Dial Me for Murder

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?)

The woman arched one eyebrow and gave me a look that was dripping with distrust. “Paige Turner, you say?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, stepping closer to her desk, flashing my most genuine and sincere Loretta Young smile.

She wasn’t buying it. “Humph!” she sputtered. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Well, yes, I-”

“Ha! You must think I’m a total cabbagehead!” She rose from her chair and craned her skinny neck forward. “I know a phony name when I hear one-and Paige Turner is the phoniest one I’ve ever heard!”

See what happens when you tell the truth?

“I know it sounds phony,” I hurried to explain, “but it really isn’t. My parents gave me the name Paige, and my husband gave me the name Turner, and the absurd combination has been giving me grief ever since my wedding day. Whenever I’m introduced to someone, they crack up laughing. Believe you me, if I had it to do all over again I’d marry a man named Smith. Or Jones. Or even Wartbottom. Anything but Turner!”

She scowled at me for a couple more seconds, then relaxed her witchy features into something that almost resembled a smile. “Sorry, Mrs. Turner, but I’m sure you can understand my position. It’s my job to screen all visitors to this office and to protect the district attorney from kooks, pests, and charlatans.”

I chose not to confess that, in the eyes of some people, I belonged in all three categories.

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “With a preposterous name like mine, I’m used to having my identity questioned.” I stood quietly for a second, giving us both the chance to compose ourselves, then (in deference to my shrinking lunch hour) I quickly forged ahead. “Mr. Hogarth may have heard of me, however,” I said. “My name pops up in the newspapers every once in a while. Would you please tell him that I’m here, and that I’d like to interview him for a special article I’m working on? I promise I won’t take up too much of his time.”

(I stressed the words “interview” and “article” because of their irresistible appeal to elected officials. Particularly those who were planning to run for the Senate in three years-and maybe the presidency someday.)

“Yes, I’ll tell him,” the receptionist said, sitting back down at her desk and reaching for the phone. “But don’t be surprised if he refuses to meet with you. He never sees anybody without an appointment, and he has a very important lunch date in twenty minutes.”

TWO AND A HALF MINUTES LATER I WAS SEATED in a guest chair across the desk from Manhattan’s exceptionally handsome DA, taking note of his thick, wavy, prematurely gray hair, intense blue eyes, strong jawline, broad shoulders, expensive Italian suit, and deep, resonant speaking voice.

“I’m familiar with your work, Mrs. Turner,” he said, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “and I applaud your admirable courage and persistence. You’ve solved some complicated homicides in the past, and performed a great service for the city.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, caught completely off guard by his good humor and generous praise. (It isn’t often that I’m commended by a prominent public official sitting in a thronelike leather chair, flanked by an impressive wall-mounted shield and a gold eagle-topped United States of America flag stand!)

“But I’m the one who should be thanking you, Mrs. Turner,” he replied. “Your efforts have been nothing short of heroic. I think you should get a medal. The NYPD doesn’t agree with me, of course,” he added, his smile growing as bright as the midday sun pouring through his office windows.

I laughed. “That’s putting it mildly. The police think I’m nothing but a nuisance.”

“No, you’re wrong about that,” he argued. “You’re much more than a nuisance to them. You’re a profound embarrassment. You’ve outwitted them on several occasions, and they’ll never forgive you for it. They can’t handle being upstaged-especially by a woman.”

Watch out! I cautioned myself. Sam Hogarth is as smart as he is charming.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass anybody. I was just doing my job.”

“And you did it very well,” he said, suddenly dispensing with the smile, taking a pointed look at his watch, and then aiming his eyes directly into mine. “I don’t have much time, Mrs. Turner, but my secretary said you wanted to interview me for a special article. What’s the article about?”

I decided to keep it simple. “Murder,” I answered, saying nothing more, staring deep into his royal blue irises, watching for his reaction.

His pupils contracted into pinpoints, then he quickly shifted his gaze toward the windows. “Murder’s a mighty broad subject,” he said, staring out at the pigeons on the sill, twisting his wedding band around his finger. “You want to narrow that down for me a little?”

I wanted to narrow it down a lot. I wanted to come right out and ask if he was the monster who murdered Virginia Pratt- but of course I didn’t. (Contrary to what you may have heard about me, I’m not that stupid.)

