Dial Me for Murder

Chapter 32

IT TOOK ME A WHILE TO CONVINCE SABRINA that telling Dan the whole truth was the right (actually, the only) way to go. Understandably, she didn’t want to cause harm to her girls, or lose her entire income, or be sent to jail, or be unable to continue her support of Charlotte and of Melody’s retarded twin brother. After I explained the seriousness of the situation more thoroughly, though, and promised to speak to Dan and the other authorities on her behalf, she started to come around. And then-when it finally sank in that the Mafia really could be involved in Melody’s murder and that my life, as well as Dan’s, might really be at risk-she gave in.

“I’ve been such a fool,” she said, choking back tears. “I thought I could see to it that Melody’s killer was brought to justice without sacrificing myself or anybody else. I should have known that would be impossible. I’m so sorry I dragged you into this, Paige.”

“You didn’t drag me anywhere,” I sadly admitted. “I jumped in with both feet and started running around like a beheaded chicken. I just wish we’d had enough sense to tell Dan the truth from the start. He probably would have caught the murderer by now… and I would still have a job.” Not to mention a boyfriend, I whimpered to myself.

“It’s all my fault,” Sabrina said. “I should have let you bring Dan into the case that very first day. He would have conducted an honest investigation. I should have given you permission to write the story, too. At least I would have known that the coverage would be fair.”

When I heard the word story, I perked up considerably. “It’s not too late, you know. I can still write the story, whether I’m working for Daring Detective or not. Once the scandal breaks, every newspaper and magazine in the city-maybe even the whole country-will fight for the rights to an exclusive inside report.”

“Then I want you to write it, Paige. I trust you, and I know you’ll treat me and my girls-especially Melody-with respect.”

“You can count on it,” I promised, feeling a heady resurgence of journalistic energy and purpose. “And you can bet I’ll treat O’Connor, Corona, Hogarth, and Harrington with respect as well-all the respect they deserve.” My voice was oozing with sarcasm.

“Don’t be too hard on Harrington, Paige. I’ve known him a long time, and he’s been very good to me and my girls. I don’t believe he’s the murderer. I put his name on the list only because he was a regular client of Melody’s and called for a date the night she was killed.”

“Reason enough, if you ask me. And you’d be amazed at how often the most innocent-looking suspects commit the most atrocious crimes. It would be a mistake for either one of us to jump to conclusions about Harrington.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said, sighing heavily. “Please be careful, Paige. These are very powerful men. And it’s possible they all have connections to organized crime. And since Hogarth and Harrington both know who you are, and what you do for a living, you could already be at the top of some savage Mafioso’s hit list.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, pretending a tad (okay, a lot) more courage than I felt. “I’ll be careful. And once Dan knows all the facts and recruits the rest of his department in a wider, more intense investigation, I’ll be off the case and in safe hands. In the meantime,” I added, feeling a serious surge of adrenaline (and a stupid gush of Brenda Starr bravado), “I’ve got a story to write.”

THE INSTANT I CLICKED OFF THE LINE WITH Sabrina, I dialed Jocelyn’s number at the Barbizon. I knew she wouldn’t be there-Sabrina had said she usually didn’t get home from her regular Friday night date until two or three in the morning-but I simply had to do something! I was desperate for more information-about O’Connor, Hogarth, Corona, and what went on at the Copa after I left-and Jocelyn was the only one who could provide it. I must’ve let her phone ring a thousand times.

By the time I hung up, I was feeling a bit more composed (i.e., less like a runaway train and more like a ticking time bomb). I was still crazy with worry about Dan, and dying to know how he got involved in the Virginia Pratt case, and struggling to think of a way to ensure his safety, but I was also determined to keep my emotions and actions under tight control-to stay locked in my apartment until I heard from him, just as he’d told me to do.

I rose from the couch and headed into the kitchen, grabbing my cigarettes out of my purse and a Dr. Pepper out of the fridge. Then I darted upstairs to my bedroom. Setting the soda and ciggies on my dresser, I wriggled out of Abby’s tight black dress and somehow freed myself from her horrid push-up bra. After peeling off my girdle and stockings, I put on a normal bra, a fuzzy white sweater, a pair of black capris, and my new ballerina flats.

