Dial Me for Murder (29 page)

“Get out,” he said, still staring straight ahead with his jaw in knots. It was an order, not a suggestion.

I couldn’t move. My body was locked in position and my fingers were frozen—clawlike—to the edge of the seat.

Abby, on the other hand, hopped out of the car and flounced gaily across the street. “Good night, all!” she shouted, turning to wave at us through the car window. “Jimmy’s here!” She gestured toward the shadowy figure sitting on the stoop, then—tucking my (or, rather, her) chinchilla jacket under one arm and grinning like a darn fool—reached out and pulled the bearded Birmingham to his feet. Otto was hanging on to Jimmy’s arm for dear life. (I knew how the little dog felt.) “We’re going upstairs now, okay?” Abby called out. “I’ll catch you later!” She blew me a kiss and unlocked the front door. Then the Three Musketeers disappeared in the stairwell.

Dan and I sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity but was probably just a millisecond. Finally, he spoke. “I said get out,” he growled. “Go upstairs and lock yourself in. Don’t open the door to anybody.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?” I was in a real panic now. Dan looked so mad I felt that if he left, he’d never come back.

“No. I have some unfinished business to attend to.” His profile was set in stone, but in the yellowish light from the street lamp, I could see that a vein in his temple was throbbing.

“But you’ve got to let me explain!” I cried.

“What’s to explain?” He turned and aimed his merciless black gaze at me. “The writing’s on the goddamn wall. You broke your promise to me again. You’re working on another unsolved murder story, and you’re in a shitload of danger because of it. That’s all I need to know.”

“No, it’s not!” I screamed, kicking my foot against the dashboard. (I was a little upset myself.) “There’s a lot more you need to know, Dan, and I have to tell you about it now! Please come upstairs with me and listen to what I have to say. It’s a long and complicated story, but it’s really, really important! A lot of lives and reputations are at stake.”

“You should have thought of that before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you lied to me and made a complete mess of everything.”

“What?” Now I was hurt as well as angry. (I mean, is that any way for a boyfriend to talk after you’ve just saved his life?)

“You heard me,” Dan said. “Your lying has compromised my current murder investigation and put both of us in grave danger.”

“Murder investigation?” I shrieked. (I’d been doing a lot of that lately.) “You said you were investigating the mob war!”

“And so I am!” he raged, spitting his furious words in my face. “The mob war
and
the hideous murder of a young woman that resulted from it.”

My heart came to a sudden standstill. Was he talking about—?

“Don’t look so shocked, Paige,” he sputtered. “Do you really think you’re the only person in the whole damn city who’s been trying to find out who killed Virginia Pratt?”

I was speechless—or, to put it more precisely, struck dumb. My mouth was hanging open, but no sound was coming out of it.

“Go upstairs,” Dan said, leaning across me and opening the passenger door from the inside. “Right this minute! Lock your doors and windows and don’t go anywhere or do anything until you hear from me. I mean it, Paige!” he yelled, practically shoving me out onto the sidewalk. “I’ve got to leave now. Go upstairs and stay there!”

“Okay,” I said, standing on the pavement in shock as Dan jerked the car door closed. Then I pulled his trench coat tighter around my shivering shoulders and slunk across the street like an anxious alley cat. As I opened the door to my building and ducked into the stairwell, I heard Dan peel away from the curb and blast down Bleecker, burning rubber all the way.

Chapter 31

HAVE YOU EVER HAD THE FEELING THAT YOU’VE just been shot out of a cannon? That you’re hurtling through the air like a big metal ball—or a curled-up clown with orange hair and a red nose? Then you know exactly how I felt as I crashed into my apartment, dropped my purse and Dan’s coat onto the living room chair, kicked Abby’s stilettos into a corner, and fell—with a heavy thud—into a fetus-shaped lump on the couch. And you also understand why I was trembling in fear, and sick with worry, and blubbering in so much confusion and self-pity that my bright red nose was dribbling all over my favorite Woolworth’s throw pillow.

