Amanda Matetsky - Dial Me for Murder

After that, he raked his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses on his prominent nose, and got down to business.

“I asked you here to discuss a matter of some importance to us both, Mrs. Turner,” he said, eyes fastened on mine. “I know that you’re working on a story about the murders of Virginia Pratt and Jocelyn Fritz, and I want to purchase exclusive rights to that story for my newspapers and magazines, Daring Detective included. And after your report has been featured in the selected Harrington News publications, I want you to turn the story into a full-length crime novel for Harrington House Books. I am, of course, prepared to pay a large sum for your efforts, with a twenty-five percent advance due the day you sign the contracts.”

I was agog. I took a deep drag on my cigarette and exhaled slowly, through my nose, hoping the sting of the rising smoke would scare my eyeballs back into their sockets.

“So what do you say, Mrs. Turner? Does my proposal interest you?”

“Well, uh… sure,” I said, doing my best to act blasé. “But I can’t give you a commitment right now. I have to talk things over with my fiancé first.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, “the indefatigable Detective Dan Street. You must consult with him, of course. And congratulations on your engagement.”

Harrington was starting to spook me out. “How do you know so much about me?” I asked. “Are you having me tailed or something?”

He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “I run a successful news empire, Mrs. Turner. There isn’t much that escapes my notice.”

I decided to test the validity of his statement. “Are you aware that District Attorney Sam Hogarth murdered Jocelyn Fritz?”

“I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”

“And that he also tried to murder me?”

“Yes…”

“And are you willing to publish all the dirty details about the DA’s many crimes-including the fact that he had a hot and heavy relationship with your favorite call girl?”

A storm cloud fell over his face, but he remained calm and in control. “I was getting to that point, Mrs. Turner,” he said, “and these are my terms: I expect you to write the truth about Hogarth and Melody, but I want you to keep my name out of it.”

“Oh, so that’s it,” I sneered. “You’re trying to buy me off. I should have known your offer was too good to be true. Tell me, Mr. Harrington,” I said, in the most scathing tone I could summon, “are there any other special clauses in your contract I should know about?”

“Just one,” he said. “Somebody else I want you to protect.”

“And who, pray tell, is that?”

“Sabrina Stanhope.”

SO THERE I SAT, IN A CUSHY LEATHER CHAIR IN the luxurious penthouse office of the most powerful media mogul in the country (maybe even the whole world), wondering what crazy quirk of fate had determined that said mogul should want to defend the same high-class madam that I had pledged to protect. (Well, it was a pretty bizarre situation, don’t you think?) It took me a good half hour to gather my wits, ask the right questions, extract the true answers, and get to the mind-boggling bottom of things.

And here’s what it all boiled down to: Harrington had known Sabrina during her debutante days. He was twelve years her senior-too old for her, he knew-but that hadn’t stopped him from admiring her beauty and style. He took her out on a few dates, hoping she would find his maturity, keen mind, and vast wealth attractive, but she’d been more interested in the young, dark, and dangerous type. They remained friends for a while, but lost touch after he married and started his family.

Harrington didn’t hear from Sabrina again until many years later, when she called to tell him about her new call girl enterprise. He’d been shocked to learn that she’d become a madam, but after she told him about her abusive husband, and the physical, emotional, and financial damage she’d suffered at his hands, he understood her motivation. And he approved of the “respectable” way she was running her business. And since he was a man with a healthy sexual appetite, a frigid wife, and a huge discretionary income, he soon signed on as a client.

Shortly after that, Sabrina introduced him to Melody. And he became so enamored with the beautiful young call girl that he started phoning Sabrina two or three times a week to schedule appointments with her. And as a result of those regular phone conversations, Harrington and Sabrina became friends again. At first they just talked about old times, but then they began having intimate chats about their personal and business lives-sharing confidences, offering and asking for advice, listening to each other’s problems.

“And now I feel like a brother to Sabrina,” Harrington concluded. “A very close and concerned older brother. And I don’t want to see her get hurt by the sex-and-murder scandal that’s about to rock the city. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s worked very hard to protect me and her other clients from the press and police, and I want to return the favor.”

“But if you’re so close to Sabrina, why didn’t you call her after Melody was murdered?” I asked. “She was suffering a lot, and scared to death the killer might go after her other girls. She could have used some comforting and encouraging words from you, but you didn’t call even once!”

“I was too devastated to speak with anybody,” Harrington said, his massive shoulders falling into a slump. “Melody’s death hit me really hard. I was so upset that I told my family I thought I was getting sick, and then I locked myself in my study for days, swilling bourbon, eating nothing, sleeping on the couch. It was a childish and cowardly thing to do, but I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t leave my study until late Friday morning, when I finally sobered up and dragged myself back to the office. That was the day you burst in and accused me of firing you.”

“Right,” I said, looking down at my lap, suddenly feeling ashamed of my brash behavior. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss.”

“Don’t be. You had a right to be angry and hurt. Pomeroy treated you very unfairly. He thought he was helping me , of course, but still… that’s no excuse.”

“How was hurting me supposed to help you?”

Harrington gave me a sad look. “I’m not proud of that part of the story, Mrs. Turner, but here’s what happened. Pomeroy came to my home last Wednesday morning to ask me for a loan, but found me drunk and sobbing in my study. I had learned about Melody’s murder on Tuesday-the day before the news hit the papers-so I was in the depths of depression. Pomeroy asked me what was wrong, and-too weak and stupid and inebriated to know what I was doing-I blubbered out a full confession.

“And that ,” he went on, “is why Pomeroy gave the Virginia Pratt assignment to Mike Davidson instead of you. He knew that you would conduct a thorough, relentless search for the truth, and he was afraid that you’d uncover my infidelities in the process. He had you fired for the same reason. He wanted to derail any thoughts you might have about investigating the story on your own in order to save me and my family-and, by extension, his family-from the ruination of a raging sex scandal. I didn’t know about any of this at the time, of course. I was too busy wallowing in pain and self-pity and booze. As soon as I found out about it, though, I told Crockett to give you your job back.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

If Harrington noticed my sarcastic tone, he didn’t let on. He just pushed his glasses higher on his nose, raised his bushy eyebrows, and said, “Now about that contract, Mrs. Turner. May I have my lawyers draw up a draft for your approval?”