Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

"Oh hell, yes."

"What does your husband think of your being a gumshoe?"

She flipped a hand back and forth. "He doesn't mind what I do. What he doesn't like is my being away from home so much. It means he has to cook for only one- which isn't much fun. Mario is a super chef. Do you prepare your own meals?"

"Not exactly," Wenden said. "I have a cook-Mrs. Paul. Listen, Red, I've got to run. Thanks again for the brandy. And the shower. And the coffee. I owe you."

"Just remember you said that," Dora told him. "I may call in my chits."

"Anytime," the detective assured her.

She let him kiss her cheek before he left.

She spent a few minutes straightening up the suite, not accustomed to maid service. Then she went out into a raw morning. It was too cold to hike all the way, so she took a Fifth Avenue bus south and then walked east to Park Avenue, stopping frequently to look in the shop windows on 57th Street.

She was on time for her appointment but had to wait awhile in a cramped reception room. Most of the magazines on the cocktail table were jewelry trade journals, but there was one copy of Town h Country. Leafing through it, Dora spotted a full-page Starrett ad. It showed a magnificent necklace of alternating white and yellow diamonds draped across a woman's bare breasts (the nipples hidden). The only print on the page, in a small, discreet script, read: Starrett Fine Jewelry. Simply Superior.

A secretary with an English accent ushered her into Clayton Starrett's office at about 10:15. He bounced up from behind his desk, beaming and apparently chocka-block with early-morning energy.

"Good morning!" he caroled, shaking her hand enthusiastically. "Sorry to keep you waiting. The Christmas season, you know-our busiest time. Here, let me take your coat. Now you sit right here. Dreadful office, isn't it? So dark and gloomy. I'm having the whole place done over. Bright colors. Much livelier. Well, I hope you've brought me good news about the insurance."

"Not quite yet, Mr. Starrett," Dora said with a set smile, "but we're getting there. We'd like the mystery of your father's death cleared up before the claim is approved. As I'm sure you would."

"Of course, of course," he cried. "Anything I can do to help. Anything at all."

He seemed in an antic mood, and she decided to take advantage of it. "Just a few little questions. Really extraneous to my investigation, but I like to dot the»*s and cross the t's. Could you tell me how you and your family met Helene and Turner Pierce?"

He was startled by the question, then sat back, tapped fingertips together. "How did we meet the Pierces? Now let me see… I think it was a few years ago. Yes, at least two. Father Callaway was over for dinner and I happened to mention something about the inadequacy of our computers. The Father said he had just the man for me, a management consultant who specialized in designing and upgrading computer systems. So I said to send him around. He was Turner Pierce, and he's done a marvelous job for us. And through Turner I met his sister Helene. A charming couple. They came over for dinner several times, and we all became good friends."

"I see," Dora said. "And did you investigate Turner's credentials before you-"

But then the phone on Starrett's desk jangled, and he looked at it, frowning.

"Damn it," he said. "I told my secretary to hold all my calls. Excuse me a moment, please."

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and picked up the phone. "Yes? Who? All right, put him on." He looked up at Dora, puzzled. "A police officer," he said. Then: "Hello? Yes, this is Clayton Starrett. That's correct. What? What? Oh my God! When did this happen? Oh God, how awful! Yes, of course. I understand. I'll be there as soon as possible."

He hung up. He stared blankly at Dora, and she rose to her feet, fearing he might collapse. He was stricken, face broken and sagging, eyes wide and staring, lips trembling.

"The police," he said, voice cracking. "They say Solomon Guthrie has been killed. Murdered."

"Who?"

"Sol Guthrie, our chief financial officer. He's been with Starrett forty years. A good friend of my father."

He began to blink rapidly, but it didn't work; tears overflowed. He wiped them away angrily with the back of his hand.

"How was he killed?" Dora asked.

"Stabbed to death. Like father. Oh, this lousy, rotten city! I hate it, just hate it!"

"It's not only New York, Mr. Starrett. It's happening everywhere."

He nodded, stood up, took a deep breath. "I've got to go. The police asked me to come to, uh, where Sol was found. They want me to, uh, identify the body. West End Avenue and Seventy-first Street. Yes, that's what he said."

Dora moved behind the desk to put a hand on his arm. "Mr. Starrett, would you like me to go with you? Perhaps it would be a little easier if you weren't alone."

He looked at her, face twisted. "Would you do that? Thank you. Yes, please come with me. I'd really appreciate it. Listen, there's a bottle of Scotch in that sideboard over there, and glasses. Would you pour us a drink while I call down and have my driver bring the car around."

She poured him a stiff shot of whiskey, but none for herself. He finished on the phone and downed his drink in two gulps. Then he coughed, and his eyes began to water again.

"Let's go," he said hoarsely.

On the drive uptown he kept his head turned away from her, staring out the limousine's tinted windows at the mean streets of his city.

"How old a man was he, Mr. Starrett?"

"Sol was sixty-three."

"Married?"

"A widower. He has two grown sons, but they don't live in New York. They'll have to be notified as soon as possible. I hope we have their addresses in our personnel file."

"The police will find them," Dora assured him. "Did they say if the killer had been caught?"

"They didn't say."

"What do you suppose he was doing there-where his body was found?"

"Probably on his way to work. He lived on Eighty-sixth and Riverside Drive."

They found West 71st Street blocked by two uniformed police officers. Clayton Starrett identified himself and the limo was allowed to move slowly down to the far end of the block. There were squad cars, an ambulance, a van from the police lab, all parked in a jagged semicircle around a yellow cab with opened doors. Crime scene tape, tied to trees and iron fences, held back a small throng of gawkers.

A burly man wearing a plaid mackinaw, ID clipped to his lapel, came over to them.

"Mr. Starrett?"

Clayton nodded.

"I'm Detective Stanley Morris. I spoke to you on the phone. Thanks for helping us out. We need positive identification. This way, please."

He took Clayton firmly by the arm and started to lead him toward the cab.

"Can I come?" Dora asked.

The detective stopped, looked back at her. "Who are you?"

"Dora Conti. I'm a friend of Mr. Starrett."

"Did you know the victim?"

"No," she said.

"Then you stay here."

Left alone, she looked about and saw John Wenden leaning against the door of a squad car, talking to a uniformed officer. She moved around to his line of sight and waved her arm wildly. He spotted her and came over, face expressionless.

"What the hell are you doing here, Red?" he asked her.

"I was in Clayton's office when he got the call. I thought he should have someone with him."

"How did he take the news?"

"Total shock. And he wasn't faking. This Solomon Guth-rie-he was stabbed?"

Wenden nodded.

"Like Lewis Starrett?"

"No. From the front. And more than one wound. Several, in fact."

"Same kind of knife? An eight-inch triangular blade?"

"I doubt it. It looks more like a kind of stiletto, but we won't know for sure until the autopsy."

"Any leads?"

"Nothing worth a shit."