Chapter 38
DAN AND I WERE HONEYMOONING IN HAWAII. The sand was hot, the surf was warm, and we were making love on a deserted beach just like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in that sizzling seaside sex scene in
From Here to Eternity
. Only we weren’t wearing bathing suits. And we weren’t trying to curb our passion because now we were married and it was full steam ahead. So we were locked in a torrid embrace at the water’s edge, exulting in each other’s naked flesh, rolling around in the sun and the sand as waves of ecstasy crashed over us, and . . . well, you get the picture. We were having a pretty swell time.
So swell, in fact, that I was aware of nothing else in the whole wide, wonderful world but the sunny, surging pleasure of it all. I didn’t realize that Bleecker Street was teeming with loud, laughing, late Saturday afternoon shoppers, or that Luigi was having a big sale on littleneck clams and trout, or that Faicco’s deli had finally received its long-awaited shipment of Sicilian salami. I didn’t know that every machine in the Laundromat across the street was in use, or that rowdy NYU students were lining up at John’s Pizzeria for their first meal of the day.
And I had no idea that someone wearing a black knit cap and a brown leather jacket had sneaked through the courtyard behind my building, climbed the metal stairs to my balcony, entered my apartment through the back door, and crept—gun in hand—into the living room, where I was sleeping. It wasn’t until the intruder jabbed me in the ribs and ordered me to wake up that I opened my eyes and saw that I wasn’t in Hawaii anymore—and that the man hovering over me wasn’t Dan.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner,” the man said, standing next to the couch and staring down at my supine body with a hideous grin on his face. He was aiming a small handgun with a big silencer at the center of my chest. “Have a nice nap?”
I didn’t recognize him at first. With the tight black cap pulled down past his cheeks and over his eyebrows, and his features twisted in an ugly smirk, he looked like an evil, earless version of Batman. But when he yanked off the cap and threw it on the floor—thereby revealing his thick crop of wavy silver-gray hair—I came to the sudden but not shocking realization that the grinning gunman was Sam Hogarth.
I’ll never know how I did it, but I managed to keep my panic-stricken scream to myself. “And a good afternoon to you, Mister District Attorney,” I said, fighting to keep my tone light, struggling to hide the fact that my insides were convulsing in terror. (I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching me squirm.) Rising up on my elbows, I forced myself to smile and said, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” I hoped my lips weren’t trembling.
“You think you’re pretty cool, don’t you?” he snorted, blue eyes blazing. “You think you’re God’s gift to Manhattan—a fearless female crime reporter with the DA’s balls on a fucking string. Ha! I bet you don’t feel so fearless now! And I doubt if you’ll look so cool when I put a bullet between your breasts.”
He was getting turned on. I could see it in his greedy eyes and in the way he was standing (legs apart, pelvis thrust forward). Remembering what Jocelyn had said about Hogarth— that he was a closet rapist; that he liked to rip off her clothes and take her against her will—I grew doubly alarmed. Was he planning to rape me as well as murder me?
“I don’t understand,” I said, slowly, carefully, cagily (and, I’m surprised to say, successfully) inching myself up to a sitting position. “What’s going on here? How did you get into my apartment?” I hugged my arms to my waist and slumped forward, hoping to make my breasts a less interesting and accessible target.
“I’m the DA, honey,” he crowed. “This city belongs to me. I can open any door I want.” He took a ring of master keys out of his pocket and proudly jangled them in front of my face. “I didn’t need a key today, though, since you were kind enough to leave your back door open.”
Great.
I must have forgotten to lock the door after going onto the balcony for a breath of fishy air. I was the biggest idiot who ever walked the earth. If Hogarth didn’t shoot me soon, I was going to grab his gun and do it myself.
“Okay, that explains
how
you got in,” I said, “but it doesn’t explain
why
you wanted to get in. So will you please tell me why you’re here and why you’re pointing that ugly gun at me?”
“Don’t play games with me, doll,” he said. “You know exactly why I’m here.”
“No, I don’t!” I cried, sensing that the time for acting cool was over. I dropped my daring detective routine and let my scaredy-cat emotions out of their cage. “I really don’t know what’s going on! Please tell me what’s wrong,” I begged. “What have I done? If you’re going to kill me, couldn’t you at least do me the favor of explaining why?” If I could get him to start talking, I reasoned, maybe he wouldn’t start shooting.
