Dial Me for Murder (32 page)

“Long enough to read this list and all your notes about the Pratt murder,” he said, sitting up straight and putting the stack of pages on the telephone table. “I see you’ve been a very busy girl.” He took a drag on his Camel and gave me a crooked smile. I couldn’t tell if it was hostile or friendly.

“Are you still mad at me?” I asked, sucking in a deep breath and holding it.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

I let out a tortured sigh. “When do you think you’ll reach your verdict?”

“When you stop deceiving me and tell me everything you know.”

“I’ve wanted to do that all along, Dan. I swear!”

“Then why didn’t you?” he snapped, aiming his jet black gaze right between my eyes.

“Because I gave Sabrina my word!” I croaked. “She said if the police found out that Virginia was a prostitute, they wouldn’t even
try
to catch her killer. She said they’d close up her whole operation, and arrest her and all her girls, and then Charlotte and Melody’s twin brother would be. . . . Oh, what’s the use?” I cried, nerves tied up in knots. “You don’t know who or what I’m talking about. And the story’s so long and crazy and complicated you can’t possibly understand.” My hands were flapping around like birds, and I was on the verge of tears.

Dan loosened his tie, opened his shirt collar, and rolled up his sleeves. “You underestimate me, Paige, he said. “You always have. And this time it’s particularly insulting. I understand a lot more than you think I do. And I did even before I read your notes.”

“Really?” I said, perking up and paying attention, busting to learn how much he knew, and how and when he’d come to know it. “I’m glad to hear that, Dan. I really am! It’ll make it so much easier for us to talk about the case together. Look, I have a good idea. Why don’t you tell me everything you know, and I’ll fill in the blanks?”

Dan laughed out loud. “Nice carrot, Paige, but I’m not hungry. It’s time for
you
to do the talking.” (Was it my imagination, or had he suddenly slipped into a good mood?)

“But I don’t know where to begin,” I whined, trying to get my thoughts together. (I swear to God I wasn’t stalling. There was so much to explain, and I was so tired and discombobulated, I really
didn’t
know where to begin.)

“Well, for starters you can tell me where you were all night,” Dan growled, turning angry again. (That was the shortest good mood in history.) “I brought you home from the Copa around twelve, and you promised to stay here—with the doors locked— until I got in touch with you. That was eight goddamn hours ago. Why the hell didn’t you stay put, and where the hell have you been?”

“First of all, I
did
stay home for a long time, just like you told me to. I wrote up my notes and I made a few phone calls and I—”

“Who did you speak to?”

“A woman named Sabrina Stanhope,” I said. “She’s in my notes. She runs an elite call girl service and she’s the one who—”

“I know all about her,” Dan cut in. “Who else did you call?”

“Ethel Maguire, otherwise known as Brigitte. She’s one of Sabrina’s girls, and—”

“Anybody else?” he asked, too impatient to let me finish a sentence.

“You,” I said. “I called you at home and at the station, but you were nowhere to be found, so—”

“Is that it? Nobody else?”

“I tried to call Jocelyn a few times, but she didn’t answer. That’s why I—”

“Jocelyn Fritz?” he asked. “The one who goes by the name of Candy?”

“That’s right,” I said. “She was at the Copa last night, and she told me that she’d been seeing two of Sabrina’s major clients—Tony Corona and Sam Hogarth—without Sabrina’s knowledge. She said they were both devils in disguise, and she was certain one of them had killed Virginia.”

“Go on,” Dan urged.

“So when she didn’t answer her phone at three in the morning, I got worried about her. And that’s when I left the apartment and grabbed a cab to the Barbizon Hotel for Women, where she lived.”

“Lived?” Dan said. “Past tense?” Years of tricky interrogations had made him a good listener.

“Right,” I said, with a sorrowful sigh. “When I got there, I found her drowned in the hotel swimming pool. It was horrible, Dan . . . not a pretty sight.” Fighting back the memory of Jocelyn’s poor deluged face, I steadied my shuddering shoulders, took a deep breath, and went on. “She was killed shortly before I found her. I know this because the hotel desk clerk said she came home around three, and I got there at a few minutes to four.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, and that’s where I’ve been for the last four hours,” I hastened to add. “At the Barbizon Hotel discovering the body of another murdered call girl, and then sitting like a lump in the lobby, where I was detained for questioning by Detective Sergeant Dominick Mudd of the 19th Precinct.”

