“Virginia was a wonderful person,” Sabrina said, dabbing at her mouth with a white linen napkin. “She was as bright and talented and kind as she was beautiful. All the other girls loved her—and so did I.”
The proverbial heart of gold,
I thought, wondering if every hooker had one. “You said she was your most desirable and— how shall I say?—
expensive
girl, so I guess your clients loved her, too.”
“They did indeed. She was the fair-haired favorite. Only my top clients could afford her, though, and I had a hard time arranging her schedule to satisfy their frequent, often overlapping demands.”
I swallowed the last mouthful of my soup, set the spoon on the plate, and politely inquired, “Which one of your clients was having his demands satisfied the night of the murder?” (I wasn’t being sarcastic now; I was just being curious. Insanely, obsessively, about-to-lose-my-cool curious. Could the name of that one client be the only clue needed to crack the case?)
Sabrina returned her napkin to her lap and gave me a penetrating gaze. “Before I answer your questions, Paige, I must ask you to answer mine.”
“Oh?” I said. “What questions are you referring to?” I didn’t recall being asked anything other than what kind of cocktail I wanted.
“There are several things I need to know before we can proceed,” she said. “First on the list is how much you will charge to undertake this private investigation for me. Don’t be shy. I intend to compensate you handsomely for your time, and if you succeed in identifying the murderer, I will give you a generous bonus.”
“You don’t have to pay me one dime, Sabrina. I was determined to investigate this story before I ever talked to you. Virginia died a horrendous death, and I’d like nothing better than to see the creep who killed her behind bars. I’m sure my editor will feel the same way, and I expect he’ll assign this story to me as soon as I get back to the office. So, you see, I’ll be delving into this homicide for
Daring Detective
magazine, and couldn’t possibly accept any money from you. I will, however, be very grateful for any information you can give me.”
Her penetrating gaze turned into an ugly grimace. “But that’s impossible!” she shrieked, emotions erupting like a volcano. “I can’t allow you to
write
about Virginia’s murder! That would be the worst thing that could happen.”
Hey, wait a minute! She can’t
allow
me? When did Sabrina Stanhope become my boss—or should I say my madam?
“Sorry, Sabrina, but I have a job to do. And writing about murder
is
my job. If that disturbs you, I—”
Charlotte entered the dining room with a large tray in her hands and walked over to the table to collect our soup bowls and plates. “Shall I bring in the main course now, mum?” she asked, voice soft as a spring shower.
“Yes, of course,” Sabrina snapped, so distraught she forgot to say please.
When Charlotte disappeared into the kitchen, I turned to Sabrina and said, “What’s your problem? Why are you so upset? I thought you’d be glad to hear I’ll be working on this case at no cost to you. What difference does it make who pays me? All that matters is finding the monster who killed Virginia.”
Sabrina gave me the kind of look that said,
You are, without a doubt, the stupidest woman I ever met in my life
. Then she composed herself and vocalized a more civil version of that thought:
“Are you out of your mind?” she cried. “I told you about my business—and Virginia’s leading role in my business—in the strictest confidence! If I had thought for one moment that you would expose us both in a national magazine, I never would have breathed a word about our profession. Prostitution is illegal, in case you haven’t heard.” She shot me another ferocious glance. “If news about my private enterprise gets out, I’ll lose my entire livelihood. And I’ll probably be sent to jail! And what about Virginia’s grieving family? If it’s revealed that she was a call girl, they will suffer even
more
grief, plus an intolerable amount of public shame.”
Oh,
I muttered to myself, embarrassed by my unthinking reaction.
Is being a dope the same as being stupid?
“And that’s not all,” Sabrina went on. “If the police find out that Virginia was a call girl, they will feel little or no sympathy for her. And they won’t work very hard to catch her killer. And then the psychotic beast who tied her up and stuffed turpentine-soaked cotton into her poor nose and mouth may get away with murder! Such things happen more often than you can imagine, Paige. When a prostitute is killed, the police like to think she asked for it—that she got what she deserved for being a whore—and they simply don’t bother to carry out a thorough investigation.”