Hogarth’s grin grew even wider. “So the notorious Paige Turner isn’t as smart or brave as people think she is,” he said, gloating, grunting, glaring at me in triumph. He stepped away from the couch, and lowered the gun to his side. “You want to know why you’re going to die, pussy? Then I’ll tell you. It’s because you’re a devious, conniving slut, that’s why! You wormed your way into my office under false pretenses, and you asked a lot of disrespectful questions, and you wouldn’t stop prying into matters that didn’t concern you. I had your number from the start. Then, when Candy admitted she told you about our secret sex arrangement, and that you would back her up if she decided to go to the papers with the story, I knew both of you had to die.”
“But I never said I would talk to the press! When did Candy tell you that?”
“At approximately three fifteen this morning,” he said, still grinning. “Right before I drowned her.”
“
You
drowned her?” I sputtered, acting as astonished and confused as Lucy always does when she’s caught with her bloomers down. “I thought Tony Corona killed her! I found his St. Christopher medal at the scene and I—”
“Yeah, that was a pretty slick trick,” Hogarth said, eyes glistening with pride. “I should get a medal for that one.”
His ego was showing, and it was time for me to stroke it. “You mean
you
dropped the medal in the pool?” I fawned, batting my lashes, acting impressed, hoping to keep him talking forever. “That really
was
a slick trick! Incredibly clever. But how did you get it off Corona’s neck?”
“Ha! That was the easy part. The stupid bastard took it off for me. While I was talking to Tony in his dressing room last night, he was pacing around, nervously pulling on the chain, and the clasp broke. He yanked the medal off and slapped it down on the makeup table. I stuck it in my pocket on the way out.”
“You are one smooth operator,” I wheedled, buttering his ego on both sides. “A man of true ingenuity! I never, ever would have guessed that you—”
“Oh, can the crap!” Hogarth snapped. “You think you can fool me with your phony flappy-eyed performance? When are you going to get the fucking message? I’m the goddamn district attorney, dollface. I have a lot more connections and inside informers than you or your stupid boyfriend will ever have! And according to Detective Dominick Mudd of the Nineteenth Precinct, you never even mentioned Corona’s name when he questioned you at the Barbizon. So you were either lying to him, or you’re lying to me.”
“I was lying to him!” I croaked, telling the God’s honest truth. “You’ve got to believe me! I thought Corona killed Melody
and
Candy.”
“Maybe you did, and maybe you didn’t,” he sneered, “but that hardly matters now, does it, pussy? Detective Casey O’Connor of Midtown North tells me your big bad boyfriend arrested Tony Corona for Melody’s murder last night, and that he brought him into the station for booking around three this morning—which we both know was the approximate time of Candy’s death. So you knew damn well—even
before
I admitted it to you—that I killed Candy. And I knew that you knew. And that’s why I’m here, you stupid bitch—and that’s why you’re going to die. Your hotshot boyfriend will be next.”
“But killing us won’t keep the truth from coming out!” I cried, even though I knew it probably would. (I hadn’t even had a chance to tell Sabrina and Abby the whole story!) “Dan and I aren’t the only ones who know what you did,” I blustered on, “and if we’re found dead, you’ll be convicted of three murders instead of one!” (I didn’t believe a word I said, but I’ll defend to the death my right to say it.)
“Not a chance, dollface,” Hogarth declared. “I’ll never be convicted, or even accused, of a goddamn thing. All three murders will be laid at Frank Costello’s door. I’ll make sure of that. There’s a big mob war going on, in case you haven’t heard. And with Tony Corona under indictment for a related homicide, it’ll be a cinch to link three more killings to Costello’s murder squad.”
“You’re out of your mind!” I screeched. “Dan’s with the police commissioner right now, planning a full-scale investigation into your connections with Sabrina Stanhope and Melody and Candy. And my boss, Oliver Rice Harrington, is standing by to print the facts in all his newspapers and magazines! If you kill me or Dan, you’ll go straight to the chair.”
Oh, who was I trying to kid? The goddamn district attorney, that’s who. I was up against Goliath without a stone or a sling. I might as well paint a bull’s-eye on my bosom and lie back down on the couch.