Where had Dan zoomed off to? Would he be safe? Would I ever see him again? How on earth had he discovered that I was investigating another homicide? And how did he know it was the Virginia Pratt murder? And why was Dan involved in the case at all? The papers had said Detective Sergeant Casey O’Connor at the Midtown North Precinct was in charge. Dan was in Midtown South. And the two precincts were so competitive that they practically never joined forces. Something really strange was going on here!

Head swirling and pulse pounding, I bolted to an upright position, yanked off my clown wig, pulled a Kleenex from the box on the table near the phone, and blew my nose. I didn’t have time for a nervous breakdown! A potent mixture of curiosity and dread was surging through my system like an electrical current. All I could think about was digging up some answers to my many burning questions—and finding Melody’s murderer before he murdered Dan.

I was dying to talk to Jocelyn (aka Candy) again, but knowing she wouldn’t be home from her date for hours, I quickly ditched that idea. I figured Melody’s other good friend, Ethel (aka Brigitte), wouldn’t be home, either, but in a frenzy to take some kind of positive action, I decided to call her anyway. Jumping over to the bookcase and snatching Sabrina’s lavender list out of its hiding place in
The Maltese Falcon,
I returned to the couch, found Ethel’s number, and dialed it.

To my surprise, she answered.

“Hello, Ethel?” I said. “Ethel Maguire?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Paige Turner. I hope I didn’t wake you or your husband up. I’m sorry to call so late, but I—”

“That’s okay,” she broke in. “My husband’s sleeping soundly, and I just got home.”

“Were you out with a client?”

“I was
with
a client,” she sniffed, “but we didn’t go
out.
” I could tell from her tone that she found my question inane. “Look, I wasn’t asleep, Paige, but I
am
pretty tired. Is there something you need to talk to me about?”

“Just one thing,” I said. “I happened to run into Candy tonight, and she admitted that she’s been seeing two of Melody’s regular clients—Sam Hogarth and Tony Corona—on her own, without Sabrina’s knowledge. Did you know anything about that?”

“No!” Ethel exclaimed, with an audible intake of air. “I can’t believe she would do something like that.”

“Well, she did. She said she did it for the money.”

“But Sabrina has been so good to us! How could Candy deceive her that way? It’s the same as
stealing.
”

“That’s true, Ethel, but weren’t you ever tempted to—?”

“Never!” she exclaimed. “I’d rather starve than steal from Sabrina. She’s dearer to me than my own mother. I would never hurt her in any way.” Her words were a bit effusive, I thought, but I believed them just the same.

“Well, then, did Sabrina ever fix you up with Hogarth or Corona or any other of Melody’s clients? Either before or after she was killed?”

“I met with Oliver Rice Harrington a few times,” she said. “Next to Melody, he liked me best. I liked him, too. He’s a real gentleman. Very nice and considerate.”

“Have you seen him since the murder?”

“No. I asked Sabrina about him, but she said he hasn’t called to make any new appointments.” Ethel stopped talking for a second, then added, as an afterthought, “But the man I was with tonight used to date Melody, too. Actually, he dates
all
the girls.”

I almost swallowed my tongue. “What did you say?” I gasped. “Who are you talking about? What’s his name?”

“Umm . . . er . . . I can’t tell you,” she stammered, voice suddenly turning wary. “He’s the one john Sabrina doesn’t want me to discuss with you, and I forgot. I’m sorry, Paige. I made a big mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned him at all.”

“But why?!” I screeched. “Why is this guy such a well-kept secret? Why didn’t Sabrina tell me about him herself? And why can’t you tell me his name?”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “You’ll have to ask Sabrina those questions.”

 
I SAID GOOD-BYE, BUT I DIDN’T HANG UP THE receiver. I quickly clicked the button with my finger, got a new line, and dialed Sabrina.

“It’s Paige,” I croaked, as soon as she answered. “I just got back from the Copa.”

“That was fast,” she said. “It’s not even midnight. What happened? Did Tony give you the boot?”

“No, he just dismissed the class early.” Deciding to save my questions about Ethel’s mystery date for later, I gave Sabrina a full report on the tumultuous events at the nightclub— beginning with Jocelyn’s surprise appearance and confession in the ladies’ lounge, and ending with Dan’s and Abby’s and my hasty exit from the premises.

