The Seventh Commandment (7 page)

"Yes, you're quite right," Helene said with a short laugh. "The Midwest it is."

"Oh?" Dora said, trying to keep her prying light and casual. "Where?"

"Kansas City."

"Which one? Missouri or Kansas?"

"Missouri. Does it show?"

"Only in your voice," Dora said. "Believe me, your looks are pure Manhattan."

"I hope that's a compliment."

"It is. Have you ever modeled, Miss Pierce?"

"No. I've been asked to, but-" There was a knock at the hallway door. "That must be my brother. Excuse me a moment."

The man who followed Helene back into the living room was wearing a mink-collared cashmere topcoat slung carelessly over his shoulders like a cape. There was a hint of swagger in his walk, and when he leaned down to shake Dora's hand, she caught a whiff of something else. Cigar smoke, she guessed. Or perhaps brandy.

"Miss Conti," he said, smiling. "A pleasure. What's this? My sister didn't offer you a drink?"

"Sorry about that," Helene said. "Would you like something-hard or soft?"

"Nothing, thank you," Dora said. "I'll just ask a few questions and then be on my way."

The Pierces agreed they had attended a small cocktail party at the Starrett apartment the night Lewis had been killed. And no, neither knew of any enemies who might have wished the older Starrett dead. It was true he was sometimes a difficult man to get along with, but his occasional nastiness was hardly a reason for murder.

"How long have you known the Starretts?" Dora asked, addressing Turner.

"Oh… perhaps two years," he replied. "Maybe a little longer. It began as a business relationship when I landed Starrett Jewelry as a client. Then Helene and I met the entire family, and we became friends."

"What kind of business are you in, Mr. Pierce?"

"I'm a management consultant. It's really a one-man operation. I specialize in computer systems, analyzing a client's needs and devising the most efficient setup to meet those needs. Or sometimes I recommend changing or upgrading a client's existing hardware."

"And that's the kind of work you did for Starrett?"

"Yes. Their new state-of-the-art systems integration is just coming on-line now. I think it will make a big difference in back-room efficiency and give Starrett executives the tools to improve their management skills."

That sounded like a sales pitch to Dora, but she said politely, "Fascinating."

"I haven't the slightest idea what my brother is talking about," Helene said. "Computers are as mysterious to me as the engine in my car. Do you use computers in your work, Miss Conti?"

"Oh yes. The insurance business would be lost without them. I'd like to ask both of you an additional question, but first I want to assure you that your replies will be held in strictest confidence. Has either of you, or both, ever noticed any signs of discord between members of the Starrett family? Any arguments, for instance, or other evidence of hostility?"

The Pierces looked at each other a brief moment.

"I can't recall anything like that," Turner said slowly. "Can you, sis?"

She shook her head. "They seem a very happy family. No arguments that I can remember. Sometimes Lewis Starrett would get angry with Father Brian Callaway, but of course the Father is not a member of the family."

"And even then Lewis was just letting off steam," Turner put in swiftly. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it. It was just his way."

"What was he angry about?" Dora said.

Turner rose from his armchair. "May I have one of your cigarettes, sis?" he asked.

Dora watched him light up, thinking these two used the same shtick to give themselves time to frame their replies.

Turner Pierce was a tall man, slender and graceful as a fencer. His complexion was dark, almost olive, and he sported a wide black mustache, so sleek it might have been painted. He had the same negligent manner as Helene, but behind his casual attention, Dora imagined, was something else: a streak of uncaring cruelty, as if the opinions or even the suffering of others were a bore, and only his own gratification mattered.

"I believe," he said carefully, "it concerned the contributions Olivia was making to Father Callaway's church. It was nonsense, of course. The Starretts have all the money in the world, and the Father's church does many worthwhile things for the poor and homeless."

Dora nodded. "And I understand Mrs. Eleanor is quite active in charity benefits. It seems to me the Starrett women are very generous to the less fortunate."

"Yes," he said shortly, "they are."

"Felicia Starrett as well?" she asked suddenly.

