Dial Me for Murder (12 page)

“Enough already!” the woman exclaimed, mood swinging from nervous to nervy. “A big secret you’re keeping? I’m
plotzing
here! Why don’t you tell me who you
really
are?”

I usually don’t give my name out over the phone until I know who’s on the other end, but this time it seemed like a good idea. “My name is Paige Turner,” I said, wondering what I was letting myself in for.

“
Oy, vey iz mir!
Why didn’t you just say it? Paige Turner is the lady I want!”

“Well, here I am,” I said, “at your disposal. Is there something I can do for you?”

“You bet your life!” she said, adding nothing.

I was starting to feel dizzy. And more than a little curious. “May I ask who’s calling, please, and what this call is in reference to?”

“Reference, shmeference! I’m Sadie Zimmerman, and I’m calling about my son.”

Zimmerman?
. . .
son?
. . . “Oh!” I blurted, “you’re Lenny’s mother!”

“Who else would I be?”

I didn’t have an answer for that one.

“I’m so glad you called, Mrs. Zimmerman,” I said. “I’ve been worried about Lenny. He was very sick yesterday. How is he feeling today?”

“
Nisht git
. Not good. That’s why I’m standing in the hall in my housedress talking on this
farshtinkener
phone.”

I didn’t quite get the connection. “You mean you called to tell me Lenny won’t be coming in to work today?”

“Work, shmerk. He has to stay in bed. I’m making soup.”

“Good,” I said. “That’s what Lenny needs. Please tell him I’ll take care of everything, and that he shouldn’t come back to work until—”

My words were cut short when the office entry bell jingled and Mr. Crockett tromped in. Seeing that I was on the phone, he didn’t say anything. He just looped his hat and coat on the tree, scooped the stack of newspapers up off my desk, and—snorting like a rhino and pointing urgently at the coffeepot—waddled off to his office.

“Hellohh? Hellohhhh?” Lenny’s mom repeated, sounding even more like Molly Goldberg than before. “Who’s there? Am I talking to my own ear?”

“I’m still here, Mrs. Zimmerman. Tell Lenny not to worry. Tell him that you spoke to me, and I said he should stay home until he feels better.”

“Better, shmetter. I’m keeping him home till he’s perfect.”

“Good idea,” I said, smiling again. “Tell Lenny I said to eat all his soup and get perfect soon.”

 
THE REST OF THE MORNING WENT AS SMOOTHLY (i.e., shakily) as my phone conversation with Sadie Zimmerman. Mike and Mario came in shortly after I hung up, making their usual stupid, sexually suggestive jokes, demanding that I serve them coffee, and generally acting like total boobs.

When Mario found out that Lenny wasn’t coming in, he went insane. His face turned purple, he broke out in a profuse sweat, and he started cursing like a sailor. Most of those curses were aimed, as you might expect, at poor little defenseless me.

I didn’t pay much attention, though. It wasn’t
my
fault that Mario hadn’t done his job. Only
he
could be held responsible for slacking off every chance he got, making Lenny do all the work, and looking at girlie magazines all day. And I certainly couldn’t be blamed for the fact that he was going crazy right now, knowing the art deadline had been missed yesterday, and that—without Lenny—there wasn’t a chance in hell it would be met today.

(Okay, so maybe I could have been blamed a little. I was the one who made Lenny leave early and put him in a cab to go home. And I also told his mother he could take the day off today. But be that as it may, I absolutely refused to take one ounce of responsibility for the fact that Lenny had gotten sick!)

“Yelling at me is just a waste of time,” I told Mario. “You’d better focus on finishing the paste-ups instead. Since Mr. Pomeroy wasn’t here yesterday afternoon to see that the boards went out on time, he’s sure to come in early today. And when he finds out that you missed your deadline, he’s going to be really mad. And if you don’t get the completed boards out to the printer today, he’s going to be even madder.

“And don’t think you can talk your way out of it, either,” I added for good measure. “Pomeroy shoots first and asks questions later. By the time the sun goes down this evening, you could be out of a job.” In the interest of promoting good office relations, I resisted the urge to grin.

