Dial Me for Murder

Chapter 35

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING? Well, neither have I, but I’m sure it’s a shocking experience. Almost as shocking as having your credibility, stability, and self-confidence shattered-in one blow-by the man you love and trust most in the world.

(Okay, okay! So maybe I’m laying it on with a trowel here, but I’m the one telling this story, and I think I’m entitled to express my emotions. No matter how stupid they happen to be. And besides, when Dan revealed that he’d arrested Tony Corona for Virginia ’s murder, I really did feel as though I’d been struck by lightning-or something equally electrifying.)

“Holy moly!!!” I shrieked, bones rattling, hair standing on end. “ Corona killed Virginia? And you already booked the bastard? I don’t freaking believe it!” I threw both hands up and stamped one foot on the floor. “What was his motive? How the hell did you figure it out? Have you got enough proof?” Curiosity was burning a hole in my brain (and inflaming my vocabulary).

“Simmer down, Paige,” Dan said, standing up, putting his arm around my waist, and guiding me into the kitchen. “I think you’re flipping out. You’d better compose yourself and make us some coffee. Then we can sit down at the table and compare notes, discuss the case like two calm, sensitive, and mature adults.”

I probably deserved Dan’s patronizing little speech, but I still found it annoying. How did he come off acting so calm and sensitive when just minutes ago he’d been bombarding me with impatient questions and telling me I looked clammy and smelled chlorinated? (I mean, how sensitive was that?) I thought the coffee was a good idea, though, so I filled the pot with water, spooned a ton of Chase and Sanborn into the filtered basket, and put the trusty device on the stove to perk. Then I sat down across the table from Dan and lit up one of his Camels.

“Please proceed, Detective Street,” I said, batting my lashes and beaming a fake angelic smile in his direction. “I find your work simply fascinating. Tell me, how did you ever get involved in this compelling case, and what led you to conclude that Mister Corona killed Miss Pratt?” I was doing my best Loretta Young (i.e., acting so sensitive and self-composed it was silly).

Dan groaned and gave me a warning look. “Knock it off, Paige. It’s been a long night, and I’m not in the mood for any more drama. If you want to hear my side of the story, you’d better behave yourself and just listen.”

“Okay, shoot,” I said, immediately dropping my charade and craning my neck over the table. “I’m a giant ear. Tell me everything.”

Dan raked his fingers through his wavy hair, leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and propped his folded arms behind his head. “The chief brought me into the case at the start,” he began, looking so languid and seductive I thought I would die. “He said he had reason to believe the detective in charge wouldn’t conduct a proper investigation, and he asked me to undertake a behind-the-scenes, one-man search for Virginia ’s murderer. He thought her death had something to do with the mob war raging through the city right now, and-since I was already investigating the conflict and a couple of related rubouts-he figured I would be in contact with some underworld informers.

“And he was right,” Dan continued, “on both counts. I do have a few Mafia pigeons, and one of them is very close to the top. It turned out he knew a lot about the murder, and after I plied him with a pile of cash and promises, he gave me the inside dope. He told me that Virginia had been a high-priced prostitute known as Melody, that she had worked for a high-class madam named Sabrina Stanhope, and that mob boss Frank Costello himself had ordered her hit after learning that she was keeping company with District Attorney Sam Hogarth as well as with his own protégé, Tony Corona.”

“Protégé? Are you saying that-?”

“Right. Corona owes his whole career to Costello. The top Mafioso made him a star. Now hush, Paige, and let me finish.”

Aaaargh!

“It all boils down to this,” Dan went on. “When the DA recently put the crunch on Costello-dragging him into court, threatening him on TV, closing down his gambling operations, and so forth-Costello got teed off and swore to get even. He wanted to have the DA assassinated, but decided against it because the cops and the feds would know he was responsible and would come down even harder on his case. So when Corona told him that he and Hogarth were sleeping with the same expensive call girl, and that Hogarth was so infatuated he had given her a mink jacket and some diamond jewelry, Costello came up with an alternate plan: He would have Melody killed and her nude body dumped in the park, along with her ID and the presents Sam Hogarth had given her. That way, he figured- incorrectly, as it turned out-the police would discover that Melody was a hooker, trace the fur and diamonds back to Hogarth, and then accuse the district attorney of murder.

“Costello didn’t care if Hogarth was ever convicted of the crime or not. He just wanted to destroy the DA’s reputation, career, and political future, and he knew the sex scandal alone would take care of that. He also knew he could make Corona take care of Melody’s murder for him just by calling in a few favors. So the hit was arranged, and Corona did the dirty deed. And-thanks to the inept and corrupt detective in charge of the case-the DA wasn’t exposed. Instead,” Dan added, looking like a cat with a mouthful of canary feathers, “the country’s favorite crooner is singing sob songs in the slammer.”

I couldn’t hold my tongue one second longer. “But how can that be?” I spluttered. “You can’t book a man for murder based on the word of a Mafia stoolie! You’ve got to have solid evidence-and a heck of a lot of it!”

