Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

"Why not?"

"Because the victims-mostly banks-are too embarrassed by their idiotic carelessness to make public their losses. In most cases, even when the crook is caught, they refuse to prosecute; they don't want the publicity. They let their insurance companies cover the shortfall."

"Thanks a lot," Dora said. "That makes me feel great. Tell me something else: Is there a national list somewhere of all the computer thieves and swindlers who have been caught, even if they've never been prosecuted?"

"No, lady, I don't know of any data base that lists only computer felons. But I imagine the FBI's computerized files are programmed so they could spit out a list like that."

Dora shook her head. "The people I'm interested in aren't in the FBI files."

"Ah-ha," Pinchik said, trying to comb his tangled beard with his fingers, "now we get down to the nitty-gritty. You got people you suspect of being computer crooks?"

"It's a possibility. The NYPD has done a trace on them, and they have no priors. The Company's data base of insurance swindlers also shows nothing. I thought maybe, with your contacts, you could do a search and see if these people have ever been involved in computer hanky-panky."

"Sure, I could do that," the expert said, and then gestured around the littered loft. "But you caught me at a bad time. All that stuff in crates and boxes is my hardware, disks, files, and programs, packed up and ready to go. It'll be at least a week, maybe two, before I'm really back in business."

"I can wait," Dora said.

"Good. Meanwhile, if you give me names and descriptions, I can get started calling hackers I know on the phone. When I'm set up and functioning in my new place in SoHo, I'll be able to make it a more thorough worldwide search. How does that sound?"

"Sounds fine," Dora said. "Please keep a very accurate record of the time you spend on it and your expenses. I've got a tightwad boss."

"I meet them all the time," Pinchik said. "Now let me turn on my handy-dandy tape recorder, and you dictate everything you know about these people. Be as detailed as you can, lady; don't leave anything out."

So Dora spoke into his notebook-sized tape recorder, stating and spelling the names of Turner and Helene Pierce, mentioning their roots in Kansas City, MO, describing their physical appearance, and what little she knew of their ages, habits, Turner's occupation as computer consultant, their style of living, their accents, their connection with Starrett Fine Jewelry, their home addresses and phone numbers.

"And that's all I have," she finished.

"Enough to get me started," Gregor Pinchik said, switching off the recorder. "The names mean nothing to me, but maybe one of my contacts will make them."

"I'm staying at the Hotel Bedlington on Madison Avenue," Dora said. "Can you give me weekly reports?"

"Nope," Pinchik said. "A waste of time. If I come up with something, I'll let you know immediately. But there's no point in sending you a weekly report of failure."

"How long do you think the search will take, Mr. Pinchik?"

He considered a moment. "Give me three weeks to a month," he said. "If I haven't nailed them by then, they're clean-guaranteed. Trust me."

"I do," Dora said, rising. "Send your bills to me at the Bedlington-all right?"

"Oh sure," he said. "Those you'll get weekly. Depend on it. Nice meeting you, lady."

The decorator stepped back to the office door, turned and examined her work through narrowed eyes. "Well, Mr. Starrett," she said, "how do you like it?"

Clayton, standing alongside his new stainless steel desk, looked around the refurbished office. "That painting over the couch," he said, "shouldn't it be a bit higher?"

"No," the decorator said decisively. "You're a tall man; the painting seems low to you. But it's actually at the eye level of the average person. The proportions of the wall composition are just right, and a Warhol over a Bieder-meier lends a certain je ne sais quoi to the room."

"Yeah," he said, grinning happily, "that's exactly that I wanted-a certain je ne sais quoi. I think you did a beautiful job."

"Thank you," she said, and discreetly placed her bill, tucked into a mauve envelope, on a corner of his desk. She took a final look around. "I just adore the ambience," she breathed, and then she was gone.

Clayton thrust his hands into his pockets and strutted about the office a moment, admiring the black leather directors' chairs set at a cocktail table with a top of smoky glass. The entire office, he decided, now reflected the importance and prosperity of the occupant. As the decorator had said, the ambience was right: a wealthy ambience; good-taste ambience; up-to-date ambience.

He opened the mauve envelope, glanced at the statement, blanched, then smiled. His father, he knew, would have had apoplexy at a bill like that for redecorating an office. But times change, as Clayton well knew, and if you didn't change along with them you were left hopelessly behind.

And he had changed, was changing; he could feel it. He had lived in the shadow of his father so many years. He had been a follower, a lackey, really nothing more than a gofer. But now he was living his own life, he was doing. In the midst of his glittery office, he felt a surge that made him take a deep breath, suck in his gut, stand tall. Now he was creating-there was no other word for it.

He used his new phone, a marvelous instrument that had been coded with frequently called numbers so he had to touch only one button to call home.

"Charles?" he said. "This is Clayton Starrett. May I speak to my mother, please."

While he waited for her to come on the line, he slid into his "orthopedically correct" swivel chair that cushioned him like a womb. It was a sensual experience just to relax in that chair, enjoy its soft but firm comfort, close his eyes and drift, savoring the rewards of his creativity.

"Mother?" he said. "Clayton. Are you going to be in for a while? Good. Has Eleanor gone out? Also good. There's something important I'd like to talk to you about. I'll be home in twenty minutes or so. See you…"

He hung up briefly, then lifted the handset again and touched the button labeled H.P.

"Helene?" he said. "Clayton. Will you be in this afternoon? Oh, in about two hours. Good. I'd like to stop by for a few minutes. I won't be able to stay long; my advertising people are coming in later. Fine. See you…"

When he arrived home, Mrs. Olivia Starrett was in her flowery bedroom, seated at a spindly desk, working on correspondence. Clayton leaned down to kiss her downy cheek.

"I'll never get caught up," she said, sighing. "All the letters of condolence after father passed. And then Christmas and New Year's cards and letters. It's just too much."

"You'll answer them all," he assured her, pulling up a cushioned armchair too small for him. "You always do. Did Eleanor say when she'll be back?"

"I don't recall," his mother said vaguely. "Something about planning a dinner-dance on a cruise ship. Does that sound right, Clay?"

"Probably," he said. "I want to talk to you about Eleanor, mother. Eleanor and me."

Olivia removed her half-glasses and turned to him. "Oh dear," she said, "I do hope it's not a quarrel. You know how I dislike quarrels."

"I'm afraid it's more serious than that," Clayton said, and plunged right in. "Mother, you know that things haven't been right between Eleanor and me for several years now. Since little Ernie died, she's been a changed woman. Not the woman I married. You're intelligent and sensitive, mother; you must have realized that things weren't going well between us."

Mrs. Starrett made a fluttery gesture. "God's will be done," she said. "We must learn to accept pain and sorrow as part of the holy oneness."