Having reached the coffee stage of the evening (Chianti was out of the question!), Dan sat down at the kitchen table while I prepared the pot and put it on the stove to perk. (I didn’t mind making coffee for Dan at all. In fact, I liked it.) “So how was your day?” I inquired, placing cups, spoons, cream, and sugar on the table. I was dying to know if he’d heard anything about the Virginia Pratt murder, but I didn’t dare ask.
“
You’re
the one who needs to answer that question,” he replied with a knowing snort. “I’d say your day was a hell of a lot more stressful than mine.”
“Why?” I blurted, getting nervous again. Had Dan really learned what kind of day I’d had? “What on earth makes you say that?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” he teased, “but it probably has something to do with the fact that I found you flat on your back in a stupor with all your clothes bunched up under your chin . . . except for one stocking—which, by the way, is still hanging around your ankle like a soggy donut.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, finally remembering my sagging nylon. I bent over, lifted my skirt, pulled the stocking all the way up my outstretched leg, and refastened it in the snaps of my black garter belt.
Dan let out a goofy wolf whistle and gave me an exaggerated wink. But then suddenly—in the literal blink of an eye—he turned serious. Real serious. “Okay, Paige,” he said. “That’s enough foreplay. It’s confession time now. Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” I cried, widening my own eyes to innocent Little Orphan Annie proportions. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
(Okay, so I was being a tad deceitful at this point. But before you pass judgment on me, I hope you’ll reconsider my predicament: If I confessed the truth to Honest Dan, he’d be furious at me for getting involved, and we’d have a big fight, and he might walk out on me for good. And then he’d definitely take everything I told him straight to the homicide detective in charge of the case, who would then haul Sabrina in for questioning, bust up her entire operation, and surely put her in jail. And then all of her girls and some of her most important clients would be busted, too—even if they had nothing whatsoever to do with Virginia’s murder.)
But that wasn’t the worst part.
Not by a long shot.
Something
else
had occurred to me that made it even more imperative that I keep my deal with Sabrina concealed from Dan: All three of the prime suspects were profoundly rich and powerful, if you’ll recall. So rich and powerful they could easily have some control over the police! District Attorney Sam Hogarth certainly fit that bill, and publishing giant Oliver Rice Harrington carried enough weight in this town to sink it. Even Tony Corona, who was believed to have close ties to the mob, was in a position to pull some very significant strings.
So, what if the killer
was
one of these three ultrapowerful men? And what would happen to Dan if he tried to investigate or expose them in any way? He could be kicked off the force, or destroyed by the press, or dumped into the East River with an anvil tied around his neck. And then the city would lose the smartest, staunchest, most honorable protector she’s ever had, and I could lose the man I love more than life itself, and the demon who bound, gagged, and asphyxiated poor Virginia Pratt might get away with murder.
Dan pierced me with his sharp, insightful, and suddenly distrustful gaze. “Are you hiding something from me, Paige?” (I
told
you he was a good detective.)
“Of course not!” I said, changing my tone from innocent to indignant and stamping one foot on the floor. “Why are you always so suspicious of me?”
Dan laughed out loud. “Stop playacting, Paige! We both know the answer to
that
question.”
“Okay, okay!” I huffed, waving both hands in the air. “Maybe I have been a little cagey on occasion. But that was in the past, and it was always for a very good cause, so that’s no reason for you to distrust me now!” I spun away, whipped back to the stove, snatched the coffeepot off the burner, and stomped over to the table to fill our cups. I wasn’t playacting anymore. Now I was really annoyed. And scared. And desperate to make Dan believe me.
“Calm down, baby,” Dan soothed, lighting up a Camel. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I was merely concerned. I just wanted to know what got you so upset today—why you felt the need to get so drunk.”
Whew!
“Then why didn’t you just ask me about my day,” I whined, “instead of suggesting that I was hiding something and demanding that I confess?”
He laughed again. “That’s just the way I talk, Paige. It’s the language of my profession. You should be used to it by now.” He paused and took a sip of his coffee, keeping his eyes fixed, like flashlights, on my face. “Well . . . ?” he continued, stretching the word out in a long slow growl and emphasizing the question mark.