“But that’s not true!” I objected. “My boyfriend is a NYPD homicide detective, and he’s the most honorable, most compassionate, most determined seeker of justice you could ever hope to—”
I stifled myself when Charlotte returned to the dining room and glided over to the table, wheeling a small chrome and glass serving cart in front of her. She put a platter of poached salmon, a bowl of mayonnaise-caper dressing, and a dish of asparagus vinaigrette on the table, then placed two silver-rimmed china plates in front of Sabrina and me. After refilling our water glasses and checking to see that we had enough bread, Charlotte asked Sabrina, “Will there be anything else, mum? Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you, Charlotte. We’ll have coffee with dessert. I’ll let you know when we’re ready.”
The minute Charlotte left the dining room, Sabrina resumed her rant against the police. “I hate to burst your bubble, Paige, but if your detective boyfriend is as noble as you say he is, he’s an out-and-out oddity.” She sat up straight as a stick and poked her chin out in defiance. “Every officer of the law
I’ve
ever known has been arrogant, dogmatic, misogynistic, and unbearably cocky—
including
those who are my clients. They are, after all—in spite of their big, shiny badges and guns—merely men. And like most men, they think a woman who
sells
her body is more of a criminal than the man who
buys
her body— and if bad things happen to her body in the bargain, she has only herself to blame. Believe me, I follow these kinds of cases carefully, and I know what I’m talking about.”
Okay, she had a point. I’d run across enough sexist, racist, and otherwise prejudiced police in my line of work to know that Sabrina’s words carried some weight. The last story I’d worked on, in fact, involved a hateful, hotheaded detective who wanted to convict an innocent man of murder just because he was homosexual. But that was an uncommon case, I believed, and by no means indicative that
all
homicide dicks were bigoted or chauvinistic. Not on your life! I’d met a lot of fine, upstanding cops in my day, and one was so fine I’d fallen in love with him.
Trying to think of a way to defend the NYPD without provoking another argument, I squared my shoulders, took a drink of water, and fished around in my muddled brain for a few convincing but noncombative points to raise.
I could have saved myself the trouble.
“That’s enough about the police!” Sabrina sputtered. “I can’t bear to talk about them anymore. It disgusts me just to
think
about them!” With an angry toss of her head, she thrust out her hand and gripped the rim of the silver salmon platter, steering it across the crisp white linen tablecloth and mooring it, like a yacht, in front of me. “Please help yourself.” It sounded more like an order than an offer.
“Thank you,” I said, although I wasn’t very hungry anymore. I took a small portion of the perfectly poached fish and placed it on my plate.
Maybe Charlotte will give me a doggie bag,
I mused.
Watching me like a hawk, Sabrina kept talking. “
Now
do you understand why I can’t let you write about Virginia’s murder?” Her fierce gray eyes were staring into my soul. “So many people would be hurt! And I don’t mean just myself and Virginia’s family. I’m worried sick about the rest of my girls. If my business is shut down, they’ll lose most, if not all, of their income. And many of them are raising young children and supporting needy relatives. And don’t think they can just go to work for another agency. I’m the only madam in the city, and I manage the only
decent
escort service in town. The others are run by men who abuse their girls and pay them next to nothing.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I said in all sincerity, “but it still doesn’t change my position. I’m a writer, for heaven’s sake! And you knew that when you called me. Whatever made you think I would investigate this murder without writing a story about it?”
Suddenly breaking eye contact, Sabrina reached for the asparagus and put three spears on her plate. She cut them into bite-size pieces, forked one segment into her mouth, and chewed it slowly. Very slowly. Then finally, after she’d stopped her merciless chewing and swallowed what was left of the mutilated morsel, she turned her attention back to me.
“You’re a widow,” she said, “so I thought you’d be more understanding. The papers said your husband was killed in Korea— that you had to turn to crime writing to support yourself—so I hoped you’d grasp the seriousness of my situation and take pity on my single working girls. You know what it’s like to be a woman alone, and how hard it is to make your own way in a man’s world.”
