murdered."
"Maybe not."
"What? He predicted her death."
"Did he? Or did he simply tell us who he had selected for his next
victim?"
Stevenson stared at him as if he were mad. Laughing, Prine said, "Of
course Harris was in the studio with me-but perhaps not when the murder
took place. I used a source in the police department and got a copy of
the coroner's report. According to the pathologist, Edna Mowry was
murdered sometime between eleven-thirty Thursday night and one-thirty
Friday morning. Now, Graham Harris left the studio at twelve-thirty
Friday morning. He had an hour to get to Edna Mowry."
Stevenson swallowed some bourbon. "Jesus, Tony, if you're right, if you
break a story like this, ABC will give you a late-night talk show and
let you do it your way, live!"
"They might."
Stevenson finished his bourbon. "But you don't have any proof.
It's just a theory. And a pretty far-out theory at that. You can't
convict a man because he was born to poor parents. Hell, your childhood
was worse than his, and you're not a killer."
"At the moment I've got no proof," Prine said. But if it can't be
found, it can be manufactured, he thought.
Sarah Piper spent the early part of Friday afternoon packing for a
five-day trip to Las Vegas. Ernie Nolan, a men's clothing manufacturer
who had been on her special list of customers for three years, went to
Vegas every six months and took her with him. He paid her fifteen
hundred dollars for her time in bed and gave her five hundred as a
gambling stake. Even if Ernie had been a beast, which he was not, it
would have been a good vacation for her.
Beginning today, she was on a week's leave from the Rhinestone Palace;
and she was glad that she hadn't tried to squeeze in one more night's
work before catching the flight to Vegas tomorrow morning.
She'd had only two hours' sleep after returning from Edna's place, and
those two hours had been plagued by nightmares. She would need to rest
well tonight if she was going to be at the top of her form for Ernie.
As she packed, she wondered if there was something missing from her.
Heart? Normal emotions? She had cried last night, had been deeply
affected by Edna's death. But already her spirits were high again. She
was excited, pleased to be getting away from New York.
Introspection didn't give rise to any guilt. She had seen too much of
the world-too much violence, desperation, selfishness and grubbiness-to
chastise herself for being unable to sustain her grief. That was the
way people were built: forgetfulness was the hub of the wheel, the core
of the mind, the thing that kept you sane. Maybe that was not pleasant
to contemplate, but it was true.
At three o'clock, as she was locking the third suitcase, a man called.
He wanted to set up a date for that evening. She didn't know him, but
he claimed to have gotten her name from one of her regular clients.
Although he sounded quite nice-a genuine Southern gentleman with a
mellow accent-she had to turn him down.
"If you've got something else going," he said, "I can make it worth your
while to drop him for tonight."
"There's no one else. But I'm going to Vegas in the morning, and I need
my rest."
"What's your usual rate?" he asked.
"Two hundred. But-"
"I'll give you three hundred."
She hesitated.
"Four hundred.
"I'll give you the names of a couple of girls-""
"i want to spend the evening with you. I hear you're the loveliest
woman in Manhattan."
She laughed. "You'd be in for a big disappointment.
"I've made up my mind. When I've made up my mind, nothing on God's
earth can change it. Five hundred dollars."
"That's too much. If you-"
"Young lady, five hundred is peanuts.
I've made millions in the oil business. Five hundred-and I won't tie
you up all evening. I'll be there around six o'clock. We'll relax
together-then go out to dinner, You'll be home by ten, plenty of time to
rest up for Vegas."
"You don't give up easily, do you?"
"That's my trademark. I'm blessed with perseverance. Down home they
call it pure mule-headed stubbornness." Smiling, she said, "All right.
You win. Five hundred. But you promise we'll be back by ten?"
"Word of honor," he said.
"You haven't told me your name."
"Plover," he said. "Billy James Plover."
"Do I call you Billy James?"
"Just Billy."
"Who recommended me?"
"I'd rather not use his name on the phone."
"Okay. Six o'clock it is."
"Don't you forget."
"I'm looking forward to it," she said.
"So am I," Billy said.
Although Connie Davis had slept late and hadn't opened the antique shop
until after lunch, and although she'd had only one customer, it was a
good day for business. She had sold six perfectly matched
seventeenth-century Spanish chairs. Each piece was of dark oak with
bowed legs and claw feet. The arms ended in snarling demon heads,
elaborately carved gargoyles the size of oranges. The woman who
purchased the chairs had a fourteen-room apartment overlooking Fifth
Avenue and Central Park; she wanted them for the room in which she
sometimes held seances.
Later, when she was alone in the shop, Connie went to her alcove office
at the rear of the main room. She opened a can of fresh coffee,
prepared the percolator.
At the front of the room the big windows rattled noisily. Connie looked
up from the percolator to see who had come in. No one was there.
The windows were trembling from the sudden violence of the winter
weather; the wind had picked up and was gusting fiercely.
She sat down at a neatly kept Sheraton desk from the late 1780s and
dialed the number of Graham's private office phone, bypassing his
secretary. When he answered she said, "Hello, Nick."
"Hi, Nora."
"If you've made any headway with your work, let me take you to dinner
tonight. I just sold the Spanish chairs, and I feel a need to
celebrate."
"Can't do, I'm afraid. I'm going to have to work most of the night to
finish here."
"Can't the staff work a bit of overtime?" she asked. "They've done
their job. But you know how I am. I have to double-check and
triple-check everything."
"I'll come help."
"There's nothing you can help with."
"Then I'll sit in the corner and read."
"Really, Connie, you'd be bored. You go home and relax. I'll show up
sometime around one or two in the morning."
"Nothing doing. I won't get in your way, and I'll be perfectly
comfortable reading in an office chair. Nora needs her Nick tonight.
I'll bring supper."
"Well ... okay. Who am I kidding? I knew you'd come."
"A large pizza and a bottle of wine. How's that?"
"Sounds good."
"When?" she asked.
"I've been dozing over my typewriter. If I'm to get this work done
tonight, I'd better take a nap. As soon as the staff clears out for the
day, I'll lie down. Why don't you bring the pizza at seven-thirty?"
"Count on it."
"We'll have company at eight-thirty."
"Who?"
"A police detective. He wants to discuss some new evidence in the
Butcher case."
"Preduski?" she asked.
"No. One of Preduski's lieutenants. A guy named Bollinger. He called
a few minutes ago and wanted to come to the house this evening.
I told him that you and I would be working here until late."
"Well, at least he's coming after we eat," she said. "Talking about the
Butcher before dinner would spoil my appetite."
"See you at seven-thirty."
"Sleep tight, Nicky."