Dial Me for Murder (7 page)

“And what’s the big fat hurry, anyway?” I asked, head reeling. “Sometimes it doesn’t pay to move too fast. That’s how mistakes get made and entire inquiries go awry. Haven’t you ever heard that haste makes waste?”

“In this case the opposite is true,” she insisted. “A slow-paced approach could be
terminally
wasteful.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the longer it takes to find the killer, the more chances he’ll have to kill again.”

Okay,
that
was a pretty disturbing thought. And I was an idiot for not considering it before. (After my own close calls with homicidal madmen, you’d think it would’ve been the first thing on my mind!) But idiot that I was, I happened to be focused on a different worry at the moment—and it had as much to do with Sabrina as it did with the man who killed Virginia.

“What’s going on here, Sabrina?” I said, a warning signal beeping in the back of my brain. “Have you been keeping something from me? Do you have reason to believe that the killer intends to strike again?”

“Uh, no,” she said, “not really. It’s just a feeling. And I’m so worried about my girls! What if the murderer is on some kind of sick crusade to rid the world of prostitutes? And what if he’s using
me
to accomplish his hideous goal?” She gave me a desperate, wild-eyed look. “I couldn’t stand it, Paige. I couldn’t live with myself if I sent another one of my girls on a date with death.”

Her words were a bit melodramatic, I thought, but heartfelt. And very effective. “I get the message, Sabrina,” I said, “and I promise you I will work just as hard and fast as I can. I do have a nine-to-five job, though, and I have to get at least four hours of sleep a night, so you can’t expect miracles.”

“Couldn’t you take some time off from work?” she pleaded.

“No way, Doris Day. I have two
very
demanding bosses. One of them is always looking for an excuse to fire me and the other one will have a stroke if I’m not there to make the coffee. I might be able to grab some extra time on my lunch hours, or call in sick one day or something, but I can’t guarantee anything. I’ll just have to play it by ear.”

“What about this weekend? Can you give the case your undivided attention then?” She looked kind of panicky now.

“All except for Sunday afternoon,” I told her. “I go out to lunch and the movies with my boyfriend and his daughter, Katy, every Sunday. It’s a sacred ritual.”

“Break the date,” she said, giving me orders again. She leaned forward and took a sip of her coffee, glaring at me over the rim of the white china cup.

“I can’t, Sabrina. Dan would get very suspicious. He’d jump to the conclusion that I’m working on a new murder story, and then he’d start investigating
me.
And, trust me, you don’t want
that
to happen. Dan Street is the smartest detective alive. He would uncover the truth about you and Virginia in no time. You’re just lucky that Virginia’s body wasn’t found in
his
precinct. Otherwise, he’d be in charge of this case and you and your prestigious clients would already be under surveillance— or under lock and key.”

I was laying it on pretty thick, but I believed every word I said.

“Oh, all right!” Sabrina slammed her cup down in its saucer. “Go ahead! Search for the killer in your own sweet time. But if you know what’s good for you, Paige Turner, your own sweet time will be goddamn quick!”

Her threatening tone was offensive, to say the least. And it sent me into a tailspin of anxious misgivings. Who was this woman—this madam!—I was now in cahoots with, and what evil, irresistible force had convinced me to agree to her unorthodox proposal? More to the point, who was
I
, and how did I ever let myself get mixed up in this murderous mess? Was I a courageous, brave-hearted, truth-seeking heroine, or just a snoopy, bullheaded, trouble-seeking fool? (Don’t answer that!)

“You shouldn’t speak to me that way, Sabrina,” I said, stiffening my spine and looking her straight in the eye. “I don’t react very well to threats. Sometimes they upset me and make me do something threatening in return.” I felt it went without saying that if I told my detective boyfriend about her escort service, she could find herself in deep doo-doo.

“We seem to have each other over a barrel,” she said, smiling.

“Yes, but you have a bit more to lose than I do. You could lose your fortune and your freedom. All I stand to lose is a story.”

