His pupils contracted into pinpoints, then he quickly shifted his gaze toward the windows. “Murder’s a mighty broad subject,” he said, staring out at the pigeons on the sill, twisting his wedding band around his finger. “You want to narrow that down for me a little?”
I wanted to narrow it down a lot. I wanted to come right out and ask if he was the monster who murdered Virginia Pratt- but of course I didn’t. (Contrary to what you may have heard about me, I’m not that stupid.)
“The latest report on crime in Manhattan,” I said, “shows that murder is up thirty percent. That’s an alarming increase. A lot of the people I talk to-especially young single women- say they’re shocked by the new statistics and are now scared to be out on the street after dark. They’re literally afraid for their lives. Can you offer any insight into what’s causing this sudden surge in homicidal violence? And is there anything that can be done about it?”
Hogarth turned his eyes back to me. “I’m glad you asked that question,” he said, sitting taller in his chair, assuming the warm, welcoming, paternal posture of the skilled politician. (If there had been one hundred babies in the room, he’d have begun kissing two hundred cheeks.) “It’s true, as you say, that the murder statistics have escalated sharply in recent months,” he said, “but those figures are-in some respects-deceiving.”
“Oh, really?” I jumped in, hoping to divert a long, evasive speech about the unreliability of certain charts, numbers, and calculations. “Can you be more specific, please? Which respects are you referring to?”
A flicker of annoyance crossed his handsome face. He didn’t appreciate the interruption-or my insolent inquiry. He promptly recovered, however, and resumed control of the conversation. “I’m referring to the fact that the rise in the city’s homicide rate is due to a rise in Mafia murder,” he declared, “not murder in general.”
“Mafia murder? Are you suggesting that-?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” he cut in, giving me a taste of my own intrusive medicine. “I’m stating a hard-and-fast fact. An unusually large number of recent homicides have been mob-related. Perhaps you’re not aware of it, Mrs. Turner, but a Mafia territorial war has been going on for some time now, and a good many thugs, thieves, goons, and gangsters-as well as a few innocent bystanders-have managed to get themselves killed. The figures are well documented.”
“Yes, I know about that, but-”
“And that’s why I’m conducting a citywide crackdown on organized crime,” he barreled on, ignoring my attempt to ask another question. “I’ve got my entire staff working on the problem. We’re determined to put a stop to this outbreak of violence and bring the crime bosses to their knees. Frank Costello is under investigation, and Albert Anastasia is next in line. And that’s only the beginning. Take my word for it, Mrs. Turner, next year’s murder statistics will be much lower than the worst grade you ever got on a high school algebra test.”
Not likely, I croaked to myself, remembering my nonexistent mathematical skills and admiring the DA’s incisive (need I say murderous?) wit and mental agility.
“So you can tell your single girlfriends to relax,” he continued, straightening his collar and his royal blue tie (which just happened to be a perfect match for his eyes). “The excessive murder statistics will have no measurable effect on the lives or deaths of Manhattan ’s young, unmarried women. Believe me, they have no more reason to be afraid now than they did before. They are as safe on the streets of the city-morning, noon, and after dark-as they ever were.”
“That’s a very pretty statement,” I said, “but I don’t think Virginia Pratt would agree.” (Okay, so I really am that stupid.)
“Who?” He gave me a puzzled look.
“Virginia Pratt,” I repeated. “The beautiful young secretary who was murdered last Monday night, and whose bound, gagged, and asphyxiated nude body was found buried in a pile of leaves in Central Park on Tuesday. Surely she wasn’t as safe in this city as ever before.”
“No, of course not,” Hogarth said, as quick to respond as a lizard snapping its tongue at a fly. “But that’s an isolated case, and it happened just this week, and all signs indicate that the unfortunate young woman was killed by someone she knew. Her murder wasn’t a random street crime, and it wasn’t mob-related, and it hasn’t yet been added to the city’s homicide stats. Therefore, Miss Pratt’s death, though tragic and very disturbing, has absolutely no relevance to this conversation-or to the article you’re writing. I’m surprised you even brought it up.”
Curses! Hoisted by my own petard (whatever that is). I was so annoyed I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Words came quickly, however, to Manhattan ’s nimble-minded DA. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Turner,” he said, rising from his throne and walking around his desk toward me, “I must bring this interview to an end. I have an important lunch date uptown, and I’m already five minutes late.” He hovered by the side of my chair until I stood up, relinquished my elbow to his manly grasp, and allowed him to guide (okay, prod) me toward the exit.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. District Attorney,” I said, as he opened his office door and nudged me over the threshold. “May I meet with you again soon? I have a few more questions to ask, and this article is scheduled to run in our next issue. My deadline is approaching fast.”
“You’re out of luck, Mrs. Turner. I’m booked solid for the next couple of weeks. But if anything opens up,” he said, hitting me with another radiant vote-getting smile, “I’ll have my secretary call you. Leave your number with her on your way out.”
Chapter 12
I DIDN’T GET BACK TO THE OFFICE UNTIL TWO fifteen. Pomeroy hadn’t shown up yet, and Mr. Crockett was still out to lunch. Only Mike and Mario were there, sitting like dual Dagwoods at their desks, working on tasks they should have finished days ago and looking very put out about it.
“There’s no more coffee left!” Mario whined as soon as I walked in. “Where the hell have you been? I can’t work without my java!”
“Yeah!” Mike chimed in. “I want some, too. Better make another pot right now.”
“Comin’ right up!” I chirped, glad they were carping about coffee instead of my extra-long lunch hour. If I could be cheerful and helpful, I thought, maybe they’d leave me alone for the rest of the afternoon and forget to mention my lateness to Mr. Crockett-or Pomeroy, if he ever decided to make an appearance.
I lugged the large Coffeemaster down the hall and into the ladies’ room to wash it out and fill it with fresh water, then returned to the office with the heavy, sloshing contraption propped on one hip. The minute I opened the office door and began jostling my way inside, I knew that Pomeroy had arrived. The air was filled with the sweet fumes of his Cuban pipe tobacco and the decidedly unsweet fumes of his rotten temper.
“Shut up!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Shut your ugly, fat face!” Pomeroy was standing in the back of the workroom, leaning over Mario’s desk, aiming his roar directly into the embarrassed art director’s left ear. “Don’t give me any more of your lame excuses! There’s no justification for missing a deadline. Why wasn’t I told about this?”
“You weren’t here, sir,” Mario sputtered, staring down at the unfinished layout on his desk in shame. “And Lenny was sick all day and didn’t get anything done and left early. And then he didn’t come in today at all. And it’s not my fault!” he cried, banging his fist on the desk to emphasize his point. “Paige was the one who made Lenny go home. And she gave him permission to take the day off today. She’s the one who made us miss the deadline!”