“The one with the X on his face?”

“No, it was a Z. I guess Y was busy.”

Dan cracked a little smile, but quickly turned it back into a scowl. “What questions did Mudd ask, and how did you answer them? I hope you didn’t tell him the truth.”

I almost dropped my teeth. Dan had never
wanted
me to be dishonest before, and now here he was hoping I’d kept the truth hidden—from the police, no less! I considered making a joke about it, but decided not to run the risk of upsetting him further.

“Don’t worry,” I soothed. “I didn’t say anything that would interfere with our investigation.” (Notice how I slipped the word
our
in there?) “I told him Jocelyn was a good friend of mine— that I’d rushed uptown to see her in the middle of the night because I had a big fight with my boyfriend and needed somebody to talk to.”

“Good,” he said, with a nod of approval.

“Good for you, maybe,” I said, “but not so good for me. Now
I’m
the prime suspect in Jocelyn’s murder. Mudd thinks she was fooling around with my boyfriend and I killed her out of jealousy. I have to go in for further questioning, and he told me not to leave town.”

“What a mess,” Dan said, slumping forward and shaking his head. “This case gets more complicated with every second. I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever get all the facts untangled.”

“Of course we will!” I exclaimed, happily repeating the word
we
. “If we put our heads together, we’ll solve this puzzle in no time. The clues are surfacing fast now, Dan. In fact, I found a really important piece of evidence at the Barbizon pool! I’ve been aching to tell you about it ever since I came in. It’s one hundred percent conclusive, and it proves that Jocelyn was killed by Tony Corona!”

Dan sat up straight and shot me a disbelieving look. “That’s impossible,” he said, shaking his head again.

“No, it’s true!” I yelped, jumping up off the couch and retrieving my purse from the kitchen. “Look at this!” Returning to the living room, I took the gold St. Christopher medal out of my bag and wiggled it, like a fishing lure, in front of Dan’s nose. “I found it on the bottom of the pool, just a few feet away from the corpse. It belongs to Tony Corona. I saw it around his neck at the Copa, and if that’s not enough to convince you, his name is engraved on the back!” I was so proud of myself, I thought I would pop.

Dan took the medal out of my hand and looked it over carefully. “Did you dive into the water to get this?”

“Uh, yes . . .” I said, surprised by his question—not to mention his tepid reaction to my outstanding skills of detection.

“That explains it, then,” he said.

“Explains what?”

“Why you look so clammy and smell of chlorine.”

“Is that all you have to say?” I screeched. “That I look bad and smell funny? Jesus, Dan! The least you could do is admit that I’m a good swimmer! And a darn good detective. And would it kill you to acknowledge the fact that I have—quickly, bravely, and
single-handedly
—nailed Jocelyn’s murderer?”

“That’s just it, Paige. You haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Nailed Jocelyn’s murderer.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve got the proof right there in your hand! We’ve got him dead to rights, Dan. Tony Corona killed Jocelyn Fritz, and that’s all there is to it!”

“He didn’t do it, Paige.” Dan’s tone was stern, but his gaze was sympathetic.

“Have you lost your mind? That medal puts Corona smack-dab at the scene of the crime. It’s enough to convict him!”

Dan squared his shoulders and said, “Corona was nowhere near the Barbizon at the time Jocelyn was killed.”

“That can’t be true!” I cried, the wind whooshing out of my sails. “How do you know that? Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said, “because at the time of Jocelyn’s death, Tony Corona was with me, at the Midtown North station, being booked for the murder of Virginia Pratt.”

Chapter 35

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING? Well, neither have I, but I’m sure it’s a shocking experience. Almost as shocking as having your credibility, stability, and self-confidence shattered—in one blow—by the man you love and trust most in the world.

(Okay, okay! So maybe I’m laying it on with a trowel here, but I’m the one telling this story, and I think I’m entitled to express my emotions. No matter how stupid they happen to be. And besides, when Dan revealed that he’d arrested Tony Corona for Virginia’s murder, I really
did
feel as though I’d been struck by lightning—or something equally electrifying.)

