She wondered if she stuck to this case, to all her assignments, because of the raw human emotions they revealed. Perhaps her own personal life was so staid and commonplace that she needed to share the excitement of other people's travails, just as poor Felicia Starrett needed a periodic fix. And maybe that, after all, was why the possibility of an affair with John Wenden had not been instantly and automatically rejected. She yearned for something grand in her life, something that might shake her up, even if it left her frustrated and tormented.
She felt a terrible temptation to dare.
Chapter 43
Dora had intended to sleep late, but when the phone jangled her awake she glanced at the bedside clock and saw it was only 8:00 A.M.
"H'lo?" she said drowsily.
"Good morning, lady. Gregor Pinchik here. Listen, something came up I think you should know about. Can you come down here right away?"
She groaned. "In this weather?"
"What weather?" he said. "The sky is blue, the sun is shining, and all the avenues have been scraped."
"You can't come here, Greg?" she asked hopefully.
"Nope. There's something on the screen you've got to see."
"All right," she said. "Give me an hour."
She brushed her teeth, combed the snarls out of her hair, and pulled on sweater and tweed skirt. Shouldering her big bag, she rushed out. Remembering the parking problem on her previous visit to SoHo, she decided to leave the Escort wherever it was and take a cab downtown.
Pinchik had been right: It was a brilliant morning, crystal clear, and what snow remained was rapidly turning to slush as the sun warmed. Traffic was mercifully light, and she was seated in Pinchik's loft a little after nine o'clock. Greg provided coffee and buttered bagels, for which Dora was grateful.
"You eat and I'll talk," he said. "I got some interesting stuff. There are no secrets anymore. Privacy is obsolete- did you know that? Anyway, first of all, that lowlife you told me about, Sidney Loftus: He was involved in a lot of shady deals and used a half-dozen phony names."
"I know," Dora said. "The Company has him on Red Alert because he was running an insurance swindle. What I wanted to know was whether Loftus knew Turner and Helene Pierce in Kansas City."
"Sure he did," Pinchik said. "As a matter of fact, he steered a few clients to Pierce for his computer consulting service-for a commission, of course. One of the clients he landed for Pierce was a guy who owned a string of bars, fast-food joints, and hot-pillow motels. Now get this! It later turned out this same guy was dealing dope. After he was indicted, the KC papers called him a kingpin in the Midwest drug trade. That's the kind of riffraff Loftus and the Pierces were associating with. Nice people, huh, lady?"
"Not exactly pillars of society," she agreed. "Did you get any reports that Loftus and the Pierces were using drugs themselves?"
He shook his head. "I got nothing on that, but the stuff was easily available to them if they wanted it. Now about Helene Pierce and her history before she showed up as a hooker. She came from a little farm town in Kansas and moved to the big city after high school, hoping to become a rich and famous movie star. She had the looks, I guess, but not the talent. She did some modeling for catalogues and such, and then she drifted into the party circuit, and before long she had her own plush apartment and was on call."
Dora sighed. "Hardly a unique story."
Pinchik stared at her. "I saved the best for last. Her real name is Helene Thomson."
Dora returned his stare. "I don't understand, Greg. Her brother's name is Turner Pierce. Different fathers? Adopted? Or what?"
"Lady," he said softly, "they're not brother and sister. They're husband and wife. Turner Pierce married Helene Thomson. They're still married, as far as I know."
Dora took a deep breath. "You're absolutely sure about this, Greg?"
"I told you I know a KC hacker who's cracked city hall. Take a look at this."
He switched on one of his computers, worked the keyboard, and brought up a document on the display panel. He gestured and Dora leaned forward to look. It was a reproduction of a marriage license issued four years previously to Helene Thomson and Turner Pierce.
Dora reached out to pat the computer. "Deus ex ma-china," she said.
"Nah," said Pinchik, "it's an Apple."
She cabbed home, thoughts awhirl, wondering where her primary duty lay. Warn Felicia? Inform Olivia? Tell Clayton? Or keep her mouth shut and let those loopy people solve their own problems or strangle on their craziness. One person, she decided, who had to know was Detective John Wenden. If he and Terry Ortiz were going to brace Turner Pierce, knowing of his "secret" marriage to Helene might be of use.
Her taxi was heading north on Park Avenue, had crossed 34th Street, when it suddenly slowed. Dora craned to look ahead and saw a tangle of parked police cars, fire engines, and ambulances spilling out of a side street. A uniformed officer was directing single-lane traffic around the jam of official vehicles.
"Something happened," her cabbie said. "Cop cars and fire engines. Maybe it was a bombing. We haven't had one of those for a couple of days."
"That's nice," Dora said.
The moment she was back in her hotel suite she phoned Wenden. He wasn't in, so she left a message asking him to call her as soon as possible; it was extremely important.
Then, faced with the task of entering Gregor Pinchik's revelations in her notebook, she said aloud, "The hell with it," kicked off her shoes and got into bed, fully clothed, for a pre-noon nap. She had never done that before, and it was a treat.
But a short one. For the second time that day she was awakened from a sweet sleep by the shrilling phone.
"John," Wenden said. "What's extremely important?"
"I've got to tell-" she started.
"Wait a minute," he interrupted. "There's something I've got to tell you. I'm calling from a drugstore on Lex. I've just come from Turner Pierce's apartment in Murray Hill. He's dead as the proverbial doornail. Stabbed many, many times-and I do mean many. There goes my cozy little chat. I told you if we waited long enough everyone in this case would get whacked out."
"In Murray Hill?" Dora said. "I went by in a cab. There were fire engines."
"Yeah," he said, "that's how Pierce was found. Felicia Starrett iced him last night and then, this morning, set the place on fire. Neighbors smelled smoke and called in the alarm."
"Is Felicia alive?"
"If you can call it that. She was naked and looked like last week's corpse. And so zonked out on drugs that she couldn't do anything but dribble."
"Are you sure she killed him?"
"Red! She was still gripping the knife, so hard that we had to pry her fingers loose. They took her to Bellevue. Maybe when she gets detoxed she'll be able to tell us what happened. Listen, I've got to run."
"Wait!" Dora cried. "I didn't tell you what I called about. Turner and Helene Pierce weren't brother and sister; they were married."
"What?" he yelled. "Are you positive?"
"Absolutely. I saw a copy of their marriage license. John, do me a favor. Even if it looks certain that Felicia stabbed Turner, check out Helene's whereabouts last night. Okay?"
"Yeah," he said tensely, "I better do that. Thanks for the tip, Red. I'll get back to you later today."
"When?" she demanded.
"Look, I've got a million things to do. I don't know when I'll get a break."
"Sooner or later you've got to eat," she argued, "or you'll end up in Bellevue with Felicia. John, I'll stay in all day. You call me when you have time, stop over, and we'll grab a bite in the cocktail lounge downstairs. It'll give us a chance to compare notes."