“Yes, but the
way
I make my own way is by
writing
.” Would she ever get my drift?
“But that is
not
a problem in this case!” she argued. “I will pay you
much
more just to investigate the murder than you would ever make by writing the story.”
I released a tired sigh. “I’m not a detective, I’m a writer.” How many times would I have to say it?
Sabrina sat up straight, took careful aim, and shot her next question—like an arrow—straight into my conscience. “What’s more important to you, Paige—helping to bring a savage killer to justice, or writing a sleazy story about him?”
Aaargh!
I groaned to myself as the arrow hit home. Justice was—and always had been—my primary objective, of course, but I couldn’t tell Sabrina that! The knowledge would give her too much power. She’d have me pinned to the wall (and signing on the dotted line) in no time.
“Both,” I said, refusing to fall into her trap.
She shrugged and gave me a crooked grin (or was it a smirk?). “Well, I’ve got news for you, Paige Turner,” she said, sounding far less polite and refined than she had earlier. “You won’t be able to accomplish either of those goals without me.”
And she called the police cocky!
“I don’t need your permission, you know.”
“No, but you
do
need my cooperation,” she said. “You’ll never get anywhere without it.”
I hated to admit it, but Sabrina was right. I simply
had
to have the name of that client—the one Virginia was supposed to have been with the night she was murdered. And I needed the names of Virginia’s other regulars, too—plus those of her closest girlfriends. I might never get to the truth without those specifics, and Sabrina was the only one who could supply them. She had me right where she wanted me—and we both knew it.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You won’t give me any further information unless I swear not to write the story?” I already knew the answer to that question, but I asked it anyway.
“That’s right,” she confirmed, forking another tiny asparagus segment into her mouth and chewing it to a pulp. Then she swallowed and said, “But you mustn’t condemn me for that, Paige. I have to protect myself and my girls and Virginia’s family. And I’m obligated to protect my clients, too. Some of them hold very important positions in government, business, and society. If their lecherous, philandering, and
illegal
activities were exposed to the world, it would mean the end of their careers. Perhaps their marriages as well.”
“But one of them could be a cold-blooded murderer!” I screeched. “How do you feel about protecting
him?
”
“Awful,” she said, with a cunning smile. “That’s why I called you.”
Chapter 5
ABOUT FIVE MINUTES LATER—AFTER I’D CAVED in and vowed that I wouldn’t write the story; after I’d sworn on my great-grandmother’s grave that I’d never breathe a word about my secret investigation to the police (Dan included)— Sabrina rang for dessert and coffee. (That’s right—she rang. She actually picked up the little silver bell next to her plate, gave it a jingle, and—presto!—Charlotte appeared with the goodies. I’d never seen anything like it, except in the movies.)
I remained silent while Charlotte served the chocolate mousse and poured the coffee, but became vocal as soon as she returned to the kitchen. “Tell me about the client who was scheduled to . . . er, see Virginia the night of the murder,” I said to Sabrina. “He’s one of your rich, important friends from the past, right? What’s his name? What kind of business is he in? Is he married? Does he have any kids? Have you spoken to him since the murder took place?” To say that I was eager for answers would be like calling the Three Stooges just a wee bit wacky.
“Before we get into that,” Sabrina said, stalling, spooning sugar into her cup, “I need to know that you understand the urgency of this operation. You must begin your investigation at once, and you must pursue every clue with the utmost intensity. There can be no delay or letup in your search. It is
imperative
that the killer be identified and apprehended immediately.” She sounded like Senator Joe McCarthy calling his Commie-hunting cronies to arms.
“Well, I wasn’t planning to go on vacation, you know.” I was getting annoyed with Sabrina’s cautionary, controlling tactics. Besides,
she
was the one who was dragging her heels, not me. How was I supposed to “pursue every clue with the utmost intensity” when she hadn’t given me any clues to pursue? How could I spring into action and check out the prime suspect if she couldn’t bring herself to tell me who he was? I scooped up a spoonful of mousse, shoveled it into my mouth, and downed the rich creamy goo in one gulp.