Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

Dora reached out to pat the computer. "Deus ex ma-china," she said.

"Nah," said Pinchik, "it's an Apple."

She cabbed home, thoughts awhirl, wondering where her primary duty lay. Warn Felicia? Inform Olivia? Tell Clayton? Or keep her mouth shut and let those loopy people solve their own problems or strangle on their craziness. One person, she decided, who had to know was Detective John Wenden. If he and Terry Ortiz were going to brace Turner Pierce, knowing of his "secret" marriage to Helene might be of use.

Her taxi was heading north on Park Avenue, had crossed 34th Street, when it suddenly slowed. Dora craned to look ahead and saw a tangle of parked police cars, fire engines, and ambulances spilling out of a side street. A uniformed officer was directing single-lane traffic around the jam of official vehicles.

"Something happened," her cabbie said. "Cop cars and fire engines. Maybe it was a bombing. We haven't had one of those for a couple of days."

"That's nice," Dora said.

The moment she was back in her hotel suite she phoned Wenden. He wasn't in, so she left a message asking him to call her as soon as possible; it was extremely important.

Then, faced with the task of entering Gregor Pinchik's revelations in her notebook, she said aloud, "The hell with it," kicked off her shoes and got into bed, fully clothed, for a pre-noon nap. She had never done that before, and it was a treat.

But a short one. For the second time that day she was awakened from a sweet sleep by the shrilling phone.

"John," Wenden said. "What's extremely important?"

"I've got to tell-" she started.

"Wait a minute," he interrupted. "There's something I've got to tell you. I'm calling from a drugstore on Lex. I've just come from Turner Pierce's apartment in Murray Hill. He's dead as the proverbial doornail. Stabbed many, many times-and I do mean many. There goes my cozy little chat. I told you if we waited long enough everyone in this case would get whacked out."

"In Murray Hill?" Dora said. "I went by in a cab. There were fire engines."

"Yeah," he said, "that's how Pierce was found. Felicia Starrett iced him last night and then, this morning, set the place on fire. Neighbors smelled smoke and called in the alarm."

"Is Felicia alive?"

"If you can call it that. She was naked and looked like last week's corpse. And so zonked out on drugs that she couldn't do anything but dribble."

"Are you sure she killed him?"

"Red! She was still gripping the knife, so hard that we had to pry her fingers loose. They took her to Bellevue. Maybe when she gets detoxed she'll be able to tell us what happened. Listen, I've got to run."

"Wait!" Dora cried. "I didn't tell you what I called about. Turner and Helene Pierce weren't brother and sister; they were married."

"What?" he yelled. "Are you positive?"

"Absolutely. I saw a copy of their marriage license. John, do me a favor. Even if it looks certain that Felicia stabbed Turner, check out Helene's whereabouts last night. Okay?"

"Yeah," he said tensely, "I better do that. Thanks for the tip, Red. I'll get back to you later today."

"When?" she demanded.

"Look, I've got a million things to do. I don't know when I'll get a break."

"Sooner or later you've got to eat," she argued, "or you'll end up in Bellevue with Felicia. John, I'll stay in all day. You call me when you have time, stop over, and we'll grab a bite in the cocktail lounge downstairs. It'll give us a chance to compare notes."

"That makes sense," he said. "You'll hear from me."

Dora spent the afternoon scribbling in her notebook, happy that she wouldn't be making many more notes. The tangled skein was unraveling, and what she didn't know, she could guess. She even dragged out that nonsensical diagram she had drawn with the names of all the involved characters in boxes connected by straight or squiggly lines. But now the connections seemed clear to her, and infinitely sad. She wondered if all humans are born with an innate capacity to screw up their lives.

John called a little after five o'clock, said he was going to shove his job for an hour, and didn't care if the entire island of Manhattan slid into the Upper Bay while he was off duty. Dora brushed her hair and went down to the cocktail lounge. She took the table which she and Felicia Starrett had occupied during their first meeting.

But when Wenden entered, he went directly to the bar and asked for a shot of rye. He tossed it down, then ordered a bottle of beer and brought it over to Dora's table.

"You'd think I'd be used to seeing clunks, wouldn't you?" he said angrily. "I'm not. But at least I don't upchuck anymore. My God, Red, I can't tell you how bad it was. Not only the remains but also that madwoman. And the apartment-a shithouse!"

"John, you're wired," Dora said, putting a hand on his arm. "Sip your beer and try to settle down. I'll order club sandwiches. All right?"

"Whatever."

He seemed to be operating on pure adrenaline, and she wondered if he might collapse when the rush faded.

"You were right," he said, speaking rapidly and gulping his beer. "I checked with the concierge at Helene's apartment house. She left the place last night about eight o'clock and didn't return until two in the morning. The guy said she was soaked through and looked like she had been walking in the storm. I don't know what that means- do you?"

"That she was at Turner's apartment last night. Will you dust the knife handle for prints?"

"What good will that do? I told you we had to twist it out of Felicia's hand. If there were other prints on it, they'd be smeared to nothing."

"Then check cups and glasses," Dora urged. "I'm sure you'll find Helene's prints."

"So what? She'll claim they were made weeks ago during a visit."

"Then vacuum the place," Dora said desperately. "You may find some long hairs-just like the ones you found in the room where Sidney Loftus was killed."

Wenden glared at her. "Are you trying to tell me that Helene knifed Turner Pierce?"

"No," Dora said, "I don't believe that. But I do think she went there last night."

"What for?"

"To tell Felicia that she was the wife of the man Felicia hoped to marry. She knew what condition that poor woman was in and figured to push her over the edge. Helene may not have actually stabbed Turner, but she guided the knife. She wanted her husband dead."

John took a deep breath, blew it out, and slumped in his chair, suddenly slack and relaxed. "You may be right," he said quietly, "but it's not illegal for a wife to tell another woman that her lover is already hitched."

Then they were silent while their fat club sandwiches were served. John stared at his.

"I'm not sure I can handle that," he said. "My stomach is still churning."

"Try," Dora pleaded. "You need it. You look like death warmed over."

He took a small bite, chewed determinedly, and swallowed. He waited a moment, then smiled and nodded.

"I'm going to be okay," he said. "Tastes good. About those hairs found in the back room of the Church of the Holy Oneness-you're probably right about Helene being there on the murder night. I took the photographs over to that waiter at the Twenty-eighth Street restaurant, and he definitely identified Helene as being the woman Loftus was with the night he was blanked. But that's all circumstantial, Red. A waiter's ID and a couple of hairs-we'd never get a conviction out of that."

"You mean," Dora demanded hotly, "she's going to go free?"

Wenden nodded. "Unless we can come up with something more than we've got. Besides, I'm not so sure Helene did it. I still think the Lewis Starrett, Sol Guthrie, and Sid Loftus homicides were all related and connected somehow to the laundering of drug money."

Dora ignored her sandwich. "Detective Wenden," she said as calmly as she could, "you're full of you-know-what."