Mario gave me a nasty look and scratched his head. It took a few moments for the truth of my statement to sink in, but when it finally did, he let out a petulant grumble, slunk back to his desk, sat down to work, and left me alone for the rest of the morning.

Mike didn’t mess with me either—not until later, around eleven, after I’d retrieved the stack of morning newspapers from Mr. Crockett’s desk and sat down at my desk to clip them.

“If there’s any new reports on the Virginia Pratt murder in there,” Mike said, snickering, “you can cut ’em out and give ’em to me.”

I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. “The Virginia Pratt murder?”

“Yeah, you know. That hot blonde secretary who was tied up naked and choked dead with turpentine. Mr. Pomeroy gave the story to me.” Mike fastened his eyes on my face and bared his small yellow teeth in a gloating smile.

I was truly shocked by this revelation. I’d been so sure that Pomeroy would want an exclusive, in-depth, first-person account of such a sensational (i.e., salesworthy) crime, I had taken for granted he’d assign the story to me. I was, after all, the only one who would do the job right. Mike would deliver a dull, poorly written, bare-bones report that would disappoint readers and hurt
DD
sales—a story so bad it would have to be buried in the back of the magazine instead of splashed on the cover. And Pomeroy knew it.

So why the devil had he given the assignment to Mike? Was he trying to get even with me for something, or show me who’s boss, or deflate my blossoming ego and knock me down in the eyes of my publishing peers?

Or maybe he didn’t
want
the job done right, I thought, looking at the puzzle from a different angle. And maybe that was the reason he sent me to lunch early yesterday—so that he could give the story to Mike without me knowing and kicking up a fuss; so that later—if Mr. Crockett or any other
DD
higher-ups caught on and questioned his lousy judgment—he could say that Mike got the job because he was in the office the day the story broke and I wasn’t (thereby casting aspersions on me instead of himself).

The more I thought about this particular scenario, the more believable it became. Yet my brain kept concocting new questions. What did Pomeroy have to gain by keeping me off the case and suppressing the story? Was he personally involved in some way? Was he shielding himself or someone else? Was he acting alone or just following orders? Maybe he’d learned the truth about Virginia/Melody and was now striving to protect his boss and family benefactor (Oliver Rice Harrington, in case you’ve forgotten) from a scathing sex scandal and possible murder charges.

When this last hypothesis occurred to me, I felt a little queasy.

But as troubled and confused as I was by Pomeroy’s inexplicable behavior, I was also enormously relieved. Thank God he
hadn’t
assigned the story to me! How on earth would I have kept my promise to Sabrina and turned the story down? What in the world could I have said?
Sorry, Mr. Pomeroy, but I’ll be washing my hair every night for the rest of the month?
Or
I’m too tired to take on any more work right now?
or
No can do, pal. I’m up to my eyeballs in research for a pressing retrospective on John Dillinger?

Call me a cockeyed pessimist, but I didn’t think any of those excuses (or any other on-the-spot pretexts I might have dreamed up) would have worked.

Head swirling with mixed emotions (surprise, gratitude, fear, relief, concern, outrage, suspicion—you name it, I was feeling it), I cut all the articles about the Virginia Pratt homicide out of the papers and handed them over to Mike. Then I hunched over my desk and began correcting the next issue’s page proofs, waiting—make that
praying
—for Pomeroy to come in. I wanted to monitor his every move. I wanted to examine every detail of his conduct and demeanor. I wanted to ask him some sneaky questions and study his reactions like a hawk.

I must have sent my prayers to the wrong address, though, because they were never answered. My lunchtime rolled around before Pomeroy rolled in. I considered delaying my departure until after he arrived, but quickly ditched that dumb idea. What if he pulled another stunt like yesterday’s and didn’t show up at all? Or what if he
did
come in and wouldn’t let me go out?

I couldn’t risk either occurrence. Both the clock and my pulse were ticking fast. I had places to go and people to see, and I had to get going while the going was good.

Chapter 11

I HAD BEEN INSIDE THE SEVENTEEN-STORY white limestone Criminal Courts Building at 100 Centre Street before, but I had never set foot in the Manhattan district attorney’s office. I didn’t even know what floor it was on. Standing under the hanging clock in the middle of the two-story-high marble lobby, I looked around at the polished Art Deco lighting fixtures, the gleaming metal doors, the two grand staircases with ornamental railings, and wondered—for the sixty-eighth time in sixty-eight seconds—what the hell I was doing there.

