"My boss told me to ask you this: Did he have a mistress?"
The smile faded; the attorney stared at her stonily. "Not to my knowledge," he said.
Dora nodded and had the door open when Rushkin called, "Mrs. Conti." She turned back again. "Many years ago," the lawyer said.
She waited a long time for the down elevator and then descended alone to the street, aware of how a lonely elevator inspired introspection. In this case, her thoughts dwelt on how fortunate she was to give the impression of a dumpy hausfrau. If she had the physique and manner of a femme fatale-private eye, she doubted if Arthur Rushkin, attorney-at-law, would have revealed that his beamy smiles masked an inner grief.
She hustled back to the Bedlington, clutching her shoulder bag as if it contained the Holy Grail. Double-locked into her corporate suite, she kicked off her shoes, put on reading glasses, and started poring over the computer printout, convinced she would crack its code where two others before her (men!) had failed.
She scanned it quickly at first, trying to get an overview of what it included. It appeared to be a straightforward record of gold purchases abroad; shipments of gold by the sellers' subsidiaries in the U.S. to Starrett's Brooklyn vault; sales of bullion by Starrett to its branch stores; sales by the branches to small, independent jewelers in their areas.
Then she went over it slowly, studying it carefully. The documentation was all there in meticulous detaiclass="underline" numbers and dates of sales contracts, shipping invoices, warehouse receipts, checks, and records of electronic transmission of Starrett's funds overseas. Dora reviewed every trade, even double-checking addition, subtraction, and percentages with her pocket calculator. Everything was correct to the penny.
Suddenly, at about 9:30 P.M., she realized she was famished; nothing to eat all day but that measly tuna sandwich at lunch. She called downstairs hastily and caught the kitchen just as it was about to close for the night. She persuaded an annoyed chef to make her two chicken sandwiches on wheat toast-hold the mayo. While she awaited the arrival of room service, she brewed a pot of tea, using three bags.
And that was her dinner: sandwiches that tasted like wet cardboard and tea strong enough to strip varnish from a tabletop. As she ate, she started again on the computer printout, going slowly and methodically over every trade, looking for any evidence, however slight, of something awry. She found nothing.
By midnight her eyesight was bleary and she gave up. She took a hot shower, thinking that perhaps Solomon Guthrie had been imagining wrongdoing. And if there was something amiss, as Mike Trevalyan had suggested, she couldn't find it in Starrett's gold trades.
But she could not sleep; her brain was churning. She tried to approach the problem from a new angle. If Arthur Rushkin, his computer expert, and she had been unable to find anything wrong in the details of the printout, perhaps the corruption was implicit in the whole concept of bullion trading. Maybe there was a gross flaw, so obvious that they were all missing it, just as Mario sometimes said, "Where's the dried oregano?" when the jar was in plain view on the countertop. Then Dora would say, "If it had teeth, it'd bite you."
At 2:00 A.M. she got out of bed, turned on the lights, donned her reading glasses again. This time she flipped through the printout swiftly, trying to absorb the "big picture." She saw something. Not earthshaking. And perhaps it was innocent and could easily be explained. But it was an anomaly, and frail though it might be, it was her only hope.
She searched frantically through her shoulder bag for that folder she had picked up at Starrett Fine Jewelry the previous morning: the charge account application that also listed the addresses of Starrett's branch stores. She checked the location of the stores against the computer printout.
Then, smiling, she went back to bed and fell asleep almost instantly.
Chapter 19
"This kir is too sweet," Helene Pierce complained.
"You were born a woman," Turner said, "and so you're doomed to eternal dissatisfaction. Also, it's a kir royale. Now eat a grape."
He had frozen a bunch of white seedless grapes. They were hard as marbles, but softened on the tongue and crunched delightfully when bitten.
The Pierces were slumped languidly in overstuffed armchairs in Turner's frowsy apartment, having returned from lunch at Vito's where they had pasta primavera, a watercress salad, and shared a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Now they were sodden with food and wine, toying with the kirs and frozen grapes, both smiling at the memory of their rice-and-beans days.
"I have something to tell you," Helene said.
"And I have something to tell you," he said. "But go ahead; ladies first."
"Since when?" she said. "Anyway, Clayton asked me to marry him."
Turner's aplomb shattered. He drained his glass.
"When did this happen?" he asked hoarsely.
"A few days ago."
"Why didn't you tell me immediately?"
"No rush," she said. "He has to ask mommy's permission first."
"Sure," Turner said, "she owns the company now. He's really going to divorce Eleanor?"
"That's what he says."
"Shit!"
"My sentiments exactly," Helene said. "How are we going to handle it?"
"Before we compute that, I better tell you my news; it'll give you a hoot. Felicia wants to marry me."
They stared at each other. They wanted to laugh but couldn't.
"This family's doing splendidly," Turner said with a twisted smile. "What did Clayton offer?"
"Financial security. A prenuptial agreement on my terms."
"Pretty much what Felicia offered me. There's a lot of loot there, kiddo."
"I know."
"Damn it!" he exploded. "Things were going so great, and now this. How long can you stall Clayton?"
She shrugged. "As long as it takes him to get a divorce. If Eleanor hires a good lawyer, it could be a year. Stop biting your nails."
He took a deep breath. "It means we'll have to revise our timetable. Another year on the gravy train and that's it."
"What about Felicia?"
"I'll think of something."
"You want to cut and run right now?" she asked curiously.
He shook his head. "It took a lot of time and hard work to set up this deal. It's just beginning to pay off; I'm not walking away from it. And besides, if I split, Ramon would be a mite peeved."
"The understatement of the year," she said.
He nodded gloomily. "I'll figure out how to handle Felicia; it's Clayton I'm worried about."
"You worry too much," she told him. "Leave it to me."
"If you say so," he said doubtfully, and went into the kitchen to mix more kir royales.
Helene straightened up in her armchair, lighted a cigarette slowly. She heard him moving about, the gurgle of wine, clink of glasses. She looked toward the kitchen door, frowning.
She had caught something in his voice that disturbed her. Not panic-not yet-but there was an uncertainty she had never heard before. He was the one who had taught her self-assurance.
"Just don't give a dam'," he had instructed her. "About anything. That gives you an edge on everyone who believes in something."
And that's the way they had played their lives; amorality was their religion, and they had flourished. And as they thrived, their confidence grew. They thumbed their noses at the world and danced away laughing. But now, it seemed to her, his surety was crumbling. She imagined all the scenarios that could result from his weakness and how they would impact on her life.
He brought fresh drinks from the kitchen, and she smiled at him, thinking that if push came to shove, she might have to make a hard choice.