Felicia stood up, steadily enough, and unexpectedly proffered her hand. "I've enjoyed our little chat," she said formally. "So nice seeing you, and we must do this again very soon."
"Yes," Dora said.
Felicia turned away, then came back to put an arm across Dora's shoulders and lean close. "I call him the iceman," she whispered. "Turner. When we're getting it off, I say to him, 'The iceman cometh.' Isn't that hilarious?"
Dora nodded and watched her go, feeling horrified and helpless. An avalanche was beginning to move, and there was no way to stop it.
Chapter 34
That demented conversation with Felicia Starrett spooked her. But it wasn't only Felicia, Dora acknowledged; the entire case involved befuddled and vexatious characters, all seemingly acting from irrational motives. Their lives were so knotted, ambitions so perverse, plans so Byzantine that she despaired of sorting it all out.
But then, she admitted ruefully, her own life was hardly a model of tidiness. John Wenden's confession-and implied plea-was never totally banished from her thoughts. An analysis of the way she felt about him was proving as frustrating as untangling the Starrett mishmash. She, whose thinking had always been so ordered and linear, seemed to have been infected by the loonies who peopled this case. She had caught their confusion and was as muddled as they.
Almost for self-preservation, she resolutely decided to concentrate her attention on Solomon Guthrie's computer printout and what it might reveal about the perplexing gold trading by Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc. Now she was dealing with names, addresses, numbers, transactions: all hard data that had none of the wild emotionalism of the Starrett clan and their intimates.
She jotted a page of notes and planned a course of action.
She phoned the car rental agency used by the Company, identified herself, and gave her credit card number. She arranged for a Ford Escort to be brought to the Hotel Bedlington the next morning at 7:00 A.M.
She left wake-up call instructions at the hotel desk.
She was waiting on the sidewalk the following morning when the Escort was delivered. It was dark blue, had recently been washed, and the interior smelled of wild cherry deodorant.
She drove to LaGuardia Airport, parked, and waited twenty minutes before boarding the next Pan Am shuttle. Destination: Logan Airport, Boston.
She had a window seat on the port side of the plane and midway in the flight, above the cloud cover, she waved at the ground. The man seated next to her, reading The Wall Street Journal, looked up and asked curiously, "What are you waving at?"
"My husband," Dora said. "In Hartford."
"Oh," the man said.
She waited in line for a cab at Logan, then handed the driver the address she had written down. He read it and turned to look at her. "You sure you want to go there?"
"I'm sure," Dora said. "You can wait for me, then drive me back here."
"If we're alive," he said mournfully.
The address was in Roxbury, on a street that was mostly burned-out buildings and weed-choked lots. But there were three little stores huddled together, awaiting the wrecking ball. One was a bodega, one a candy store cum betting parlor. The third was Felix Brothers Classic Jewelry.
"This is it," the cabdriver said nervously. "If you're not back in five minutes, I'm taking off-if I still have wheels."
"I'm not going anywhere," Dora said.
She got out of the taxi and inspected the jewelry store. Ten feet wide at the most. A plate glass window half-patched with a sheet of tin. Glass so dusty and splattered she could hardly peer within. She saw a few empty display cases, a few chairs, one lying on its side. There was no use trying the door; it was behind a rusty iron grille and secured with an enormous padlock.
A man lounging nearby had watched Dora's actions with lazy interest. He was wearing camouflaged dungarees and a fake fur hat with earflaps that hung loosely.
"I beg your pardon," Dora said, "but could you tell me when the jewelry store is open."
The idler was much amused. "Cost you," he said.
Dora gave him a dollar.
"It ain't never open," the man said.
"Thank you very much," Dora said, and hastily got back in the cab.
"Thank God," the driver said, and gunned away.
She took the next shuttle back to New York. She reclaimed the Ford Escort and drove into Manhattan. She left her car for the Bedlington doorman to park and went up to her suite. She immediately called John Wenden.
"Got a minute?" she asked.
"All my life," he said. "What's up?"
"Listen to this…" she said, and related her day's activities. Then: "John, that place isn't even a hole-in-the-wall. It's a falling-down dump. It's never open. No stock and no customers. It's a great big nothing."
"So?"
"Two months ago the Starrett Fine Jewelry branch store in Boston sold Felix Brothers Classic Jewelry more than a million dollars' worth of pure gold."
"Son of a bitch," the detective said.
Chapter 35
He sat ripping the baguette apart with jerking fingers, rolling the dough into hard little balls and tossing them aside.
"Turner," Helene said, "what are you doing?"
He looked down at the mess he had made. "Jesus," he said, "I'm losing it."
He was about to say more, but then the waiter served their veal chops and angelhair pasta. The bartender brought over a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio and showed the label to Turner. He nodded, and the bottle was uncorked and poured.
"Now calm down and eat your dinner," Helene said.
Turner tried a bite of veal, then pushed his plate away. "I can't make it," he said. "You go ahead. I'll have the wine and maybe a little pasta."
Helene ate steadily, not looking up. "What's she on?" she asked.
"Ramon gave me some new stuff he's distributing. Smokable methamphetamine. Called ice. He said it would be a great high, and it is. Lasts for hours. But Ramon didn't tell me about the crash. Disaster time."
"Then cut her off," Helene advised.
"I can't. You're hooked with the first puff. The stuff is dynamite. I had her move in so I can keep an eye on her. The woman is dangerous-to herself and to me."
Helene looked up frowning. "Dangerous? You mean suicidal?"
"Suicidal, homicidal, depression, hallucinations, delusions-you name it. She can't even talk clearly."
"You've got a problem, son."
"Thanks for telling me," he said bitterly. "I thought I could keep her quietly stoned. That's a laugh. She smokes the stuff and starts climbing walls. That stupid Ramon!"
Helene ate steadily. "If he's stupid," she said, "how come he's so rich?"
"That's where you're wrong," Turner told her. "The richest men I've known have been the dumbest. It has nothing to do with intelligence. The ability to make money is a knack, like juggling or baking a souffle."
"Uh-huh," Helene said. "Aren't you going to eat your chop?"
"I have no appetite. You want it?"
"About half. Cut it for me."
Obediently, he trimmed the chop on his plate, cut slices of the white meat, and transferred them to her plate.
"Thank you," she said. "So what are you going to do?"
"I don't know," he said fretfully, and went back to rolling balls of bread dough. "I tried to cut her off, and she went wild. Absolutely wild. She threatened me. Can you imagine that? She actually threatened me."
"Threatened you how?"
"Said she'd kill me if I didn't bring her more ice. And believe me, she wasn't kidding."
"You're scared?"
"Damned right I'm scared," he said, gulping his wine. "She's totally off the wall."
"Turner, maybe you better go to Clayton or Olivia and suggest she be put away for treatment."
"And have her tell them where she's been getting the stuff? No way! That would queer everything."
Helene finished her wine, took the bottle from the ice bucket, and refilled Turner's glass and her own. "You want to close up shop and take off?" she said quietly.