The seventh commandment

Chapter 32

He insisted on taking her to a steak joint on West 46th Street.

"It's not a fancy place," he said. "Mostly cops and actors go there. But the food is good, and the prices are right. We'll have a rare sirloin with garlic butter, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, a salad with blue cheese dressing, and maybe some Bass ale to wash it all down. How does that sound?"

"Oh God," Dora moaned, "there goes my diet."

"Start another one tomorrow," Wenden advised.

It was a smoky tunnel, all stained wood, tarnished brass lamps, and mottled mirrors behind the long bar. The walls were plastered with photos of dead boxers and racehorses, and posters of Broadway shows that had closed decades ago. Even the aproned waiters looked left over from a lost age.

"What have you been up to?" John asked, buttering a heel of pumpernickel.

"Nothing much," Dora said. "I went to see Mrs. Olivia Starrett to tell her how sorry I was about Callaway's death."

"How's she taking it?"

"She was sitting up in bed and looked a little puffy around the gills, but she's coping. She's a tough old lady."

She told the detective some of what she had learned. Some, but not all. Clayton and Eleanor were getting a divorce, and he wanted to marry Helene Pierce. And Felicia Starrett was playing footsie with Turner Pierce.

"Interesting," John said, "but I don't know what it all means-if anything. Do you?"

"Not really. Sounds to me like a game of Musical Chairs."

"Yeah," he said. "You want to hear about the Sid Loftus homicide now or will it spoil your dinner?"

"Nothing's going to spoil my dinner," she said. "I'm famished. If I never see another tuna salad as long as I live, it'll be too soon."

They finished their martinis hastily when the waiter brought big wooden bowls of salad and poured their ales.

"The knife that did him in wasn't like the ones that iced Starrett and Guthrie," Wenden said, going to work on his salad. "It was maybe a three- or three-and-a-half-inch blade. We figure it was a folding pocket knife, a jackknife. There must be jillions of them in the city. The big blade on this one was razor sharp."

"That wasn't in the papers," Dora said.

"We don't tell the media everything. Another thing we didn't release was that the crime scene guys and the lab think the perp may have been a woman."

Dora put down her fork and stared at him. "A woman? You're sure?"

"Pretty sure. They vacuumed up a few long hairs and particles of face powder."

"What color hair?"

"Black, but it may have been colored. We sent the hairs to the FBI lab to see if they can definitely ID the color and also what kind of shampoo or hair spray was used, if any."

They were silent while their steaks and baked potatoes were served. Dora looked down at her plate with amazement. "I'll never be able to eat all that."

"Sure you will," Wenden said. "I'm betting on you."

"So it was a sex scene?"

"Looks like it started out that way, but that's not how it ended. He hadn't had an ejaculation before he died. Too bad. A loser all around."

Dora ate in silence a few moments, pondering. Then: "Any cigarette butts?"

"Nope," Wenden said. "Just butts from those cigarillos he smoked. But when they took up the floorboards, guess what they found."

"Not Judge Crater?"

"About three grams of high-grade coke."

Dora paused with a forkful of steak half-raised. "You mean he was snorting?"

Wenden nodded. "Recently enough so that there were traces in his urine." He laughed. "What a splendid man of the cloth that old schnorrer was! Does Olivia Starrett still believe in him?"

"She seems to, and I didn't tell her any differently. Not even Callaway's real name or how he died. This steak is something else again, and I'm going to finish every bite."

"I thought you would. It's aged meat. They scrape off the green mold before they broil it."

"I hope you're kidding."

"Sure I am." He sat back and sighed. "Great food, and screw cholesterol. Now I'm going to have coffee and a shot of Bushmills Black, just to put the icing on the cake. How about you?"

"I'll have coffee, but Irish Whiskey is a little raunchy for me."

"Tell you what: Have a half-and-half of Bushmills and Irish Mist on the rocks. You'll love it."

"All right, I'm game. I hope you'll let me pay for all this, John. It'll go on the pad."

"Nope," he said. "It's my turn. You've fed me enough."

"Salami sandwiches," she scoffed. "This is food."

They dawdled over their coffee and postprandial drinks.