“Or your life,” she said.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. But she wasn’t threatening me, either. The soft tone of concern in her voice and the anxious expression on her face made the motive for her dreadful warning clear: She was simply urging me to find the murderer as fast as I could, and cautioning me to be careful while I was at it.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Our dirty deal was done, and Sabrina was now as protective of me as she was of her other employees. I had—in a crazy, roundabout kind of way—become one of her girls.

 
“OKAY, TIME’S UP, SABRINA!” I SAID, AFTER devouring two more mouthfuls of mousse. “If you want me to turn on the speed, you’ve got to do the same. I want the name of the man you sent Virginia to meet last Monday night, plus the names of the other clients you regularly fixed her up with. I need to know which of your girls were her closest friends, and I want a list of their addresses and phone numbers. And you’d better make it fast,” I added, giving her a taste of her own aggressive medicine. “I’ve got to get back to the office.” (That, by the way, was a gross understatement. My lunch hour had ended more than an hour ago. I was so late it was ludicrous.)

Sabrina stood up and tossed her napkin on the table. “I’ve already made you a list,” she said. (Would she always be one step ahead of me?) “It’s in the library. Come with me and I’ll give it to you.” She turned and headed for the door, obviously expecting me to follow.

I was on my feet in a flash. I hadn’t finished my dessert, but I was hungry for proof, not pudding. Scrambling to catch up, I trailed Sabrina out of the dining room, across the large tiled entry, down the hall to the library, and across the plush Oriental rug to her desk. Her pace was fast, her posture was perfect, and her limp was barely noticeable.

Sabrina took two sheets of lavender stationery from the top drawer of her desk and held them close to her chest. “You must guard this list with your life, Paige. Don’t let anyone else see it. If it should get into the wrong hands—”

“Don’t worry!” I broke in, panting like an overheated poodle. “I promise you nobody will handle it but me!” It was all I could do not to pounce onto the top of her desk and tear the list away with my teeth.

“Okay, then,” Sabrina said, folding the list up like a letter and sticking it into a lavender envelope. She licked the flap of the envelope and sealed it tight. “Virginia’s three primary patrons are listed on the first page, and her two closest girlfriends on the other. I’ve given you their names, addresses, phone numbers, occupations, and any other biographical facts I have on file. I’ve written down Virginia’s information, too. That should be more than enough to get you started.”

I shot a crazed glance at the sealed envelope, then aimed a frantic gaze at Sabrina’s face. “But which one of these men was Virginia with the night of the murder?” I begged.
If she doesn’t give me the answer this minute, I’ll have to kill myself!

Sabrina cast her eyes down to the floor. “I don’t know,” she said, with a sad shrug of her shoulders.

“What do you mean?” I shrieked. “Didn’t you make the appointment for her?”

“Yes, but I made
two
appointments for her that night. One at eight, and another one at eleven. The papers didn’t say what time she was killed, so I don’t know which—if either—client she was with.”

Aaargh!
There went my hopes for cracking the case with one blow. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Okay,” I said, quickly pulling myself together. (I didn’t have time to kill myself.) “So which one was scheduled for eight, and which one for eleven?”

“They’re listed in order,” she explained. “The first man was Virginia’s first client, and the second, as you might surmise, was her second. The last man on the list also called for a date with her that evening, but I had to put him off. I never ask any of my girls to accept more than two engagements in one night.” Sabrina struck a staunch pose and held her head high, obviously proud of her strong personal principles.

“Hand it over, Sabrina!” I demanded, stretching my arm and open palm in her direction. “Give me the envelope. I’ve got to get back to the office right now.”

With a deep frown and loud sigh of surrender, she relinquished the list to my feverish grasp. “Don’t forget, Paige. You have given me your solemn promise. You will not share this information with anybody.”

“I get the message already!” I fumed. “How many times do you have to say it?”

“As many times as it takes for the message to sink in. All three of the clients on this list are very important, well-respected men. And that’s why I have to be so careful—why I have to do everything in my power to protect them. Do you understand?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“But what? You believe they deserve to have their lives and reputations destroyed? You think all three should be punished for their sins whether one of them turns out to be a murderer or not?”