“Holy moly!!!” I shrieked, bones rattling, hair standing on end. “Corona killed Virginia? And you already booked the bastard? I don’t freaking believe it!” I threw both hands up and stamped one foot on the floor. “What was his motive? How the hell did you figure it out? Have you got enough proof?” Curiosity was burning a hole in my brain (and inflaming my vocabulary).

“Simmer down, Paige,” Dan said, standing up, putting his arm around my waist, and guiding me into the kitchen. “I think you’re flipping out. You’d better compose yourself and make us some coffee. Then we can sit down at the table and compare notes, discuss the case like two calm, sensitive, and mature adults.”

I probably deserved Dan’s patronizing little speech, but I still found it annoying. How did he come off acting so calm and sensitive when just minutes ago he’d been bombarding me with impatient questions and telling me I looked clammy and smelled chlorinated? (I mean, how sensitive was
that?
) I thought the coffee was a good idea, though, so I filled the pot with water, spooned a ton of Chase and Sanborn into the filtered basket, and put the trusty device on the stove to perk. Then I sat down across the table from Dan and lit up one of his Camels.

“Please proceed, Detective Street,” I said, batting my lashes and beaming a fake angelic smile in his direction. “I find your work simply fascinating. Tell me, how did you ever get involved in this compelling case, and what led you to conclude that Mister Corona killed Miss Pratt?” I was doing my best Loretta Young (i.e., acting so sensitive and self-composed it was silly).

Dan groaned and gave me a warning look. “Knock it off, Paige. It’s been a long night, and I’m not in the mood for any more drama. If you want to hear my side of the story, you’d better behave yourself and just listen.”

“Okay, shoot,” I said, immediately dropping my charade and craning my neck over the table. “I’m a giant ear. Tell me everything.”

Dan raked his fingers through his wavy hair, leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and propped his folded arms behind his head. “The chief brought me into the case at the start,” he began, looking so languid and seductive I thought I would die. “He said he had reason to believe the detective in charge wouldn’t conduct a proper investigation, and he asked me to undertake a behind-the-scenes, one-man search for Virginia’s murderer. He thought her death had something to do with the mob war raging through the city right now, and—since I was already investigating the conflict and a couple of related rubouts—he figured I would be in contact with some underworld informers.

“And he was right,” Dan continued, “on both counts. I do have a few Mafia pigeons, and one of them is very close to the top. It turned out he knew a lot about the murder, and after I plied him with a pile of cash and promises, he gave me the inside dope. He told me that Virginia had been a high-priced prostitute known as Melody, that she had worked for a high-class madam named Sabrina Stanhope, and that mob boss Frank Costello himself had ordered her hit after learning that she was keeping company with District Attorney Sam Hogarth as well as with his own protégé, Tony Corona.”

“Protégé? Are you saying that—?”

“Right. Corona owes his whole career to Costello. The top Mafioso made him a star. Now hush, Paige, and let me finish.”

“It all boils down to this,” Dan went on. “When the DA recently put the crunch on Costello—dragging him into court, threatening him on TV, closing down his gambling operations, and so forth—Costello got teed off and swore to get even. He wanted to have the DA assassinated, but decided against it because the cops and the feds would know he was responsible and would come down even harder on his case. So when Corona told him that he and Hogarth were sleeping with the same expensive call girl, and that Hogarth was so infatuated he had given her a mink jacket and some diamond jewelry, Costello came up with an alternate plan: He would have Melody killed and her nude body dumped in the park, along with her ID and the presents Sam Hogarth had given her. That way, he figured— incorrectly, as it turned out—the police would discover that Melody was a hooker, trace the fur and diamonds back to Hogarth, and then accuse the district attorney of murder.

“Costello didn’t care if Hogarth was ever convicted of the crime or not. He just wanted to destroy the DA’s reputation, career, and political future, and he knew the sex scandal alone would take care of that. He also knew he could make Corona take care of Melody’s murder for him just by calling in a few favors. So the hit was arranged, and Corona did the dirty deed. And—thanks to the inept and corrupt detective in charge of the case—the DA wasn’t exposed. Instead,” Dan added, looking like a cat with a mouthful of canary feathers, “the country’s favorite crooner is singing sob songs in the slammer.”