“This is my private line. No one answers it but me.”

So much for Charlotte. Better stick with Virginia.

“I guess you’re wondering why I called,” I said.

“No, I knew you would.”

“Huh?”

“I knew once you’d studied my list and given it some serious thought, you’d lose your nerve and try to back out of our deal.”

“I have not lost my nerve!” I sputtered, hoping that saying the words aloud would make them true. “And I’m not backing out of anything.” (That much was true. I’ve never been a quitter in my life, and I didn’t intend to become one now-no matter how much I wanted to turn tail and head for the hills.)

“I’m glad to hear that,” Sabrina said, with a haughty sniff. “Because you’re my only hope. You’re the only one I can trust.”

“Yes, but can I trust you?”

A long, tense silence ticked by before Sabrina spoke. “What, exactly, do you mean by that? Are you questioning my integrity?” She sounded mad.

“Not really. It’s just that I feel you’re holding something back-that you’re not telling me everything I need to know.”

Another heavy silence.

“And I don’t like being kept in the dark, Sabrina. It makes me jumpy. I don’t do my best work when I’m jumpy.” I was shocked by my stern, commanding tone. Was that really me speaking? When did I become so authoritative?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sabrina insisted. “I’ve been very open with you. I’ve given you all the pertinent facts-even those which could be most harmful to me.”

“No, I’m quite sure you haven’t,” I said, standing my ground. “You haven’t told me, for instance, how a beautiful, overprotected, unencumbered young woman from Vermont -a very sweet soul with outstanding musical talents, a decent job, and a supportive uncle-happened to become a high-priced call girl.”

I waited for a response, but Sabrina didn’t say a word.

“And I need to have a full and immediate explanation, Sabrina,” I barreled on. “Without it, my hands are tied. I need all the bread crumbs to follow the trail. I feel certain that the reason Virginia became a prostitute is directly and conclusively linked to the reason she was murdered.” (I wasn’t certain of anything, of course. I just used the word for dramatic purposes-to get a rise out of Sabrina.)

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” Sabrina said. Her tone was angry and adamant. “ Virginia joined my agency for very private, very personal reasons which had nothing at all to do with her death. Nothing whatsoever. You have my word on that.”

“I’d rather have the facts.”

Sabrina heaved a loud sigh. “I won’t say anything more on this point, Paige. Seriously. I promised Melody-or Virginia, as you seem to prefer-that I would never, under any circumstances, reveal her true motives to anyone. And I swear to God I never will.”

“Even though it could help me catch her killer?”

“But it won’t!” Sabrina shrieked, losing the last shred of her icy composure. “How can I get that into your stubborn head? Melody’s motive for becoming an escort had absolutely nothing to do with her murder. Nothing, nothing, nothing! I know this for a fact because I’m the only one who knows the whole story. Melody never confided in anyone but me.”

“Oh, really?” I said, temper and suspicions rising. “Then I guess your name will have to be added to the prime suspect list.”

This time the silence was deafening. I mashed the receiver tight to my ear, straining to pick up any word or sound, but all I could hear was a slight, almost imperceptible click, then the whooshing in and out of my own breath.

Sabrina had hung up.

Chapter 10

FOUR HOURS OF FITFUL SLEEP, A LONG, HOT shower, and a forty-five-minute subway ride later, I was back at the office brewing coffee, eating a buttered English muffin at my desk, and combing the pages of the morning newspapers for more articles about Virginia. There were new write-ups about the murder in every paper (including the ones owned by Oliver Rice Harrington) but not a single photo of the victim or scrap of new information. The reports were just sensationalized recaps- yesterday’s news rehashed with an emphasis on the more lurid aspects of the crime; they could have come straight out of Daring Detective.

As I was refolding the papers and arranging them in a neat stack for Mr. Crockett (Daily News on top, the way he liked it), the phone rang. Thinking it might be Sabrina calling to apologize for her rude behavior and divulge all her fiercely guarded secrets about Virginia, I snatched up the receiver in a hurry.

“Daring Detective,” I croaked, dispensing with my usual spiel.

“Hellohh? Hellohhhh?” The voice-not Sabrina’s-was female, nervous, and reminiscent of Gertrude Berg’s (the actress who used to play Molly Goldberg on the radio, and still does on TV).

“Yes, hello,” I said, speaking softly, trying to put the caller at ease. “This is Daring Detective magazine. How may I help you?”

“Don’t be meshuga. A magazine can’t talk.”

“You’re right, of course,” I said, smiling. “I meant to say this is the office of Daring Detective magazine.

“Oy! Are you trying to trick me? I know what’s an office, and it can’t talk, either.”

“Yes, well…” I was at a sudden loss for words.

“Enough already!” the woman exclaimed, mood swinging from nervous to nervy. “A big secret you’re keeping? I’m plotzing here! Why don’t you tell me who you really are?”

I usually don’t give my name out over the phone until I know who’s on the other end, but this time it seemed like a good idea. “My name is Paige Turner,” I said, wondering what I was letting myself in for.

“Oy, vey iz mir! Why didn’t you just say it? Paige Turner is the lady I want!”

“Well, here I am,” I said, “at your disposal. Is there something I can do for you?”

“You bet your life!” she said, adding nothing.

I was starting to feel dizzy. And more than a little curious. “May I ask who’s calling, please, and what this call is in reference to?”

“Reference, shmeference! I’m Sadie Zimmerman, and I’m calling about my son.”

Zimmerman?… son?… “Oh!” I blurted, “you’re Lenny’s mother!”

“Who else would I be?”

I didn’t have an answer for that one.

“I’m so glad you called, Mrs. Zimmerman,” I said. “I’ve been worried about Lenny. He was very sick yesterday. How is he feeling today?”

“Nisht git. Not good. That’s why I’m standing in the hall in my housedress talking on this farshtinkener phone.”

I didn’t quite get the connection. “You mean you called to tell me Lenny won’t be coming in to work today?”

“Work, shmerk. He has to stay in bed. I’m making soup.”

“Good,” I said. “That’s what Lenny needs. Please tell him I’ll take care of everything, and that he shouldn’t come back to work until-”

My words were cut short when the office entry bell jingled and Mr. Crockett tromped in. Seeing that I was on the phone, he didn’t say anything. He just looped his hat and coat on the tree, scooped the stack of newspapers up off my desk, and-snorting like a rhino and pointing urgently at the coffeepot-waddled off to his office.

“Hellohh? Hellohhhh?” Lenny’s mom repeated, sounding even more like Molly Goldberg than before. “Who’s there? Am I talking to my own ear?”

“I’m still here, Mrs. Zimmerman. Tell Lenny not to worry. Tell him that you spoke to me, and I said he should stay home until he feels better.”

“Better, shmetter. I’m keeping him home till he’s perfect.”

“Good idea,” I said, smiling again. “Tell Lenny I said to eat all his soup and get perfect soon.”

THE REST OF THE MORNING WENT AS SMOOTHLY (i.e., shakily) as my phone conversation with Sadie Zimmerman. Mike and Mario came in shortly after I hung up, making their usual stupid, sexually suggestive jokes, demanding that I serve them coffee, and generally acting like total boobs.