“Well what?” I snapped. I was getting tired of his stupid cat-and-mouse game.
“Quit stalling,” he said. “I’m waiting to hear why you drank yourself into a coma, and I haven’t got all night.” It was obvious from his tone that Dan was getting a trifle testy, too.
The jig was up. I plunked the pot on the stove, stumbled back to the table, and sat down to face the music, stirring cream and sugar into my coffee and racking my brain for something persuasive to say.
“There really isn’t that much to tell,” I began, deciding to stick to the truth, but not the
whole
truth. “It was deadline day at the office, so everybody was feeling extra tense. Pomeroy was acting really weird, and Mario was so frantic to get the boards done on time, he was totally out of control. To make matters worse, Lenny was so sick he couldn’t see straight.”
I took a fast swig of my coffee, burning my tongue in the process. “Lenny never should have come in to work at all,” I continued, “and when I realized how deathly ill he was, I. . . .” Blah, blah, blah, I went on, making the afternoon’s office events sound as dreadful as possible, spouting extradramatic descriptions of the violent, sweater-wrenching abuse I’d taken from Mario before hustling Lenny downstairs and thrusting him into a cab to go home.
“And after I paid for Lenny’s taxi,” I blabbered on, “I didn’t have any money left. I couldn’t even buy cigarettes! If I hadn’t found a dime in the bottom of my purse for the subway, I’d have had to walk all the way home! I tell you, Dan, by the time I got to Abby’s, I was a mess. And by the time I finished the enormous Scotch and soda she made for me, I was dead drunk. I don’t know why it hit me so hard, but it did. One minute I was sitting at Abby’s kitchen table talking about my rotten afternoon, and the next minute I was passed out on the couch in my own apartment.”
“I figured it was something like that,” Dan said.
“You did?” I said, pulse quickening in surprise. “How come?” I was delighted that he’d accepted my evasive explanation, but astonished that he’d bought it so quickly.
“The first clue was the Pall Malls,” he said, pointing to the red pack of cigarettes sitting in plain sight on the table. “You don’t smoke this brand and Abby does, so it was obvious to me that your naughty neighbor had something—maybe everything— to do with the course of the evening’s events, not to mention your inebriated condition.”
I snatched a Pall Mall out of the pack and quickly lit it with Dan’s Zippo, thanking Christ, Yahweh, and Allah—but especially
Abby
—for the heavenly cigarettes and the proof they provided.
“Then, when I noticed your open purse sitting here on the table,” Dan went on, “and saw three dollar bills stuck partly
under
the bag instead of inside it, I reasoned Abby had left the money for you, in a place where you couldn’t possibly miss it.
If,
” he added, with an irritating grin, “you ever came out of your coma.”
“Hardeeharhar,” I said, giving Dan a dirty look, then shooting a glance at the bills that were, indeed, prominently displayed on the kitchen table and anchored under one corner of my red suede clutch.
My first reaction was a huge rush of gratitude to my most generous and thoughtful best friend. Abby had left me enough money for a breakfast muffin, a soup-and-sandwich lunch, and transportation to and from work—all I’d need to get through the day tomorrow. My second reaction was a jolt of extreme shock and dismay, because partially hidden under the three dollar bills and the edge of my purse—but still visible to the naked eye— were two folded sheets of lavender stationery.
Sabrina’s list!
I shrieked to myself, wondering why the hell Abby had taken it out of my purse, and how the hell I was going to get it back in (without arousing Dan’s suspicion, I mean).
“There’s a note here, too,” Dan continued, showing off his superior skills of detection, “and judging from the purple paper, I’d say it’s from Abby. She’s probably apologizing for getting you swacked tonight, and inviting you over for cocktails tomorrow.”
Taking advantage of the sudden opportunity, I yanked the list out from under the money and opened it in front of my face, acting like it
was
a note from Abby, and pretending to read both pages.
