“That’s a reasonable assumption,” I said, “assuming that Candy was in a reasonable state of mind. But maybe she wasn’t. She could have been freaked out about something and not thinking logically. Or maybe something happened between my talk with her at Saks and your talk with her at dinner to change her mind about the two suspects’ guilt and discourage her from mentioning them to you.”
Maybe she was threatened in some way, I said to myself. (I didn’t want to frighten Sabrina.) “The point is,” I continued, “we can’t leap to any conclusions about Candy. This matter requires a thorough examination. So, I’m going to do my best to see and question her again tonight. What’s her schedule like? Have you set up any dates for her?”
“Just one-dinner and dancing with her regular Friday night client. They meet every week like clockwork.”
“What time does she usually get home?”
“Pretty late. Around two, two thirty in the morning. And she takes a swim after that, so-”
“Swim?”
“The Barbizon has a pool,” Sabrina said, “and Candy swims a few laps every night when she gets home. She says it washes away her sins.”
“That’s good to know,” I said. “I’ll take my bathing suit.”
ABOUT HALF AN HOUR LATER-AFTER ADVISING Sabrina of my investigative plans for the rest of the day and night-I left her luxurious lavender bedroom and made my way back to the entrance hall. Not surprisingly, Charlotte was waiting for me at the door. She had my jacket, beret, and purse in her hands. I thanked her for the delicious breakfast and edifying conversation, then slipped out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator.
When I landed in the lobby, I checked my watch. It was eleven fifteen. I had just enough time to get uptown to my bank, which was near my office (or what used to be my office), before lunchtime, when all the local employees would rush in to cash their paychecks. With any luck, I could withdraw a few bucks from my savings account before Mike and Mario-or, worse, Pomeroy!-pranced in. I owed Abby eight dollars, counting the four I still had in my purse, and I figured I’d need about fifteen more to get through the night and the rest of the weekend. Drinks at the Copa were expensive.
I had all the time and luck a down-on-her-luck, out-of-work crime writer could reasonably ask for. I caught an uptown train immediately and arrived at the Lexington and 42nd Street station at eleven thirty-five. My bank was just around the corner, and not yet crowded, so I was able to walk right up to a teller’s window without waiting in line. I made out my check, collected ten singles and a fiver, and-footsteps echoing against the green marble walls and ultrahigh ceiling-fled the stately financial establishment before the noontime stampede began.
The good news was: I never laid eyes on any of my lousy ex-coworkers. The bad news was: All I had left in the bank was a lousy thirteen dollars.
Chapter 23
THE MAIN OFFICES OF HARRINGTON HOUSE Publishers were located at Madison and 45th, a short walk from my bank (which was another lucky break for me, since my feet hurt so much, I was considering having them amputated).
I had been in the sleek, modern Harrington House headquarters once before-when I was first hired at Daring Detective and had to fill out some forms for the accountants-but I had never met Oliver Rice Harrington in person, or set foot in his penthouse office. I wondered if the voluptuous redhead sitting behind the large reception desk in the company’s outer lobby would allow me to reach those heights now.
“Hi,” I said, stepping up to the desk and giving the plump, middle-aged woman my friendliest, toothiest smile. (I was trying to imitate Dinah Shore, but I probably looked more like Bugs Bunny.)
“Oh, hi!” she replied, quickly covering her open copy of Confidential magazine with a manila file folder. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Harrington,” I said, still smiling but trying to be assertive as well. “My name is Paige Turner, and I’m a staff writer for Daring Detective magazine. It’s a Harrington House publication.”
Her false eyelashes began to flutter. “Yes, I know!” she said.
“I can get free copies of anything the company publishes, and I grab that one as soon as it comes in. It’s so scary and gory! You probably think I’m some kind of weirdo, but I really love to read stories about murder.” She stretched her bright orange lips in an enormous smile and flapped her thick black lashes even faster. “So what are you writing about now, honey? That girl that was killed on Monday night? The one that was tied up naked and smothered with turpentine? Gawd, that was awful! I get chills all over my body just thinking about it.” Her large breasts were heaving, and her heavily rouged cheeks flushed even rosier. She wasn’t chewing gum, but she should have been. Then the caricature would have been complete.
“I’m not covering that story,” I said, disregarding her avid questions and pointedly looking at my watch. “I came to see Mr. Harrington about a different matter. He may be expecting me, and I need to catch him before he goes out to lunch. Is he in?”
“I don’t know, honey. He never tells me what he’s up to. You’ll have to talk to his personal secretary about that kinda stuff. Want me to call her for you?” She raised one eyebrow and reached for the phone.
“No!” I snapped. “I’d rather talk to her in person. Can you direct me to her office?”
“Sure, honey. She works upstairs with Mr. Harrington, on the top floor. She sits out front and her name is Frieda.” She nodded toward the wall of elevators across the way and went back to reading her magazine.
As I approached the elevators, one of them whisked open and released a stream of passengers. They poured into the lobby and surged toward the exit, all dressed for the crisp fall weather, and all in a hurry to have a nice lunch at Schrafft’s, or grab a hot dog and a Coke at Grand Central, or cash their Friday paychecks. A drugstore blonde in a bright green coat and a fake fur-trimmed hat waved to the red-haired receptionist and cried, “See ya later, Cora! I’ll meet ya for a beer after work.”
I stepped into the empty car and pushed the button for the penthouse. On my slow but steady rise to the top, I mapped out a plan of attack. Knowing I’d never get past Harrington’s secretary without an appointment, I decided I should cause a disturbance of some kind-kick up a fuss until I got my way. You’ve got to be strong and forceful! I told myself. You’ve got to march right in and demand to see him. You have a right to speak to your boss if you want to! Even if he isn’t your boss anymore! If you’re too nice and polite, his secretary will just turn you away. Be firm, Paige. Be tough!
By the time the elevator reached the top floor, I was primed for action. And when the door to the penthouse slid open, I charged through it with my dukes up (Rocky Marciano in a tight skirt and high heels). Forging my way across the thick gray carpet to the large ebony desk parked in the center of the plush reception area, I sucked in a deep breath and threw my first punch.
“I want to see Mr. Harrington,” I said to the small gray-haired lady sitting behind the desk, “and I want to see him now!” To illustrate my point, I bonked my fist down on her large, blue-leather-rimmed blotter.
She gasped and froze straight as a stick in her chair. “Do you have an appointment?” she whimpered, gaping up at me as if I were the Bride of Frankenstein-or a female incarnation of The Thing.
“No, Frieda, I don’t have an appointment!” (I stomped my foot on the floor when I said that, but the carpet was so thick, it barely made a sound.) “I don’t need one! Mr. Harrington will want to see me anyway-I guarantee it! So let’s stop wasting time, okay? Just pick up the damn phone and tell him Paige Turner is here.”