The lobby was swarming with people—determined, fast-walking people who seemed to know exactly where they were going. They whipped past me like stampeding steers. (Had the courts just been dismissed for lunch?) The crowd was mostly male—men wearing suits, overcoats, and fedoras, and carrying leather briefcases—but there were a few females, too. The women wore dresses, coats, white gloves, and hats trimmed with fur and feathers; their high heels tapped noisily across the marble floor as they tried to keep up with their hustling husbands, bosses, lovers, or lawyers.

Spotting a uniformed guard on the far side of the lobby, I cut through the herd and went to ask him for directions. He told me to exit the courthouse, walk around the corner to a different entrance, reenter the building, and take the elevator to the eighth floor.

The eighth-floor hallway was almost as busy as the courthouse lobby. People were scurrying every which way—up, down, and across the hall, out one door and in another. The corridor was lined with offices, and most of them were furnished with more than one desk—a fact I observed as I slowly made my way down the crowded passageway, peeping through all the open doors and reading the names on all the others, looking for the hallowed portal marked SAMUEL F. HOGARTH, DISTRICT ATTORNEY.

I found it at the end of the hall. The stately double doors were closed, but they opened right up when I filled my chest with air, threw back my shoulders, and—doing my best Wonder Woman impression—thrust my way inside.

(Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. What really happened was that I slowly twisted the knob on one of the doors, carefully edged it open a couple of inches, and peered through the crack. Then, when I saw a middle-aged woman with a long, skinny neck and a bun of brown hair sitting at a wooden desk in the center of a small reception area, I ventured into the room.)

The receptionist was talking on the phone, so I just stood there for a second or two, glancing around at the worn dark blue carpeting, empty wood chairs, and leather couches, feeling as nervous as a lamb in a lion’s den. I was glad that nobody else was waiting to see the DA, but—since I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say to the man—I wasn’t the least bit happy that I
was.
Madly trying to think up a good fake reason for being there, and a stealthy but productive way to launch my investigation, I took a seat on the old brown leather couch closest to the door and lit up one of Abby’s Pall Malls.

“Oh, yes, indeed, sir!” the receptionist was saying, blushing and batting her lashes like a bobby-soxer. “I have you down on the calendar for this Friday night. Mr. Hogarth confirmed the date just this morning. He said he and his wife are looking forward to it very much. They will meet you at the Copacabana at eight o’clock sharp.”

She paused for a moment (during which time, I assumed, the other party was speaking), then she let out a girlish giggle. “Oh, no, sir!” she exclaimed, fluttering her lashes so fast I thought they’d fly off her face. “I couldn’t possibly do anything as bold as that!” Her scrawny cheeks looked as if they’d be hot to the touch. She giggled again and cupped her hand over her mouth, conducting the rest of her conversation in a voice so soft her words were indecipherable. When the hushed dialogue was over, she dropped the receiver back in the cradle, tucked a few loose strands of hair back in her bun, straightened the collar of her prim white blouse, and reluctantly turned her attention to me.

“May I help you?” she asked, face still flaming. “Do you have an appointment with the district attorney?

“Uh, no, I don’t,” I replied, stubbing my cigarette in a nearby ashtray and hastily rising to my feet. “I should have called for one, I know, but I was afraid he wouldn’t want to see me.”

She sat up straight as a broomstick and narrowed her eyes into menacing slits. The rosy warmth drained out of her cheeks in an instant. “And why, may I ask, do
you
want to see
him
? Please state your name and your business.” The blushing bobby-soxer had turned into the Wicked Witch of the East. (Or was it the West? I never could remember.)

“My name is Paige Turner,” I said, “and I’m a staff writer for
Daring Detective
magazine.” (I didn’t dare use an alias or make up a fraudulent occupation on the off chance that Sam Hogarth had seen my picture in the paper and read about my recent crime-busting exploits.) “I’m working on a story about the shockingly high new murder statistics in Manhattan,” I continued, “and I was hoping to get the DA’s personal views on the subject.” (That sounded pretty good, don’t you think?)