“You’re one hundred percent right, Detective!” I said, mentally crossing my fingers behind my back. “Abby says she’s sorry she put so much Scotch in my glass and swears she’ll double the soda next time.” I quickly refolded the list and stuffed it, along with the money, into the depths of my open purse. Then I snapped the bag closed and put it on the seat of the chair next to mine, out of Dan’s sight. “She says she hated to leave me alone in such a weakened state, but she had a hot date and figured I’d be sleeping for hours.”
“Weakened?” Dan chided. “Sleeping? I’d call it drugged and senseless.” He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, downed the rest of his coffee, leaned back in his chair, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Then he raised his arms and crossed them behind his head, breathing deeply and broadening his chest. His warm, wide, wonderful, welcoming chest.
He looked so adorable (and so seductive) I forgot all about Virginia and Sabrina and the three all-powerful men on the lavender list. I stubbed out my cigarette, leapt out of my chair, scrambled around the table, threw myself down in Dan’s lap, and wrapped my arms around his strong, steady (and sometimes overly stiff) neck. Then I relaxed for the first time that night, moaning softly, burrowing my head into his shoulder, and letting my crazed, anxious, and exhausted body collapse—like a rag doll—on top of his.
Dan chuckled and pulled me close, cradling me like a baby in his virile, protective warmth. “You’re pretty wiped out, aren’t you, kid?”
“
Mmm-hmm,
” I reluctantly admitted. I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted to stay coiled up on his lap forever.
“Then I’d better go home and let you get to bed.”
“
Unnnph,
” I protested.
“It’s late,” he said.
“Not really,” I whimpered, snuggling closer and holding on for dear life.
“C’mon, Paige, get up. If you keep on this way, you’ll get me excited again and I won’t go home at all.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“No, it would be great. But you’d hate yourself in the morning.”
Rats!
Dan was right, as usual. As much as I adored him, and as much as I was longing to consummate our relationship (i.e., make mad, passionate love with him), I still believed that breaking our society’s strict edict against extramarital intercourse would lead to nothing but heartbreak and ruin.
What would I do if I got pregnant?
I’d asked myself a thousand times. Would I coerce Dan into marrying me, then spend the rest of my life wondering if he’d taken me as his wife out of duty instead of love? Or would I be courageous enough to have the baby on my own? Would I try to raise it without a father—in total disgrace and greatly impoverished circumstances—or give it up for adoption to utter strangers? Most unthinkable of all, would I have a dirty, dangerous, illegal abortion that could mark the end of my life as well as my baby’s?
None of the choices were good ones, it seemed to me.
I had gone to the Margaret Sanger clinic on 16th Street to be fitted for a diaphragm ( just in case), but I hadn’t yet used the contraband contraption. It wasn’t foolproof, I knew, and I didn’t want to take any chances. So I was determined to remain celibate (though not a virgin, since my late husband had already relieved me of that label) until I was happily remarried. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t engage in plenty of hot, convulsive (i.e., mutually satisfying) fun with Dan on the couch (as you may have noticed at the beginning of this chapter). It just meant I wouldn’t go to bed with him, or—as the Village bohemians were fond of saying—go all the way.
Not if I could help it, at any rate.
But my determination was dwindling fast.
Luckily, Dan was totally supportive of my wed-before-bed decision. As a rigorous law-abiding—not to mention law-
enforcing
—citizen, he was inclined to follow society’s rules as well as those of our criminal justice system. And after the pain and shame he’d suffered during the process of divorcing his unfaithful ex-wife, he was truly glad that I was the virtuous type. (All right, I admit it: I was a lot more cautious than virtuous. Sorry if I misled you, but what do you want from me? I had to try the halo on before I could tell it didn’t fit.)
“Cut it out, Paige!” Dan sputtered, twisting his head and yanking his earlobe out of the reach of my tongue. “You’re asking for trouble, and if I don’t get out of here quick, you’re going to get it.” He shifted his weight forward and began to stand up, forcing me out of his lap. Fortunately, my feet hit the floor before my bottom. “I’m going home before we both do something we’re sorry for,” he said, walking over to the armchair and strapping his holster back on his shoulder.
“Will I see you tomorrow night?” I asked, wanting to know his after-dark crime-fighting plans so I could safely make my own.