Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

She laughed. "I didn't know you were a philosopher."

"How can you be a cop and not be a philosopher?" He lowered his head, stared at her with bleary eyes. "I lied to you, Red."

"How so?"

"I told you I wasn't going to pass out. Now I'm not so sure."

"Whatever," she said, "you're in no condition to drive. I have an extra bedroom; you can sack out in there."

"Thanks," he said.

"What time do you want to get up?"

"Never," he said. "Give me a hand, will you."

She helped him to his feet and half-supported him into the bedroom. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

"Can you undress?" she asked him.

"I can get my shoes off," he said in a mumble. "That's enough. I've slept in my clothes before."

"I never would have guessed," she said. "Want more aspirin?"

"Nope. I've had enough."

"I'd say so. I'm not going to wake you up in the morning. Sleep as long as you can. It'll do you the world of good."

"Thanks again, Red. And listen…" He tried a grin. "You don't have to lock your bedroom door."

"I know that," she said.

But she did.

Solomon Guthrie lived alone in a six-room apartment on Riverside Drive near 86th Street. The prewar building had gone co-op in 1974, and Guthrie had bought his apartment for $59,500. His wife had told him it was a lot of money- and it was, at the time. And why, she had asked, did they need so much space since their two grown sons had moved away: Jacob, an ophthalmologist, to Minneapolis, and Alan, an aerospace designer, to Los Angeles.

But Solomon didn't want to give up an apartment he loved and in which he and his wife had lived most of their married life. Besides, he said, it would be a good investment, and it turned out to be exactly that, with similar apartments in the building now selling for $750,000 to a million.

Then Hilda died in 1978, of cancer, and Solomon was alone in the six rooms. His sons, their wives and children visited at least once a year, and that was a treat. But generally he lived a solitary life. After all these years it was still a wrench to come home to an empty house, especially on dark winter nights.

Every weekday morning Guthrie left his apartment at 7:30, picked up his Times from a marble table in the lobby, and walked over to West End Avenue to get a taxi heading south. An hour later and it would be almost impossible to find an empty cab, but Solomon usually had good luck before eight o'clock.

This particular morning was cold, bleak, with a damp wind blowing off the river. He was glad he had worn his heavy overcoat. He was also wearing fur-lined gloves and lugging his old briefcase stuffed with work he had taken home the night before. One of the things he had labored over was a schedule of Christmas bonuses for Starrett employees.

Solomon arrived at the southwest corner of West End and 86th Street, stepped off the curb, looked uptown. There was a cab parked across 86th, but the off-duty light was on, and the driver appeared to be reading a newspaper. He moved farther into the street to see if any other cabs were approaching. He raised an arm when he saw one a block away, coming down West End.

But then the cab parked across 86th went into action. The off-duty light flicked off, the driver tossed his newspaper aside, and the cab came gunning across the street and pulled up in front of Solomon. He opened the back door and crawled in with some difficulty, first hoisting his briefcase and newspaper onto the seat, then twisting himself into the cramped space and turning to slam the door.

"Good morning," he said.

"Where to?" the driver said without turning around.

"The Starrett Building, please. Park Avenue between Fifty-sixth and Fifty-seventh."

He settled back and unbuttoned his overcoat. He put on his reading glasses and began to scan the front page of the Times. Then he became conscious of the cab slowing, and he looked up. Traffic lights were green as far as he could see, but his taxi was stopping between 78th and 77th streets, pulling alongside cars parked at the curb.

"Why are you stopping here?" he asked the driver.

"Another guy going south," the driver said. "You don't mind sharing, do you?"

"Yes, I mind," Guthrie said angrily. "I'm paying you full fare to take me where I want to go, and I have no desire to stop along the way to pick up-"

He was still talking when the cab stopped. A man wearing a black fur hat and short leather coat came quickly from between parked cars and jerked open the passenger door.

"Hey!" Guthrie cried. "What the hell do you think-"

But then the stranger was inside, crouching over him, the door was slammed, and the cab took off with a chirp of tires.

"What-" Guthrie started again, and then felt a sear in his abdomen, a flash of fire he couldn't understand until he looked down, saw the man stab him again. He tried to writhe away from that flaming blade, but he was pressed back into a corner, his homburg and glasses falling off as the man stabbed again and again, sliding the steel in smoothly, withdrawing, inserting it. Then he stopped.

"Make sure," the driver said, not turning.

"I'm sure," the assailant said, and pushed Guthrie's body onto the floor. Then he sat down, wiped his blade clean on Solomon's overcoat, and returned the knife to a handsome leather sheath strapped to his right shin.

The cab stopped for the light at 72nd Street. When it turned green, it went south to 71st, made a right into the dead-end street, drove slowly between parked cars to a turnaround at the western end.

The cab stopped on the curve and the two men looked about casually. There was a woman walking a Doberman farther east, but no one else was on the street.

"Let's go," the driver said.

Both men got out of the cab and closed the doors. They paused a moment to light cigarettes, then walked toward West End Avenue, not too fast, not too slow.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Still got the sniffles," John Wenden said, "but I'll live to play the violin again. Actually, I feel a helluva lot better. It was the tea and brandy that did it."

"It was a good night's sleep that did it," Dora insisted. "You were whacked-out. Want to take a hot shower?"

"You bet."

"Help yourself. There are plenty of towels. If you want to shave, you can borrow my razor. I'll even throw in a fresh blade."

"Thanks, but I'll skip. I keep an electric shaver in my office; the beard can wait till I get there. Sorry I crashed last night, Red."

"You're entitled. While you're showering I'll make us a cup of coffee. But it'll be instant and black. Okay?"

"My favorite brew," he said.

She was preparing coffee when she suddenly thought of what to buy her husband for Christmas. An espresso machine! One of those neat, shiny gadgets that make both espresso and cappuccino. Mario, a coffee maven, would be delighted.

They stood at the sink and sipped their black instant. Wenden looked at her reflectively.

"You think Father Callaway was the perp, don't you?" he said.

Dora shrugged. "I think he's the front-runner. You're going to check him out, aren't you? And the Pierces."

"Oh sure. I'll start the ball rolling as soon as I get back to my desk. What're you doing today?"

"I've got a ten o'clock appointment with Clayton at the Starrett Building. It was the only time he could fit me in."

"What do you expect to get from him?"

"I'm getting confusing signals on how the Pierces became such good friends with the Starrett family. Whether it was before or after Turner Pierce landed Starrett Fine Jewelry as a client and designed their new computer system. I'd also like to know if Father Callaway made the introduction."

He looked at her admiringly. "You're a real sherlock. You enjoy your job?"