“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.
Chapter 36
“GREAT WORK, DAN,” I SAID, WHEN HE FINISHED his arresting tale. “You are, without a doubt, the world’s best dick. I’m so proud of you! And I can’t wait to tell Sabrina that Virginia ’s killer has been caught. She’ll be so grateful.”
“Does she know about Jocelyn?”
“Not yet. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her. I’ll call her as soon as you leave. Meanwhile, we’ve still got our work cut out for us. It’s one murder down and one to go.”
“Yeah,” he said, with a hefty sigh. “But the next one won’t be so easy to crack.”
“It may be easier than you think.”
Dan gave me a quizzical look. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I know who did it, that’s why.” I straightened my shoulders and puffed out my chest in pride.
“Oh, really?” He didn’t snicker, but he might as well have.
“Yes, really!” I snapped.
“Then suppose you tell me who it is.” Here came that sexy smile again.
“I will, if you promise not to laugh at me,” I said. “I’m not in the mood to be ridiculed.”
Dan’s smile vanished, and a look of pure sincerity took its place. “Don’t worry, Paige, I won’t laugh. Murder’s not a laughing matter… and neither are you.”