Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

It was two o'clock before Wenden finally showed up, looking as exhausted and disheveled as ever. He stripped off a tatty mackinaw and flopped onto the couch. "I'm bushed," he announced, "and the day's hardly started."

Wordlessly, Dora brought him a cold can of Bud and popped it for him. He drank almost half without stopping, then took a deep breath.

"Thanks, Red. You're looking mighty perky today."

"I don't feel perky," she said. "What happened?"

"He was stabbed four or five times. Chest, stomach, ribs, abdomen. Then, for good measure, his throat was slit. Someone didn't much like the guy. The place was a butcher shop."

"You think it was one of those dopers or derelicts his church feeds down there?"

"No," the detective said, and stirred uncomfortably. "He was lying naked, faceup on his bed. And he was tied up."

"So he couldn't fight?"

Wenden stared at her. "He was spread-eagled. Ankles and wrists tied to the bedposts with silk scarves. Slipknots. He could have pulled loose. It was a sex scene, Red."

She looked at him, expressionless.

"A lot of guys go for that bondage stuff," John said, shrugging. "I've seen kinkier things than that."

"You think he was gay and picked up some rough trade?"

"That was our first thought, but now we're not so sure. It may have been set up to look that way. The crime scene guys are still working, vacuuming the whole joint. We'll know more when we get their report. Hey, I'm hungry. You promised me a sandwich."

"I'm sorry, John. I got so interested in what you were saying, I forgot. The sandwiches are already made. Salami on rye with hot mustard. And kosher dills."

"Oh yeah," he said, "I can go for that."

She brought out a platter of sandwiches covered with a damp napkin, and the pickles.

"You're not drinking?" he asked her.

"Maybe a diet cola."

"Will you stop it?" he said, almost angrily. "You've got this complex about being too fat."

"It's not a complex; I know I am."

"I don't think so," he said, and began to wolf down one of the thick salami sandwiches.

"John," Dora said, nibbling, "how do you figure this connects with the Starrett and Guthrie homicides?"

"I don't know that it does," he said, then looked up at her. "Do you?"

"Not really," she confessed. "But knives were used in all three."

"Different knives," he told her. "I can't say for sure until the ME does his thing, but I'd guess that the blade used on Callaway was different from the chefs knife that killed Starrett and the stiletto that finished Guthrie. A lot of shivs in this town, kiddo. The weapon of choice. They don't make noise."

"But all three victims were connected," she argued. "They knew each other. All were part of the Starrett circle."

He started on a second sandwich. "It could be a serial killer who just happened to pick three targets who were acquainted. I don't believe that for a minute. Or it could be someone with a grudge against the Starrett family and their friends and associates. So he's picking them off one by one."

"Have you put guards on the Starrett apartment?" she asked worriedly.

"Of course. But you know as well as I do how much good that will do. A determined killer can always find a way. And sooner or later, the guards will have to be withdrawn."

"So you do think the same person, or persons, is responsible for all three murders?"

"It's a possibility," he admitted. "Is that what you think?"

"To tell you the truth," she said, "I don't know what the hell is going on."

"You and me both," John said, and sat back, sighing. "That hit the spot. This is probably the only solid food I'll have all day."

"Take the leftover sandwiches with you," she said. "I insist."

"You'll get no argument from me," he said with a sheepish grin. "I can use the calories. Listen, after I leave here, I'm going back to Twentieth Street. Callaway's murder wasn't my squeal, but I want to hang around the edges and see if the guys running it come up with anything."

"Like what?"

"They'll check all the trash baskets, garbage cans, and catch basins in the area to see if they can find the knife. And they'll brace all the neighborhood stores, bars, and restaurants-flashing a photo of the dear, departed Father-to ask if he was in last night, and if so, was he with someone."

"John, that'll take days."

"At least," he agreed. "Maybe weeks. But it's got to be done. Hey, you look sad. What's wrong, Red?"

"I am sad," she said. "You know about what? I'm sad about Sidney Loftus, aka Father Brian Callaway. I know he was a swindler and con man. I know he was taking Olivia Starrett and other religious saps for every cent he could grab. He was bad. But I still feel sorry for him, dying that way."

"That's a luxury I can't afford," John said. "Feeling sorry. I let myself feel and I'm no good to the Department."

"I don't believe that."

"Believe it," he insisted. "I'm like a surgeon. He goes to cut out a cancerous tumor, he can't feel sorry for the patient; it would interfere with his job. All he's interested in is if he's getting out the entire malignancy. He's got to think of the person under his knife as a thing. Meat. He can't be distracted by feeling sad or feeling sorry."

"Is that the way you think of people-as things?"

"Only the bad ones. Sid Loftus was a thing, so I can't feel anything toward him. I don't think of you as a thing. You know how I feel about you."

"How?" she challenged.

"All the time," he said, and she laughed.

"You're a bulldog, you are," she said.

"It sounds like a line, doesn't it?" Wenden said. "It's not. It's a very, very serious pitch. I think it would make us both happy. All right, so it would be a temporary happiness. Nothing heavy, nothing eternal. Just a great rush that doesn't hurt anyone. Is that so bad?"

"You don't know," she objected. "That it wouldn't hurt anyone. You can't predict."

"I'm willing to take the risk," he said. "Are you?"

She was silent.

"Think about it," he entreated.

"All right," Dora said, "I will."

He said his name was Ramon Schnabl, and no one questioned it or even considered inquiring about his antecedents. He was a serious man, and the few people who had heard him laugh wished they hadn't. He was reputed to be enormously wealthy which, considering the nature of his business, was likely.

He was an extremely short, slender man whose suits were tailored in Rome and his shoes, with an invisible build-up, were the creation of a London cobbler. Everything he wore seemed tiny, tight, and shiny, and it was said that the toilet seats in his Central Park South apartment were custom-made as he might fall through a conventional design.

He was not an albino, exactly, for his eyes were dark and there was a faint flush to his thin cheeks. But he was undeniably pale, hair silver-white, skin milky, and even his knuckles translucent. He favored platinum jewelry and double-breasted white suits that accented his pallidness. He also wore, indoors and out, deeply tinted glasses as if he could not endure bright light or garish colors.

Turner Pierce thought him a dangerous man, quite possibly psychotic. But Helene thought him a fascinating character. What attracted her, she said, was the contradiction between his diminutive size and the menace he projected. Ramon never threatened, but associates were always aware that the power to hurt was there.

His apartment was as colorless as the man himself. The living room had blank white walls, a floor of black and white tiles set in a checkerboard pattern, black leather furniture with stainless steel frames. Over the cold white marble fireplace was the room's sole decorative touch: the bleached skull of an oryx.

Ramon and Turner sat facing each other in matching clunky armchairs. The host had provided glasses of chilled Evian water. He was both a teetotaler and rigidly anti-smoking. At the moment, his guest was wishing fervently for a cigarette and tumbler of iced Absolut.