"Oh, Felicia has her private charities," Helene said in her flat drawl. "She does a lot of good, doesn't she, Turner?"

"Oh yes," he said, "a lot."

They didn't smile, but Dora was conscious of an inside joke there, a private joke, and she didn't like it.

"Thank you both very much," she said rising. "I appreciate your kind cooperation."

Turner stood up, helped her on with her bulky anorak. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, ma'am," he said. "If there's anything more you need, my sister and I will be delighted to help."

She shook hands with both: identical handclasps, cool and limp. She walked down the marble-tiled corridor to the elevator, thinking those two were taking her lightly; scorn was in their voices. And why not? They were elegant animals, handsome and aloof. And she? She was a plump-mobile, not quite frumpy but no Elle cover girl either.

It was in the elevator that she decided to start a new diet immediately.

She spent the afternoon Christmas shopping. She selected a nice pipe for her father who, since her mother's death, was living alone in Kennebunkport and refused to leave town, even for a visit. And she bought scarves, mittens, brass trivets, soup tureens, books of cartoons, music boxes, hairbrushes, and lots of other keen stuff. She paid with credit cards, had everything gift-wrapped and mailed out to her and her husband's aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends. She still didn't find anything exactly right for Mario.

She had dinner in a restaurant in the plaza of Rockefeller Center: the best broiled trout she had ever eaten. She had one glass of Chablis, but when the dessert cart was rolled up, her new resolve vanished and she pigged out on a big chocolate-banana mousse. And then punished herself by walking back to her hotel, convinced the calories were melting away during her hike.

The desk clerk at the Bedlington had a message for her: Call Mike Trevalyan. She went up to her suite, kicked off her shoes, and phoned. Mike sounded much friskier than he was that morning, and Dora figured he had had one of his three-martini lunches.

"This Brian Callaway you asked about," he said. "Is he a big, beefy guy, heavy through the shoulders and chest, reddish complexion, lots of charm and a hundred-watt smile?"

"That's the man," Dora said. "You found him?"

"Finally. In the alias file. His real name, as far as we know, is Sidney Loftus, but he's used a half-dozen fake monikers."

"Is he a preacher?"

"A preacher?" Trevalyan said, laughing. "Yeah, I guess he could be a preacher. He's already been a used-car salesman, a psychotherapist, an investment advisor, and-get this-an insurance consultant."

"Oh-oh," Dora said. "A wrongo?"

"So twisted you could screw him into the ground. According to the computer, he's never done hard time for any of his scams. He's always worked a deal, made restitution, and got off with a suspended sentence or probation.

Then he blows town, changes his name, and starts another swindle. About five years ago he put together a stolen car ring. If you couldn't keep up the payments on your jalopy, or needed some ready cash, you'd go to him and he'd arrange to have your car swiped. He never did it himself; he had a crew of dopers working for him. The car would be taken to a chop shop, and by the time the insurers got around to looking for it, the parts were down in Uruguay. The cops infiltrated the ring and were twenty-four hours away from busting Sidney Loftus when he must have been tipped off because he skipped town and hasn't been heard of since, until you asked about him. You know where he is, Dora?"

She ignored the question. "Mike," she said, "this stolen car ring-where was it operating?"

"Kansas City."

"Which one? Missouri or Kansas?"

"Missouri."

"Thank you very much," said Dora.

Despite working for Starrett Fine Jewelry for forty years, CFO Solomon Guthrie knew little about the techniques of jewelry making. All he knew were numbers. "Numbers don't lie," he was fond of remarking. This honest man never fully realized how numbers can be cooked, and how a Park Avenue corporation based on fiddled data might have no more financial stature than an Orchard Street pushcart.

But despite his naivete, Guthrie could not rid himself of the suspicion that something was wrong with the way Mister Clayton was running the business. All those new branch managers. That new computer systems integration that Sol didn't understand. And the tremendous purchases and sales of gold bullion. He couldn't believe any jewelry store, or chain of stores, could use that much pure gold. And yet, at the end of each month, Starrett showed a nice profit on its bullion deals. Guthrie was bewildered.