“What a nerve-racking night,” she said when I finished.

“That’s a placid way to put it,” I mumbled. “What do you make of the whole mess?”

She sighed. “I’m so disappointed in Candy, I could cry.”

“You really had no idea?”

“None whatsoever. In fact, I thought Candy was one of my most trustworthy girls. A real straight talker. I knew she loved money—she was very honest about
that
, at least—but I chalked it up to good business sense. I even entertained the notion that if she failed to reach her goal of marrying a millionaire, I might make her my partner someday.”

“Well, at least she came forward when the chips were down.”

“But it was far too late!” Sabrina cried. “If she had revealed her feelings about Sam and Tony to me earlier, I would have dropped them both as clients before the murder. And then poor Melody . . . might still be . . . alive.” I couldn’t see Sabrina’s face, but I knew her thin mouth was contorted and her soft gray eyes were brimming with tears.

“I know, Sabrina,” I said. “It’s a sad twist in a terrible tragedy.” I paused for a moment to let her compose herself, then collected my thoughts and went on. “But all we can do now is try not to make the same mistake again. We’ve got to do everything in our power to see that the killer is caught before he kills somebody else. That’s why you have to give me the name of another client, Sabrina. The one you chose not to tell me about. The one who dates
all
the girls. The one you fixed Melody up with in the past . . . and sent Brigitte to meet with tonight.”

Sabrina remained silent, but I could hear the wheels spinning in her sly, secret-keeping brain.

“Oh, come on, Sabrina!” I cried. “Haven’t you screwed with me long enough? You’re withholding crucial information! You’re purposely impeding my progress in the case. What the hell is going on? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had something to do with the murder yourself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she huffed. “I resent the implication.”

“And I resent the fact that you’re keeping a major suspect secret from me! Who is this man, and why are you protecting him? I want his name, and I want it
right now
!”

“Okay!” she hissed. “I’ll tell you who he is. But he is
not
a major suspect. He’s not even a minor one! You have to trust me on this, Paige. Promise me you’ll guard his identity as carefully as I have.”

“I’m not promising anything. Not until I have all the facts.”

“Oh, all right!” she said, with a loud groan of surrender. “The client’s name is Casey O’Connor.”

I almost choked. “You mean Detective Sergeant Casey O’Connor? The top detective in the Midtown North Precinct? The one who’s in charge of Melody’s murder investigation?”

“The one and only,” she said. “
Now
do you understand why I didn’t tell you about him?”

“No, I don’t!” I screeched. “I don’t understand it at all. O’Connor’s personal connection to both the case
and
the victim seems awfully suspicious to me! What makes you so damn sure he’s not the killer?”

“O’Connor is a raving sex maniac,” Sabrina replied, “but he’s not the murderer. The night Melody was killed, he was holed up in the Waldorf Astoria with three of my other girls— Mitzi, Gabriella, and DeeDee. They swore to me that O’Connor was with them all night—from early that evening until late the next morning—and they have the signed room service receipts to prove it. Also, the manager of the Waldorf, a personal friend of mine, confirmed their report.”

“But why didn’t you tell me about this?” One decibel louder and I would have shattered her eardrum. “It’s important information! It could have helped me in my investigation, given me a better grasp of the situation. Why the hell did you keep me in the dark?”

“It was necessary,” Sabrina said. “I had to protect O’Connor so he would continue protecting me.” She took a deep breath and went on. “When I first started the agency, he was in Vice, not Homicide. And he had informers all over his precinct— especially in the posh restaurants, nightclubs, and hotels where my wealthiest clients liked to meet with my girls. Within weeks of my going into business, O’Connor was tipped off that there was a ritzy new escort service in town.

“Next thing I knew he showed up at my door, flashed his badge in Charlotte’s face, muscled his way into my apartment, and demanded to speak with me. Shaking in terror, Charlotte showed him to my study, where he proceeded to stomp around in all his ugly, pudgy, red-faced glory, threatening to have me, Charlotte, and all of my girls arrested, and to close down my agency for good. There would be a huge scandal, he promised, and we’d all be sent to prison. . . .
Unless
, he was quick to add, I chose to play the game his way.”