“Well, no, I just—”

“And what if one of them
is
the killer?” she barreled on. “How much do you think
my
life would be worth if he thought I wouldn’t keep his relationship with Virginia confidential?”

My head was spinning with the awful magnitude of it all. So many secrets to keep. So many reputations and careers and families in jeopardy. So many lies to tell. So many lives at stake—including, perhaps, my own. I could lose my job, too, if I didn’t get my tail back to the office!

“I’ve got to go, Sabrina!” I sputtered, staggered by the time shown on her silver desk clock. I spun around and headed for the door, grabbing my purse off the couch en route. “But I still have to talk to you about this!” I cried, pulling to a stop near the door and thrusting the lavender envelope in the air. “Can I call you tonight when I get home, after I’ve had a chance to read and study your notes?”
And after I’ve had about six glasses of Chianti?

“Call me anytime—night or day. My private number is Gramercy 5-6003. I’ve written it down for you on the second page. Right under the information about Melody.”

“Melody?” I croaked, folding the envelope and stuffing it down into the bottom of my purse. “Who is that? One of Virginia’s girlfriends?”

“Melody was Virginia’s professional name,” Sabrina said, “the one she used when she was working for me. Her clients knew her
only
as Melody. They were never told her real name. That’s one of my strictest, most important measures of protection.
All
of my girls have pseudonyms.”

“Do you have one, too?”

“Of course.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Sabrina Stanhope,” she said, smiling again.

Chapter 6

CHARLOTTE WAS WAITING FOR ME IN THE ENTRANCE hall. (How the heck did she know I was leaving? Did Sabrina ring a hidden buzzer, or something?) She helped me into my jacket, returned my hat, and gracefully opened the front door.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” I said, slapping my beret on my head and charging into the hallway. I wanted to stop and talk to her for a few minutes (i.e., ask her a few probing questions), but I didn’t have time. It was 2:45! I wouldn’t get back to the office until after three. If Mr. Crockett didn’t give me the axe, Crown Prince Pomeroy surely would.

The uptown subway was abnormally crowded (was B. Altman’s having its annual girdle and corset sale?), so I didn’t take a seat. I just clung to a strap near the door, clutching my purse (and the crucial list it carried) so tight to my breast you’d have thought it was full of money (my purse, not my breast). When the doors snapped open at my stop, I was off the train, up the stairs, down the block, and around the corner in a wink. And just a couple of minutes after that, I was bursting into the
Daring Detective
office, feeling like Brenda Starr on a life-or-death mission, but probably looking like Imogene Coca on a bug-eyed bender.

To my great astonishment and relief, Pomeroy wasn’t there.

Mike said he’d gone out about 12:30 and wouldn’t be back until 4:30—in time to make sure that Mario and Lenny met the art deadline.

“Mr. Crockett isn’t here, either,” Mike grumbled, leaning back in his chair, lighting a Lucky, and spewing the smoke straight up at the ceiling. “He went from lunch to the typesetter, or the distributor, or someplace like that. Won’t be back today. Said he’d see us at nine sharp in the morning.” He plunked one penny-loafered foot on top of his desk. “And where the hell have you been, sweetheart?” he asked, taking another drag on his weed. “Sticking your snoot in the sewer again?”

Mike was a coward, you should know, and he deeply resented the fact that I wasn’t. Like almost all crime writers in the detective magazine field, he wrote only clip stories—long, florid, trumped-up accounts of the grisliest, most sensational murders, pieced together from previous reports and composed totally in-house. He had never been to a real murder scene in person, or investigated a killing on his own, and you could bet your bottom dollar he never would. All Mike had the courage to do was razz and belittle me.

“You look kind of ragged, doll,” he said, with a smirk. “What’s the scoop? All that digging in the garbage dump got you down?”

“Not likely,” I said, giving him an ugly smirk in return. “In fact, I’m flying sky-high! I’m working on something really, really big,” I added, just to upset him (and to try out my Ed Sullivan impression). “It’s a
very
juicy and important story, but please don’t ask me any questions about it. I can’t discuss it with anybody. It’s top-secret.”