“The latest report on crime in Manhattan,” I said, “shows that murder is up thirty percent. That’s an alarming increase. A lot of the people I talk to-especially young single women- say they’re shocked by the new statistics and are now scared to be out on the street after dark. They’re literally afraid for their lives. Can you offer any insight into what’s causing this sudden surge in homicidal violence? And is there anything that can be done about it?”

Hogarth turned his eyes back to me. “I’m glad you asked that question,” he said, sitting taller in his chair, assuming the warm, welcoming, paternal posture of the skilled politician. (If there had been one hundred babies in the room, he’d have begun kissing two hundred cheeks.) “It’s true, as you say, that the murder statistics have escalated sharply in recent months,” he said, “but those figures are-in some respects-deceiving.”

“Oh, really?” I jumped in, hoping to divert a long, evasive speech about the unreliability of certain charts, numbers, and calculations. “Can you be more specific, please? Which respects are you referring to?”

A flicker of annoyance crossed his handsome face. He didn’t appreciate the interruption-or my insolent inquiry. He promptly recovered, however, and resumed control of the conversation. “I’m referring to the fact that the rise in the city’s homicide rate is due to a rise in Mafia murder,” he declared, “not murder in general.”

“Mafia murder? Are you suggesting that-?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” he cut in, giving me a taste of my own intrusive medicine. “I’m stating a hard-and-fast fact. An unusually large number of recent homicides have been mob-related. Perhaps you’re not aware of it, Mrs. Turner, but a Mafia territorial war has been going on for some time now, and a good many thugs, thieves, goons, and gangsters-as well as a few innocent bystanders-have managed to get themselves killed. The figures are well documented.”

“Yes, I know about that, but-”

“And that’s why I’m conducting a citywide crackdown on organized crime,” he barreled on, ignoring my attempt to ask another question. “I’ve got my entire staff working on the problem. We’re determined to put a stop to this outbreak of violence and bring the crime bosses to their knees. Frank Costello is under investigation, and Albert Anastasia is next in line. And that’s only the beginning. Take my word for it, Mrs. Turner, next year’s murder statistics will be much lower than the worst grade you ever got on a high school algebra test.”

Not likely, I croaked to myself, remembering my nonexistent mathematical skills and admiring the DA’s incisive (need I say murderous?) wit and mental agility.

“So you can tell your single girlfriends to relax,” he continued, straightening his collar and his royal blue tie (which just happened to be a perfect match for his eyes). “The excessive murder statistics will have no measurable effect on the lives or deaths of Manhattan ’s young, unmarried women. Believe me, they have no more reason to be afraid now than they did before. They are as safe on the streets of the city-morning, noon, and after dark-as they ever were.”

“That’s a very pretty statement,” I said, “but I don’t think Virginia Pratt would agree.” (Okay, so I really am that stupid.)

“Who?” He gave me a puzzled look.

“Virginia Pratt,” I repeated. “The beautiful young secretary who was murdered last Monday night, and whose bound, gagged, and asphyxiated nude body was found buried in a pile of leaves in Central Park on Tuesday. Surely she wasn’t as safe in this city as ever before.”

“No, of course not,” Hogarth said, as quick to respond as a lizard snapping its tongue at a fly. “But that’s an isolated case, and it happened just this week, and all signs indicate that the unfortunate young woman was killed by someone she knew. Her murder wasn’t a random street crime, and it wasn’t mob-related, and it hasn’t yet been added to the city’s homicide stats. Therefore, Miss Pratt’s death, though tragic and very disturbing, has absolutely no relevance to this conversation-or to the article you’re writing. I’m surprised you even brought it up.”

Curses! Hoisted by my own petard (whatever that is). I was so annoyed I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Words came quickly, however, to Manhattan ’s nimble-minded DA. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Turner,” he said, rising from his throne and walking around his desk toward me, “I must bring this interview to an end. I have an important lunch date uptown, and I’m already five minutes late.” He hovered by the side of my chair until I stood up, relinquished my elbow to his manly grasp, and allowed him to guide (okay, prod) me toward the exit.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. District Attorney,” I said, as he opened his office door and nudged me over the threshold. “May I meet with you again soon? I have a few more questions to ask, and this article is scheduled to run in our next issue. My deadline is approaching fast.”

“You’re out of luck, Mrs. Turner. I’m booked solid for the next couple of weeks. But if anything opens up,” he said, hitting me with another radiant vote-getting smile, “I’ll have my secretary call you. Leave your number with her on your way out.”