Hogarth had the same idea. “Shut up!” he said, leering at me and aiming his gun at my chest. “I’m sick of listening to your whiny voice. And I’ve heard enough of your absurd and boring lies. I’m in the mood for something more stimulating. So take off all your clothes, sweetheart, and lie down on your back. I want to see you helpless and naked before I shoot you to smithereens.”
Chapter 39
THE JIG WAS UP. I HAD TWO CHOICES. I COULD strip down and try to lure Hogarth into raping me instead of killing me. Or I could shriek like a banshee, fly off the couch in a fury, kick him in the groin, and then hurl myself through the living room window—hopefully
before
he plugged me full of holes. In my freaked-out, stressed-out, burned-out condition, however, neither option was viable. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe. All I could do was squeeze my eyes shut and pray for a miracle . . . or, at the very least, a speedy death.
Since my eyes were closed so tightly, I didn’t see what happened next. And since the sounds I heard were so odd and unexpected, they didn’t quite penetrate my addled consciousness. I was braced for the silenced thwack of a bullet hitting flesh and bone (
my
flesh and bone), but what I heard was something entirely different. It was a crazy scraping, skritch-scratching sound that took off from the rear of the kitchen, charged into the living room, and then changed into a ferocious growl.
My eyes flew open and searched for the source of the growl, which I located on the floor at Hogarth’s feet. But when I caught my first glimpse of the savage, long-nosed, short-haired growler, I thought I was dreaming again.
It was Otto! Jimmy’s brave and beloved little dachshund, Otto! The dog had dashed through the open kitchen door, scrambled into the living room, and seized one of Hogarth’s pants cuffs in his teeth. And now—judging from his fierce and tenacious gnashing, snarling, gnawing, and twisting—Otto was determined to keep his jaws clenched on that cuff forever. Hogarth was kicking and cursing and trying to shake the little dog loose, but his frantic efforts were having no effect at all. Otto was relentless.
And Hogarth was so distracted, he was no longer pointing the gun at me!
I felt a sweet spurt of relief—but it didn’t last more than a split second. Before I could gasp or even blink, Hogarth spun around, straightened his arm down toward the floor, and aimed the gun at Otto.
“Nooooooo!” I wailed, jumping off the couch and lunging forward, hoping to knock Hogarth off balance and make him miss his mark. But before I could reach him, the gun went off. And a horrible, gut-wrenching howl pierced the air. And a series of pitiful whimpers filled my ears. And my legs buckled, and my soul crumbled, and I fell to the floor in a heartbroken heap. And then I just lay there, coiled in the fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably and praying that Hogarth would kill me immediately—spare me the agony of seeing my poor little canine savior suffer and die.
Only half of my prayer was answered. Fortunately, it was the latter half. As I was lying there waiting to meet my maker, a cold, wet nose nuzzled my neck! And a warm, wet tongue licked my face! And before I knew what was happening, Otto was snuggling up next to me on the floor, curling his completely intact little sausage-shaped body into the curve of my stomach and snuffling contentedly.
It took me a few seconds to realize that the horrible howls and whimpers of pain had come from Hogarth, not Otto (thank God). But it wasn’t until I sat up and looked around, and saw all the blood in the middle of the rug, that I understood the cause of his tortured cries. Hogarth had—most effectively and deservedly (and, for me, quite conveniently)—shot himself in the foot!
I would have laughed out loud at the crazy, felicitous justice of it all, but I didn’t dare. Hogarth was still standing strong (on one leg, to be sure, but with the gun still gripped in his steady hand, one leg was one too many). Braced against the bookcase for balance and holding his mangled, bloodied foot up off the floor, the homicidal DA had stopped whimpering. Now he was actually grinning again. Eyes gleaming and teeth flashing, he raised his arm out straight, pointed the silenced pistol at my face, and said, “Bye-bye, Paige Turner. It’s been a pleasure doing business with—”
Hogarth never finished his sentence or fired the gun. He got his skull cracked open instead—by a very handsome, bearded beatnik poet (and dog owner) swinging a two-ton cast-iron skillet dripping with bacon grease. One solid
whomp
and Hogarth went down, crashing to the floor like a huge duffel bag full of dirt. His gun skidded under the couch and his face landed squarely in a puddle of blood flecked with bits of bone and shoe leather. He wasn’t grinning anymore.