scanned the lavender list for Jocelyn’s home number, snatched up the receiver, and dialed it.

There was no answer.

I clicked the button and dialed again.

Still no answer.

I slammed down the phone and darted to the living room window. Prying a peephole in the blinds, I peered down into the street, searching (and praying) for some sign of Dan. Both the sidewalks and the street were totally deserted. And as far as I could tell in the dim light from the streetlamp, all the parked cars were empty. Where was he? Was he okay? Would he come back tonight? Would he
ever
come back? Was he sleeping like a log in his Murray Hill apartment or—God help me!—floating like a log in the East River?

I whisked back to the phone and dialed Dan’s home number. No answer. I called him at the station house after that, but the officer manning the desk said he hadn’t been there all night and hadn’t called in to report his whereabouts. Skin crawling and nerves jumping, I got a new line and tried Jocelyn again. Even after eleven rings she didn’t pick up. Why didn’t she answer? Where the hell could she be?

The suspense was killing me. Literally. And as much as I truly wanted to follow Dan’s directions and stay locked inside my apartment, I couldn’t stand it for another second. Grabbing my jacket and red beret out of the closet and putting them on, I snatched my purse off the living room chair, burst out into the hall, and scrambled down the stairway to the street.

The sky was black, the air was cold, and the vacant street was dead quiet. Running as fast as I could toward Sixth Avenue, all I could hear were the loud huffs of my steamy breath and the scrapes and scuffs of my ballerina slipper soles against the pavement.

When I reached the corner of Bleecker and Sixth, however, I detected another sound. It was the rumbling engine of the Checker taxicab that was speeding uptown in my direction. Knowing the subway trains would be few and far between this time of night (I mean, morning), I pounced out into the avenue and flagged the cab down. Then I hopped inside, gave the driver an address, and told him to step on it.

Sixteen minutes later, we reached my destination: 140 East 63rd Street. I gave the driver two dollars (the meter fare plus a thirty cent tip), jumped out of the taxi onto the sidewalk, and lunged like a beheaded chicken into the lobby of the Barbizon Hotel for Women.

Chapter 33

THE SMALL, DIM, ART DECO LOBBY HAD A sickly, greenish cast. Whether it was because of the early morning gloom or the faded colors of the walls and aging furniture, I couldn’t tell. Luckily, a garish orange Tiffany lamp was glowing at the reception desk, or I might not have been able to find it.

The man sitting behind the desk was large, bald, and dressed in a rumpled brown suit that looked as old as the furniture. He was also sound asleep. His head was lolling against the back of his chair, and his mouth was hanging wide open. He was snoring loudly.

“Excuse me,” I said, knocking my knuckles on the ornate wooden desk to rouse him. “I’m here to see one of your residents. Can you help me?”

The man started, snorted, and shot up straight in his chair. Rubbing his doughy, pink face with his nail-bitten fingers, he shook himself awake and aimed his unseeing gaze in my direction. “
Umph!
Wha—? What did you say?”

“I’m here to see one of your residents,” I repeated. “Jocelyn Fritz. Is she in?”

“Fritz . . .? Uh, yeah,” he mumbled, clearing his throat and turning to look at the clock on the wall behind him. “She came in a while ago. But it’s kinda late to be gettin’ visitors now, ya know.” He swiped his hand over his hairless noggin and eyed me suspiciously. “Is she expectin’ you?”