'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.
'When the insurance money comes in, I'm going to have a cool million. I own ten percent of Starrett Fine Jewelry, and that pays me about fifty grand a year in dividends. And when mother shuffles off, I'll be a very, very wealthy lady.'
'So?'
'I want to buy you,' she said. 'I'm proposing, you stinker. Marry me, and you'll be set for life. I'll sign any kind of a prenuptial agreement your shyster comes up with.'
He showed no sign of surprise or shock; just began to nibble on the green onion top.
'Why would you want to do that?' he asked.
'Because I'm tired of alley-catting around. I'm tired of one-night stands. I'm tired of burned-out men who are scared of making a commitment. I'm tired of living in my father's house, now my mother's. I want my own home and my own man. I'm about ten years older than you-correct?'
'More like fifteen,' he said casually.
'Swine!' she said. 'But what the hell difference does age make? I'm as young as you in bed. Right or wrong?'
'Right,' he said.
'You betcha. There's nothing you've asked me to do that I haven't done. I can keep up with you. The body's not so bad, is it?'
'The body's good,' he acknowledged.
'It should be-the money I spend on it. I may not be a centerfold, but I'm not a dried-out husk either. And you'll be getting financial security for the rest of your life. What do you say?'
He poured more vodka, and this time she lifted the drink from his fingers and took a gulp. She grimaced and handed back the glass.
'What would your family say?' he asked. 'Your mother? Clayton?'
'Screw my family,' she said wrathfully. 'I've got my own life to live. I can't keep living it the way they want me to. I'll bet you don't let Helene run your life.'
'Your mother could disown you,' he pointed out.
'Not without a helluva court fight,' Felicia said. 'If she dies and I don't get half the estate, some lawyer is going to earn mucho dinero representing me. But that's all in the future. Right now I've got enough loot so that you and I could live the lush life. Well?'
'Interesting proposition,' Turner said. 'I'll have to think about it.'
'Sure,' she said. 'Run it through your little computer and see if it doesn't make sense. Now let me prove that marrying me would be the smartest deal you ever made.'
He finished his vodka, set the empty glass on the floor. 'I have something for you,' he said. 'Want it now?'
'I thought you'd never ask,' she said. 'Where is it?'
'Top bureau drawer.'
'How much?'
'A gram.'
'You darling!' she cried.
