He looked at her, face twisted. "Would you do that? Thank you. Yes, please come with me. I'd really appreciate it. Listen, there's a bottle of Scotch in that sideboard over there, and glasses. Would you pour us a drink while I call down and have my driver bring the car around."
She poured him a stiff shot of whiskey, but none for herself. He finished on the phone and downed his drink in two gulps. Then he coughed, and his eyes began to water again.
"Let's go," he said hoarsely.
On the drive uptown he kept his head turned away from her, staring out the limousine's tinted windows at the mean streets of his city.
"How old a man was he, Mr. Starrett?"
"Sol was sixty-three."
"Married?"
"A widower. He has two grown sons, but they don't live in New York. They'll have to be notified as soon as possible. I hope we have their addresses in our personnel file."
"The police will find them," Dora assured him. "Did they say if the killer had been caught?"
"They didn't say."
"What do you suppose he was doing there-where his body was found?"
"Probably on his way to work. He lived on Eighty-sixth and Riverside Drive."
They found West 71st Street blocked by two uniformed police officers. Clayton Starrett identified himself and the limo was allowed to move slowly down to the far end of the block. There were squad cars, an ambulance, a van from the police lab, all parked in a jagged semicircle around a yellow cab with opened doors. Crime scene tape, tied to trees and iron fences, held back a small throng of gawkers.
A burly man wearing a plaid mackinaw, ID clipped to his lapel, came over to them.
"Mr. Starrett?"
Clayton nodded.
"I'm Detective Stanley Morris. I spoke to you on the phone. Thanks for helping us out. We need positive identification. This way, please."
He took Clayton firmly by the arm and started to lead him toward the cab.
"Can I come?" Dora asked.
The detective stopped, looked back at her. "Who are you?"
"Dora Conti. I'm a friend of Mr. Starrett."
"Did you know the victim?"
"No," she said.
"Then you stay here."
Left alone, she looked about and saw John Wenden leaning against the door of a squad car, talking to a uniformed officer. She moved around to his line of sight and waved her arm wildly. He spotted her and came over, face expressionless.
"What the hell are you doing here, Red?" he asked her.
"I was in Clayton's office when he got the call. I thought he should have someone with him."
"How did he take the news?"
"Total shock. And he wasn't faking. This Solomon Guth-rie-he was stabbed?"
Wenden nodded.
"Like Lewis Starrett?"
"No. From the front. And more than one wound. Several, in fact."
"Same kind of knife? An eight-inch triangular blade?"
"I doubt it. It looks more like a kind of stiletto, but we won't know for sure until the autopsy."
"Any leads?"
"Nothing worth a shit."
"What about the cab?"
"It was stolen early this morning from Broadway and Seventy-ninth. The driver parked for a minute to run into a deli to pick up a coffee and bagel. He left his motor running-the schmuck! When he came out, the cab was gone. It ended up here."
"Robbery?"
"Doesn't look like it. Guthrie's wallet and credit cards are all there. And a gold Starrett pocket watch. Nothing was touched. He was carrying a briefcase full of Starrett business papers. That's how come Clayton was called."
Dora shook her head. "I don't get it. Clayton says he was probably on his way to work. Then the driver turns in here, goes to the dead end, stops, gets out of the cab, opens the back door, stabs his passenger to death, and walks away. Do you believe it?"
"No," John said, "it doesn't fit. The victim would have plenty of time to scream or get out the other side of the cab or put up a fight. But there's no sign of a struggle. I'm betting on two perps: the driver and another guy in back with Guthrie."
"A planned homicide?"
"I'd guess so. Probably professionals. A contract killing most likely. They knew exactly what they were doing. The lab crew is vacuuming the cab now. They'll be able to tell us more. What does this do to your theory that Father Callaway offed Lewis Starrett?"
"Knocks it into left field," Dora admitted. "The chairman and principal stockholder of Starrett Fine Jewelry gets stabbed to death on East Eighty-third Street. Then the chief financial officer of Starrett gets knifed on West Seventy-first. You don't believe in coincidences, do you?"
"Hell, no. Not in this business."
"So where does that leave your official theory that Lewis Starrett's death was a random killing by a stranger?"
"Right next to yours," he said, "out in left field. It seems obvious the two homicides are connected, and Starrett Jewelry is probably the key. So now we start searching through their files for fired employees or someone who might have a grudge against the company and decided to knock off its executives to get even."
"You going to put a guard on Clayton?"
"We can't baby-sit him twenty-four hours a day. Haven't got the manpower. But we'll warn him and suggest he beef up security at his stores and hire personal bodyguards for himself, his family and top executives. He can afford it. Oh-oh, here he comes now."
Clayton Starrett, supported by Detective Stanley Morris, returned to the limousine. He was almost tottering; his face was ashen.
"I'll ride back to his office with him," Dora said, "or to his home, if that's where he wants to go. Listen, John, will you call me tonight if anything new breaks on this case?"
"I'll call you tonight even if nothing breaks," Wenden said. "Okay, Red?"
"Sure," Dora said. "I'm glad you shaved. Keep up the good work."
Chapter 15
"I'm ready," Felicia Starrett said.
"You're always ready," Turner Pierce said, and she giggled.
The bedroom of Turner's sublet in Murray Hill was like the rest of the apartment: dark with heavy oak furniture, worn oriental rugs, and drapes of tarnished brocade. On every flat surface was artfully arranged the owner's collection of porcelain figurines: shepherds, ballerinas, courtiers, elves and fairies-all in pinks and lavenders.
Few of Turner's possessions were in view: mostly scattered newspapers, magazines, and computer trade journals. A closed Compaq laptop was on the marble sideboard and, in the bedroom, a bottle of Tanqueray vodka was in an aluminum bucket of ice cubes alongside the bed. Also thrust into the bucket was a clump of baby Vidalia onions.
Felicia rose naked from the crumpled sheets, stood shakily. She put hands on her hips and drew a deep breath before heading into the bathroom.
Turner stretched to pour himself a wineglass of chilled vodka. He selected one of the onions and began to gnaw on the white bulb. Felicia came from the bathroom, tugging snarls from her hair with a wide-toothed comb. She paused to pull on Turner's shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed and watched him drink and chew his onion. He oflFered her the glass of vodka, but she shook her head.
"Not my shtick," she said, "as you well know. Where did you learn to make love like that?"
"My mother taught me," he said.
She laughed. "Not your sister?"
"No, she taught dad."
Felicia laughed again. "You bastard," she said, "you always top me. Listen, I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse."
"Oh?" he said, dropping an ice cube into his vodka.