Finally he phoned Arthur Rushkin, who had been Starrett's attorney almost as long as Sol had slaved over Star-rett's ledgers.

"Baker and Rushkin," the receptionist said.

"This is Solomon Guthrie of Starrett Jewelry. Can I talk to Mr. Rushkin, please."

"Sol!" Rushkin said heartily. "When are we going to tear a herring together?"

"Listen, Art," Guthrie said, "I've got to see you right away. Can you give me an hour this afternoon?"

"A problem?"

"I think it is."

"No problem is worth more than a half-hour. See you here at three o'clock. Okay?"

"I'll be there."

He stuffed a roll of computer printout into his battered briefcase and added a copy of Starrett's most recent monthly statement. Then he told his secretary, Claire Heffernan, that he was going over to Arthur Rushkin's office and would probably return by four o'clock.

He had no sooner departed than Claire strolled into the office of Dick Satterlee.

"He's gone to see the lawyer," she reported.

"Thanks, doll," Satterlee said.

"Party tonight?" she asked.

"Why not," he said, grinning.

The moment she was gone, he phoned Turner Pierce. Turner wasn't in, but Satterlee left a message on his answering machine, asking him to call back as soon as possible; it was important.

Solomon Guthrie knew he'd never get a cab, so he walked over to the offices of Baker amp; Rushkin on Fifth Avenue near 45th Street. It was an overcast day, the sky heavy with dirty clouds, a nippy wind blowing from the northwest. Christmas shoppers were scurrying, and the Salvation Army Santas on the corners were stamping their feet to keep warm.

Rushkin came out of his inner office to greet him in the reception room. The two men embraced, shook hands, patted shoulders.

"Happy holidays, Sol," Rushkin said.

"Yeah," Guthrie said. "Same to you."

The attorney was the CFO's age, but a different breed of cat entirely. A lot of good beef and bourbon had gone into that florid face, and his impressive stomach was only partly concealed by Italian tailoring and, if the truth be told, an elastic, girdlelike undergarment that kept his abdomen compressed.

He settled Guthrie in an armchair alongside his antique partners' desk, then sat back into his deep swivel chair and laced fingers across his tattersall waistcoat. "All right, Sol," he said, "what's bothering you?"

Guthrie poured it all out, speaking so rapidly he was almost spluttering. He told Rushkin about the new branch managers; Clayton's plan to make every Starrett store autonomous; the new computer system that Sol couldn't understand. And finally he described all the dealing in gold bullion. Long before he ended his recital, Rushkin was toying with a letter opener on his desktop and staring at the other man with something close to pity.

"Sol, Sol," he said gently, "what you're complaining about are business decisions. Clayton is president and CEO; he has every right to make those decisions. Is Starrett losing money?"

"No."

"Making money?"

"Yes."

"Then Clayton seems to be doing a good job."

"Look," Sol said desperately, "I know I've got no proof, but something's going on that just isn't kosher. Like those gold deals."

"All right," the attorney said patiently, "tell me exactly how those deals are made. Where does Starrett get the gold?"

"We buy it from overseas dealers in precious metals."

"How do you pay?"

"Our bank transfers money from our account to the dealers' banks overseas. It's all done electronically. By computer," he added disgustedly.

"Then the overseas dealer ships the gold to the U.S.?"

"No, the dealers have subsidiaries over here. The gold is warehoused by the subsidiaries. When we buy, the gold is delivered to our vault in Brooklyn."

"How is it delivered?"

"Usually by armored truck."

"Good security?"

"The best. Our Brooklyn warehouse is an armed camp. It costs us plenty, but it's worth it."

"All right," Rushkin said. "Starrett signs a contract to buy X ounces of gold. You get copies of the contract?"

"Naturally."

"The subsidiary of the overseas dealer then delivers the gold to Starrett's vault. The amount delivered is checked carefully against the contract?"

"Of course."

"Have you ever been short-weighed?"

"No."

"So now Starrett has the bullion in its vault. Who do you sell it to?"