The seventh commandment

Chapter 45

She took special pains with her grooming that evening, brushing her hair until it gleamed, snugging on her "good" dress, adding the bracelet Mario had given her for Christmas. Finally she dabbed on a wee drop of Obsession-and wondered why she was tarting herself up. She hadn't been so nervous since her first prom, and breaking a fingernail did nothing to calm her down.

Wenden had wanted to pick her up at the hotel, but not knowing how their dinner-date might end, Dora thought it wiser to have her own transportation. So she drove over to Vito's in the Escort-and then had to park two blocks away and walk back.

John was already there, seated at a small bar just inside the door. He, too, had obviously made efforts to spruce up. His suit was pressed, shoes shined, shirt fresh, tie unstained, and he even had a clean white handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. Dora thought he looked quite handsome.

They had extra-dry martinis at the bar, then carried refills to the back of the dining room. The detective was on his best behavior, anxious that she was satisfied with their table, holding the chair for her, asking if the room was too cold. Too hot? Too bright? Too noisy?

"John," she said, smiling, "it's just fine. I like it, I really do."

The waiter brought menus, and with no hesitation they both ordered broiled veal chops, pasta with salsa piccante, and a salad of arugula and endive. The wine list was left at Wenden's elbow, but Dora said she'd settle for a glass.

"Or two," she said. "I've got to get up early, and I have a long drive ahead of me. John, what's happening with Clayton Starrett?"

"Singing like a birdie," he said. "Ortiz thinks we're really going to nail Ramon Schnabl this time. He's already been charged, but he's out on bond. The judge made him turn in his passport, but Terry is keeping an eye on him just in case."

"What about Helene Pierce?"

"She came in voluntarily for questioning and wouldn't even admit she was at Turner's apartment the night he was offed. I'd love to get a few of her hairs to see if they match up with the ones we found at the Loftus scene, but I don't know how to do it."

"Does she have a cleaning woman?"

Wenden looked at her. "I don't know. Why?"

"Maybe a cleaning woman could get you a few hairs from Helene's brush."

He laughed. "Your brain never stops clicking, does it, Red. Well, it's worth a try. Ah, here's our salad. Wine now?"

"A glass of white with the salad," Dora said, "and a glass of red with the veal. And that's it. Definitely."

They started on their salads, along with chunks of hot garlic toast from a napkined basket. They were both hungry and didn't talk much while they were eating. John did say, "You look very attractive tonight," and Dora said, "Thank you. So do you," and they both laughed and reached for more garlic toast.

The veal chops were just the way they wanted them: charred black on the outside; white, moist, and tender inside.

The pasta sauce was a little more piccante than they had expected, but the red wine arrived in time to cool their palates. Dora attacked her food with fierce determination, and Wenden was anything but picky. They finished and sat back, staring with bemusement at the denuded chop bones.

"Think we could get in the Guinness Book of World Records?" John asked. "Fastest time for demolishing double veal chops."

"A scrumptious meal," Dora said.

"Dessert?"

"No, no, and no!" she said. "It's diet time again."

Wenden said nothing. She was conscious that he was staring at her, but she would not, could not raise her eyes to his. But she was aware that the lightheartedness of the evening was waning.

John consulted the wine list, then summoned their waiter.

"A bottle of Mumm's Cordon Rouge, please," he said. "As cold as you can make it."

Then Dora looked at him. "Hey," she said, "why the celebration?"

"Not a celebration," Wenden said. "A wake. The answer s no, isn't it, Red?"

She nodded. "You're a good detective."

"It's a downer," he said. "I imagined you had a thing for me."

She reached out to cover his hand with hers. "I love you, John," she said quietly. "I truly do. But I also love my husband."

"I'm not sure," he said, trying to smile, "but that may be illegal."

His reply, even in jest, angered her. "Can't I love two men at the same time? Why not? Men can love two or more women at the same time, and frequently do. What am I-a second-class citizen?"

He held up his palms in surrender. But then the waiter brought their chilled champagne and glasses. They were silent while he went through the ceremony of uncorking the bottle. He poured a bit into John's glass and waited expectantly. But John handed it to Dora.

"You first," he said.

She sampled it. "Just right," she proclaimed.

The waiter filled their flutes, left the bottle in a bucket of ice, and departed. They raised their glasses to each other in a silent toast.

Dora said slowly, "I wish I could explain to you the way I feel in a clear, logical way, but I can't. Because this is something that's got nothing to do with logic. It's a mishmash of emotions and fears and upbringing and education and God knows what else."

"But the bottom line is no," he said.

"That's right," Dora said decisively. "I'm not going to bed with you. But you've got to believe me; I do love you."

They both smiled sadly.

"Look at us," Dora said. "Me, an overweight housewife. You, a burned-out cop. I wish I could understand it, but I can't."

"It happens," John said. "Do you have to understand it? Can't you just accept it?"

"I do accept it," she said. "The love part. Not the infidelity. It's not so much wanting to be faithful to Mario, it's wanting to be faithful to myself. Does that make sense?"

"No," he said, and filled their glasses again.

"Listen," Dora said, almost desperately, "let me take a stab at it. I'm a Catholic. I went to a parochial school. My husband is a Catholic. But neither of us has been to confession for I don't remember how long. Our Catholic friends don't go either. So I don't think fear of sin has anything to do with it. But maybe, deep down inside me, it does because of the way I was raised, and I'm just not conscious of it."

"All right," Wenden said, "assuming it's not fear of sin, then what is it?"

"It's a lot of things," she said, "and I'm sure you'll laugh at all of them. Look at the people we've been involved with: the Starrett crew and their pals. All of them cheating like mad. You've got to admit they're a scurvy lot; they give adultery a bad name. They make it so vulgar. Someone once said morality is a luxury few can afford. Well, / can afford it, even if it costs me.

"That's one thing. Another is that it scares me. It really does. I said I love you, and that's the truth. But what if we get it off together, and I like it. Then we drift apart, for whatever reason, and I say to myself, 'Hey, that wasn't so bad. As a matter of fact, it was fun. I think I'll find myself another lover.' Then I'm on my way to bimbo-land. It could happen, John."

"What you're saying is that you don't trust yourself."

"You're exactly right; I don't trust myself. I don't dare take the chance. If that makes me a coward, then I'm a coward."

"Or smart," he said with a twisty grin. "Well, Red, I guess you've been doing a lot of heavy thinking about this, and that's kind of a compliment to me. But did you also think about how you might feel tomorrow, next week, next year, ten years from now? No regrets?"

She leaned across the table to stroke his cheek. "You shaved for me," she said. "How nice! Let me tell you something, John. It's like you're driving along a highway. You know where you're going. Then you see a side road leading away. It looks great. All leafy. Beautiful. You're tempted to turn off and explore it. Find out where it goes. But you don't. And maybe you think of that side road a lot in the years to come. Regret is too strong a word, but the curiosity is there. You may never stop wondering where that road led."

He reached for the champagne bottle and poured what was left into their glasses.

"That's what will happen to me," Dora said. "What will happen to you?"

"Nothing," he said. "Which is what usually happens to me. Oh, I'll survive. I've been unhappy before, and I'll be unhappy again. You've been unhappy, haven't you?"

"Yeah," Dora said. "Like right now. Listen, John, why don't you come up to Hartford and visit with us for a weekend-or as long as you like. We've got an extra bedroom."

He stared at her. "I don't think that would be so smart, Red-do you?"

"No," Dora said miserably, "I don't."

John lifted the champagne bottle and tried to pour. It was empty, and he shoved it, neck down, into the melted ice.

"The bubbles are gone," he said.