Dan chuckled and sat up straighter. “I was coming to that part, Paige, but since you’re too impatient to sit still and listen, I think you’d better get up and pour me a cup of coffee-use up some of that nervous energy.”

If he hadn’t given me a really sexy smile when he said that, I would have had a hissy fit and refused to move. As it was, though, I stabbed out my cigarette, jumped out of my chair, hopped over to the stove, filled two mugs with coffee, and brought them back to the table in a flash.

I couldn’t wait to hear the rest of Dan’s story.

And I hoped to earn another sexy smile.

BY THE TIME THE COFFEEPOT WAS EMPTY, both of my goals had been realized. Dan had smiled at me twice during the course of his detailed account, and when he concluded his lengthy monologue, I knew every single step leading up to his sudden-but completely lawful-arrest of Tony Corona for the murder of Virginia Pratt.

I would repeat Dan’s report for you word for word, but that would take too many pages and tax my wretched memory beyond its capacity. I hope, therefore, that you’ll be satisfied with the following summary.

As soon as Dan got the scoop from his stoolie, he went looking for proof that the story was true. He didn’t bother searching for evidence of Costello’s involvement because he knew he’d never find any. So he focused all his energy and effort on proving Corona ’s guilt. He hung out at the Copa at night-watching Corona and his entourage in action, listening in on private conversations at the bar and in the men’s room-and he spent the rest of his time digging for evidence at the Plaza Hotel.

Dan spoke with the maid responsible for cleaning Corona ’s suite and learned that the day after the murder a sheet was missing from the suspect’s bed. And as she was replacing it with a new one, the maid remembered, a faint but distinct odor of turpentine had wafted up from the mattress. She never mentioned the odor or the missing sheet to her supervisor for fear she’d be blamed for both, but when Dan asked her to give him the replacement sheet for evidence, she readily complied. And when this sheet was compared with the one Virginia ’s body had been wrapped in, it proved to be the same size and have the same label, stitching, and thread count as the original. Traces of turpentine were detected in both examples.

Dan discovered more incriminating evidence in Corona ’s suite, which he entered one evening after Corona and his henchmen left for the Copa. In a cabinet under the bathroom sink he found a length of rope, a roll of adhesive tape, a box of cotton, and a small can of turpentine. Astounded that Corona had held on to these damning indications of his guilt-that he hadn’t even attempted to hide them!-Dan confiscated the items and had the lab compare them with the rope, tape, and turpentine-soaked cotton used to bind, gag, and asphyxiate Virginia. Each test showed a perfect match.

Dan could have arrested Corona at this point. He had plenty of proof. He was afraid, though, that it wouldn’t hold up in court; that the defense would argue the evidence had been planted; and that-due to the all-too-neat and convenient stash of incriminating articles under the sink-the jury would believe the claim. So, to nip this possible scenario in the bud, Dan continued searching for something more conclusive-an irrefutable verification of the facts.

And this he got, in very short order, from Corona ’s frightened, loose-lipped chauffeur. Thinking the driver might have had something to do with transporting Virginia ’s corpse from the Plaza to Central Park, Dan cornered him in the garage of the hotel, grilled him about the night of the murder, and accused him of being an accomplice in the crime. The hapless chauffeur broke down in tears and started shaking uncontrollably, saying he’d been forced to do what he did, and that he’d be killed if he told anybody what happened. But after Dan convinced him that he’d probably be killed anyway, and then promised him a new identity and a new life in Arizona in exchange for the truth, he admitted that he’d helped Corona and his strong-arm man, Little Pete, dispose of the body.

He said they had wrapped the dead girl and her belongings in a sheet, hidden the bundle under a pile of linens in a hotel laundry cart, and then wheeled the cart into a service elevator and taken it down to the garage. He said Little Pete lifted the bundle into the trunk of the limousine and then went with him to unload the body in Central Park. Corona went back upstairs.

Dan found plenty of evidence to substantiate the chauffeur’s story-several rope fibers and a splotch of turpentine in the bottom of the linen cart, numerous long blonde hairs and a diamond stud earring in the trunk of the limousine-and decided that, combined with the chauffeur’s testimony and the evidence he’d already collected, it was more than enough to convict Corona.

So while Abby and I were drinking champagne and watching Corona perform at the Copa, Dan was taking the terrified chauffeur into custody, making sure he would be kept safe and comfortable until he could testify at the trial and then begin his new life in Phoenix.

And while Abby and I were doing our dumb Gina and Cherry act in Corona ’s dressing room, Dan was checking his hat and coat and taking a seat at the Copa bar, waiting for the right moment to make his move.

And then later that night (which was just last night, if you can believe it!)-after I had rescued Dan from certain death with my clever prostitute impression and he had driven Abby and me home in a heedless, fire-breathing fury-Detective Sergeant Dan Street made a hasty (and, if you ask me, heroic) return to the Copacabana and arrested the club’s (maybe the whole galaxy’s) star entertainer for murder.