"John," she said, "you think Loftus picked up some floozy off the street?"

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't see him as a guy who had to rent a hooker. Also, there was loose cash in the back room, credit cards, and some valuable jewelry, including a Starrett wristwatch. A streetwalker would have snaffled the lot. No, I think his playmate was someone he knew. Whoever it was went along with his kinky idea of fun. He couldn't have tied his own wrists to the bedposts."

"And then the party got rough?"

He stared at her. "Doesn't make much sense, does it? But that's the way it looks."

"Did your guys come up with anything at local bars and restaurants?"

"Negative. But as they say in the tabloids, the manhunt is widening."

"Was there any evidence that drugs had been done that night, before he was killed?"

He shook his head again. "The coke we found was in sealed glassine envelopes. There was nothing to indicate coke or anything else had been used. Analysis of his blood showed he had had a few drinks, but he wasn't drunk. How do you like your drink?"

She rolled her eyes. "Heavenly. I'd like to fill a bathtub with this stuff, roll around in it, and then drink my way out."

He laughed."Talk about kinky! More coffee?"

"Maybe a half-cup. You working tonight?"

"No, I'm starting a forty-eighter. And I'm going to sleep all of it away."

"I hope so," Dora said. "You look beat. How do you feel?"

"A hundred percent better than I did two hours ago."

"A rare steak will do that."

"It's really a rare you," he said, looking at her. "You always give me a lift."

He drove her back to the Bedlington and double-parked outside.

"Thanks for a memorable dinner," she said.

"Thanks for sharing the memory."

"You want to come up for a nightcap?" she asked hesitantly.

"I'd love to," he said, "but I'm not going to. I've got a long drive ahead of me, and then I want to hit the sack. Raincheck?"

"Of course."

He turned sideways to face her. He put an arm along the back of her seat, not touching her. But she stiffened and continued to stare straight ahead through the windshield.

"I'll tell you something," he said, his voice sounding rusty. "You may not believe it, but it's the truth. When I first met you-and later, too-I know I pitched you, coming on like a hotrock. I figured a toss in the hay would be nice-why the hell not?" "John," she said softly.

"No, let me finish. But now it's more than that. I think about you all the time. I dream up excuses to call you or see you, and then I don't do it. You know why? Because I'm ashamed of acting like a schmo by bugging you all the time. And also, I'm afraid of rejection. I've been rejected before and shrugged it off because I didn't give a damn. Now I give a damn. I don't know what I feel about you, I don't know how to label it, but I wasn't lying when I said that just being with you gives me a lift. It's like I'm hooked, and I get a rush every time I see you."

"Maybe it's because we're working together," she said quietly. "People who work in the same office, for instance, or on the same project, develop a special intimacy: shared work and hopes and aims."

"Sure, that's part of it," he agreed. "But I could be a shoe salesman or you could be a telephone operator and I know I'd feel the same way. It's more than just the job. This is something strictly between you and me."

Then she turned to look at him. "Don't think I haven't been aware of it. At first I thought you were just a stud looking for a one-night stand. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am. But now I think you're telling the truth because my feelings toward you have changed." She laughed nervously. "I can even tell you exactly when it happened: when I suddenly realized I should have bought you a maroon cashmere muffler for Christmas. Nutsy-right? But as I've said many times, I'm married, and as I've said many, many times, happily married."

"And that's the most important thing in your life?"

"It was. Damn you!" she burst out, trying to smile. "You've upset my nice, neat applecart. You're the one who's making me question what really is important to me. I was sure before I met you. Now I'm not sure anymore."

They'd never know whether she kissed him first or he kissed her. But they came together on the front seat of that ramshackle car, held each other tightly, clinging like frightened people, and kissed.

He was the first to break away. "I'll take that nightcap now," he said hoarsely.

"No, you won't," Dora said unsteadily. "You'll drive home carefully and grab some Z's. And I'll go up to my bedroom by myself."

"It doesn't make sense," he argued.

"I know," she agreed. "But I need time to figure this out. Good night, darling. Get a good night's sleep."

"Fat chance," he said mournfully, and they kissed just one more time. A quickie.