“In a way.”
Her chin came up and so did the corners of her mouth. “I told my daddy I’d met you — he called from Queens, where he and my mother are. He was impressed.”
“He must impress easily.”
She shook her head and all that blonde hair came along for the ride. “Not really. Sheila went back for a few more of her things.”
I didn’t follow that and my expression must have said so.
She explained: “Back to Gino’s apartment, for more clothes and personal effects and stuff. Now that she’s moved back in here. We were roomies before she moved in with Gino.”
“Ah.”
She frowned. Maybe for the first time, judging by that smooth face. “Did you know he used to abuse her? I mean, really abuse her, slap her around, smack her and stuff, with his fist sometimes.”
“She’s going with Vincent Colby now.”
“She is. He’s nice.”
“He doesn’t abuse her?”
“Oh no.”
“I heard he likes it rough.”
She blinked at me. “Likes what rough?”
“Sex. Or sex play, anyway.”
Shrug. “I wouldn’t know. He’s her boyfriend.”
I shifted on the sofa. “Julie, there was another girl in the secretarial pool at Colby...”
“I’m not in the pool. I have my own desk. You saw it.”
“I did. You and Ms. Stern seem to have floated to the top.”
“Top of what?”
“The secretarial pool.”
She thought about that, then smiled. “You’re kind of funny, aren’t you?”
“Some people think I’m hilarious.”
“Mark me one of ’em. You mean Vickie Dorn.”
“Victoria Dorn, yeah. She was killed a while back.”
She drew in breath through her nose, let it out the same way. “That was awful. Strangled or something. And raped. Raped first, I suppose.”
“Right. Didn’t Vincent date her?”
She shrugged and shook her head simultaneously. “He went out with her a few times. I don’t think it got serious. They weren’t a... thing. Not that I know of, anyway.”
“Were you friends with Vickie?”
“Work friends.”
“Did she say anything about Vincent?”
The big blue eyes got narrow. “You mean, like... did he like it rough?”
“Right. Like did he like it rough?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know Vickie that well. But if Vincent likes it rough, wouldn’t I know? From Sheila? We are friends, not just work friends.”
I gestured around us. “Friends before you got this place together?”
“Work friends till then. Better friends now.”
I frowned. “I didn’t know Sheila ever worked at Colby’s.”
“She didn’t. We used to waitress together at Café Reggio’s. When I got the job at Colby’s, we could afford this place. She’d stop by there sometimes and that’s when Vincent saw her and, you know, liked what he saw.”
“Kind of pursued her, you mean.”
“No. He was just friendly. Flirted some, but... you need to talk to Sheila about that.”
“Got it.”
“I didn’t mean to get snippy.”
“You didn’t get snippy at all, Julie. I’m just a snoop. It’s what they pay me for.”
Her smile was cuter than a box of puppies. “Yeah. You’re a detective. Like Magnum. You sure you don’t want a beer or a wine cooler?”
“No, I’m fine.” I patted her arm. “Listen, honey... sorry about all the questions. And you don’t have to keep me company or anything. You don’t have to entertain me.”
Another shrug. “I don’t mind.”
I glanced toward the door. “I thought Sheila was going to be here soon.”
“Could take her a while. Do you know what daddy issues are?”
I gestured to the coffee table. “Field and Stream?”
Her gaze got pointed. “It means I have a thing for older guys. Not just any guys. Just certain ones. A certain... type.”
She wiggled her eyebrows at me.
I said, “Uh, look, Julie... I’m old enough to be your father.”
“But you aren’t my father. Did I mention he was a policeman?”
This was every kind of wrong all at once.
I shifted on the couch again. “If you want to hump your old man, baby, don’t tell me about it. Find yourself a shrink. Maybe find one under forty.”
That made her laugh a little. She stood. She shrugged as she tugged at the silk belt and that’s all it took for that dressing gown to slide down her smooth skin and puddle at her feet.
Her flesh was a creamy pale pink thing she wore with pride, her breasts neither small nor large but perfect, nipples erect within their puffy, darker pink settings, her waist tapering narrow then sweeping back out into full hips. She did a slow pirouette for me, proud of the rest of her flesh, too, the graceful back, the dimpled, rounded behind, which itself was an architectural marvel of uplift.
What was my secretary’s name again?
Then she sat in Daddy’s lap, where she was able to confirm her effect on me, and her arms went around my neck and then her mouth was on mine, warm and moist...
“Ten years ago,” I whispered into the sweet, naughty face, “what a wild time we’d have had. But, darling child, I have a woman at home.” Named Velda. “And you need to be more careful about who you share your riches with.”
“I have rubbers,” she said.
The bluntness of that wilted the moment, among other things, and I lifted the kid by the narrow waist and set her down next to me.
“Put your robe on,” I said crankily.
She looked embarrassed now, as if Daddy had scolded her, and she scooped the silk thing off the floor and went padding into the bathroom in the nearby hall, fanny jiggling. Somebody needed to paddle that kid.
But not me.
I was chuckling to myself, shaking my head, when the front door opened, and my first reaction was to think of what Sheila Ryan might have walked into.
But maybe she wouldn’t even have noticed an old man banging a young girl, because Sheila Ryan was crying, hysterical as hell, screaming, “Gino! Gino!”
I went over to her and took her gently by the forearms. “He’s not here.”
Her eyes were wide and wet. “I know he’s not here!.. What are you doing here, Mr. Hammer?”
Then she shook her head and pushed me away, saying, “What does it matter! He’s dead! Gino is dead!”
Chapter Eleven
NoHo — the area north of Houston Street, with its quiet tree-lined streets, early 19th-century homes, and former factories with cast-iron facades — had been turning trendy for a while now. Three main arteries and small, sometimes cobblestone side streets hosted boutiques, eateries, art galleries and avant-garde theaters. Artistic types and Yuppies had discovered the neighborhood a while ago, but the tourists hadn’t gotten wise. You didn’t have to be rich — not yet anyway — to live in a loft-like pad in a former dry-goods warehouse like this one.
You could also die here.
Just ask Gino Mazzini.
He was where I’d found him, a corpse in his jockey shorts leaning against a wall of the sparsely furnished apartment, his legs akimbo, forming a V that pointed to the rest of him, his head so slumped he might have broken his neck trying to fellate himself.
But he was a casualty of something even nastier: the now-familiar cannonball blow to the chest, which had driven his blue-and-red Mets 1986 World Series t-shirt into him like a line drive with a bowling ball. He’d been killed at least three or four hours ago, because this stiff was stiff all right — rigor mortis had set in.