Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

Dora stared at him a moment. Then: "You're sure?" she asked huskily.

He nodded. "I got the same data from two different sources, and I think it's for real. She was a hooker all right. But I don't mean she walked the streets or leaned against lampposts. My guys tell me she was more like a call girl, a high-priced call girl. She had some very important men as regular customers, and when a convention came to town, she did okay."

Dora took a deep breath. "Do you mind if I smoke?" she asked.

"Only if you give me one," Pinchik said. "I'm all out."

They lighted up and sat a few moments in silence, staring at the ceiling. "It's a wonderful world," Dora said finally.

"You can say that again," Pinchik said.

"It's a wonderful world," Dora said again, smiling. Then she lowered her gaze to stare at the grizzled man, the gadget freak who could use electronics to strip people naked. "Tell me, Greg: You're a been-around guy, what's your take on Turner Pierce?"

Pinchik regarded the glowing end of his cigarette. "I fell once. I knew it was wrong while I was doing it and, God willing, I'll never fall again. But this Pierce comes across as a natural-born outlaw. He just doesn't give a damn. Look, the guy is smart. When it comes to computers, he may even be close to a wunderkind. If he had gone straight, he might have been a zillionaire by now. But like I said, he just doesn't give a damn. No laws or rules for him. He bulls his way through life, and if someone gets hurt, that's tough shit. Excuse my language, lady."

"I've heard worse."

"Also," Pinchik said, "I think he could be very, very dangerous. Remember that."

"I'll remember," Dora promised.

Pinchik dropped his cigarette butt to the tiled floor and ground it out under his heel. "So now we've got Helene and Turner Pierce in New York. I guess that ends my job-right?"

"No," Dora said, "not yet. Will you get back to your contacts in Kansas City and see if you can find out more about Helene Pierce. Like where and when she was born, why she gave up on being a call girl to team up with her brother-anything you can find out."

"Sure, I can do that. I have a few sources in KC I haven't tapped yet." He laughed suddenly. "And one of the hackers, I know for sure, is into the city's computers. He has access to all their records."

"Why would he want to invade city hall?" Dora asked curiously.

Pinchik shrugged. "Just for the fun of it. Because it's there. The same reason people climb Mt. Everest."

"The other thing," Dora said, "is a man named Sidney Loftus. He's dead now, but he died as Father Brian Calla-way, a preacher who invented his own religion. I think he was in Kansas City at the same time as the Pierces, and I'd like to find out if they knew each other."

"Okay, let me get a tape recorder, and you give me all you've got on Sidney Loftus, including his physical description, and I'll see what I can dig up."

When Dora returned to her Ford Escort, she discovered the car parked tightly ahead had disappeared, and she had no trouble pulling out and heading uptown. She took this as a good omen: An apparently intractable problem had been solved by chance or a smiling Almighty.

"Thank you, God," she said aloud. "Now see what You can do about clearing up the Starrett mess."

When she arrived back at the Bedlington, there was a message for her at the desk: She was to call Michael Trev-alyan in Hartford as soon as possible. She went up to her suite, made herself a cup of tea and opened a fresh package of Pepperidge Farm cookies: Orange Milanos, her favorite. Then she phoned.

"You sure threw me a curveball," Trevalyan said ag-grievedly. "That Stuttgart Precious Metals, the dump on West Fifty-fourth Street, I had it looked up by a computer guy in the property and casualty department."

"And?"

"Like you said, Stuttgart leases. The lease was signed about two years ago and runs for five years with an option to renew on the same terms."

"Who owns the building and land?"

"An outfit called Spondex Realty Corporation."

"Never heard of them," Dora said. "Did you?"

"Will you just shut up for a minute," Trevalyan said wrathfully, "and let me finish. The computer whiz in property ran a trace on Spondex and found out it's owned by R. L. Jessup Investments, another corporation. Now the computer guy got interested because it began to smell. You know when there's a paper trail like that, someone's trying to cover up. Anyway, the ownership of the property on West Fifty-fourth was traced back through four corporations and finally came to rest at a holding company that owns real estate in LA and New York, a shipping line, a boutique in Palm Beach, a big coffee plantation in Colombia, a ranch in Wyoming, and God knows what else."

"What's the name of the holding company?"

"It's called Rabl Enterprises, Ltd. And this will kill you: It's registered in Luxembourg. Isn't that where Stuttgart's parent company is registered?"

"You got it, Mike," Dora said. "And it is beginning to smell. Who's the owner of Rabl Enterprises?"

"It's set up as a limited corporation. Maybe a dozen shareholders. It's not listed on any exchange. The chairman of the board, president, and chief executive officer is a guy named Ramon Schnabl. I guess that's where they got the name of the holding company: first two letters of his first name and last two letters of his last name. We've gone through all our data bases, but there's nothing on Ramon Schnabl."

"All right, Mike. Thanks for your help. I'll take it from here."

"Does that mean we'll be able to deep-six the Starrett insurance claim?"

"I don't know what it means," Dora said worriedly, "if anything."

"Well, watch your tail, kiddo. That chain of corporate ownership makes me suspect someone may be playing hardball. Don't do anything foolish."

"Why, Mike," Dora said, "you're concerned about me. How sweet!"

"Ahh, go to hell," he said gruffly, and hung up.

Dora rushed to her spiral notebook and jotted down all the names she could recall from that telephone conversation. Then she called Detective John Wenden, but he was in a meeting and not available. She left a message and went back to her notebook, scrawling a condensed version of everything she had learned from Gregor Pinchik that morning. She was still scribbling when the phone rang and she grabbed it up.

"Hiya, Red," Wenden said. "I only got a few minutes. What's happening?"

"I'll make it fast," Dora said, and told him about her visit to Stuttgart Precious Metals on West 54th Street, and how the Company had run a computer search to discover who owned the property and, after following a complex corporate trail, had come up with the name of a holding company registered in Luxembourg.

"Does the name Ramon Schnabl mean anything to you?" Dora asked.

There was no reply.

"John?" Dora said. "Are you there?"

"Listen," Wenden said, his voice suddenly urgent, "do me a favor, will you? Don't do another thing about Starrett's gold trading. Not a thing, you understand? Don't go back to that place on West Fifty-fourth. Don't ask any more questions about it. Don't even mention Starrett's gold trading to anyone until I get back to you. Okay? Will you promise to lay off until I call?"

"John, is this important?"

"Is life important? Will you promise not to make a move until you hear from me?"

"All right," Dora said faintly. "If you say so."

"I love you, Red," Wenden said.

Despite what Turner had said, Helene Pierce equated wealth with intelligence. Smart people made big money; that was a given. Now, seated in the colorless living room of Ramon Schnabl's minimalist apartment, she stared at his dark glasses and wondered what secrets those cheaters concealed. This little man in his tight, shiny white suit could pass as a Palermo pimp, but he was, she knew, a Croesus who would never be listed in the Forbes 400.