It was almost one o’clock in the morning. I could have skipped the clothes and gone straight to bed, but with my tangled thoughts and jangled nerves, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. And if Dan came back, I reasoned, I should be decently dressed and fully alert and perfectly prepared to tell him everything I knew about the murder.

Plus, I wanted to get a head start on my story.

Giving my wig-matted hair a quick brush-out, I snatched the soda pop and cigarettes off the dresser and took them into the tiny spare bedroom I had turned into an office. I switched on the gooseneck lamp, sat down at my battered wood desk, and tuned my little white plastic radio to a popular all-night station (The Platters were singing “Only You”). Then I rolled two pieces of paper and a carbon into my baby blue Royal and began typing like a madwoman, making notes on everything that had happened to me since Wednesday morning (just two and a half days ago!), when I first read the reports of Virginia’s death and received the fateful phone call from Sabrina inviting me to lunch.

One empty Dr. Pepper bottle and an ashtray full of burned-out L &M filter tips later, I had produced a seventeen-page list of notes for my story-plus a carbon copy for Dan, which I figured he could use as a reference in his soon-to-be expanded investigation. I had also typed up a quick prologue to the based-on-fact “novel” I was determined to write about the murder, and-hurrying to get the details down while they were still fresh in my mind-written a few pages of chapter One. (To say that I was charged up would be like calling Jerry Lewis perky.)

It was three-fifteen in the morning. Nat “King” Cole was singing “When I Fall in Love” on the radio, and I was still aching to talk to Jocelyn, who, I figured, would be home from her date by now. Seizing my cigarettes and the carbon copy of my story notes, I turned off the lamp and the radio, bounded out of my office, and headed downstairs for the phone. Tossing the notes on the kitchen table as I scurried by, I leapt into the living room, scanned the lavender list for Jocelyn’s home number, snatched up the receiver, and dialed it.

There was no answer.

I clicked the button and dialed again.

Still no answer.

I slammed down the phone and darted to the living room window. Prying a peephole in the blinds, I peered down into the street, searching (and praying) for some sign of Dan. Both the sidewalks and the street were totally deserted. And as far as I could tell in the dim light from the streetlamp, all the parked cars were empty. Where was he? Was he okay? Would he come back tonight? Would he ever come back? Was he sleeping like a log in his Murray Hill apartment or-God help me!-floating like a log in the East River?

I whisked back to the phone and dialed Dan’s home number. No answer. I called him at the station house after that, but the officer manning the desk said he hadn’t been there all night and hadn’t called in to report his whereabouts. Skin crawling and nerves jumping, I got a new line and tried Jocelyn again. Even after eleven rings she didn’t pick up. Why didn’t she answer? Where the hell could she be?

The suspense was killing me. Literally. And as much as I truly wanted to follow Dan’s directions and stay locked inside my apartment, I couldn’t stand it for another second. Grabbing my jacket and red beret out of the closet and putting them on, I snatched my purse off the living room chair, burst out into the hall, and scrambled down the stairway to the street.

The sky was black, the air was cold, and the vacant street was dead quiet. Running as fast as I could toward Sixth Avenue, all I could hear were the loud huffs of my steamy breath and the scrapes and scuffs of my ballerina slipper soles against the pavement.

When I reached the corner of Bleecker and Sixth, however, I detected another sound. It was the rumbling engine of the Checker taxicab that was speeding uptown in my direction. Knowing the subway trains would be few and far between this time of night (I mean, morning), I pounced out into the avenue and flagged the cab down. Then I hopped inside, gave the driver an address, and told him to step on it.

Sixteen minutes later, we reached my destination: 140 East 63rd Street. I gave the driver two dollars (the meter fare plus a thirty cent tip), jumped out of the taxi onto the sidewalk, and lunged like a beheaded chicken into the lobby of the Barbizon Hotel for Women.