Chapter 8

ABOUT FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, AFTER DAN had carried me back to the couch and had his way with me (well, sort of, anyway-explanation to follow), we rebuttoned and rezipped our rumpled clothes, and returned to the kitchen.

This was our usual routine when Dan stopped by to see me after he got off work. First would come the banter-friendly or otherwise, depending on the situation; next would come the groping-Dan and I were so wildly attracted to each other it was shameful; next would come the coffee or Chianti (whichever seemed more appropriate) plus an ardent tête-à-tête at the kitchen table; and last would come a long, lingering, loving good-night kiss, or-if Dan had discovered that I was involved in another dangerous murder story investigation-a hideous fight.

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.”