Plus, I wanted to get a head start on my story.

Giving my wig-matted hair a quick brush-out, I snatched the soda pop and cigarettes off the dresser and took them into the tiny spare bedroom I had turned into an office. I switched on the gooseneck lamp, sat down at my battered wood desk, and tuned my little white plastic radio to a popular all-night station (The Platters were singing “Only You”). Then I rolled two pieces of paper and a carbon into my baby blue Royal and began typing like a madwoman, making notes on everything that had happened to me since Wednesday morning (just two and a half days ago!), when I first read the reports of Virginia’s death and received the fateful phone call from Sabrina inviting me to lunch.

One empty Dr. Pepper bottle and an ashtray full of burned-out L &M filter tips later, I had produced a seventeen-page list of notes for my story-plus a carbon copy for Dan, which I figured he could use as a reference in his soon-to-be expanded investigation. I had also typed up a quick prologue to the based-on-fact “novel” I was determined to write about the murder, and-hurrying to get the details down while they were still fresh in my mind-written a few pages of chapter One. (To say that I was charged up would be like calling Jerry Lewis perky.)

It was three-fifteen in the morning. Nat “King” Cole was singing “When I Fall in Love” on the radio, and I was still aching to talk to Jocelyn, who, I figured, would be home from her date by now. Seizing my cigarettes and the carbon copy of my story notes, I turned off the lamp and the radio, bounded out of my office, and headed downstairs for the phone. Tossing the notes on the kitchen table as I scurried by, I leapt into the living room, scanned the lavender list for Jocelyn’s home number, snatched up the receiver, and dialed it.

There was no answer.

I clicked the button and dialed again.

Still no answer.

I slammed down the phone and darted to the living room window. Prying a peephole in the blinds, I peered down into the street, searching (and praying) for some sign of Dan. Both the sidewalks and the street were totally deserted. And as far as I could tell in the dim light from the streetlamp, all the parked cars were empty. Where was he? Was he okay? Would he come back tonight? Would he ever come back? Was he sleeping like a log in his Murray Hill apartment or-God help me!-floating like a log in the East River?

I whisked back to the phone and dialed Dan’s home number. No answer. I called him at the station house after that, but the officer manning the desk said he hadn’t been there all night and hadn’t called in to report his whereabouts. Skin crawling and nerves jumping, I got a new line and tried Jocelyn again. Even after eleven rings she didn’t pick up. Why didn’t she answer? Where the hell could she be?

The suspense was killing me. Literally. And as much as I truly wanted to follow Dan’s directions and stay locked inside my apartment, I couldn’t stand it for another second. Grabbing my jacket and red beret out of the closet and putting them on, I snatched my purse off the living room chair, burst out into the hall, and scrambled down the stairway to the street.

The sky was black, the air was cold, and the vacant street was dead quiet. Running as fast as I could toward Sixth Avenue, all I could hear were the loud huffs of my steamy breath and the scrapes and scuffs of my ballerina slipper soles against the pavement.

When I reached the corner of Bleecker and Sixth, however, I detected another sound. It was the rumbling engine of the Checker taxicab that was speeding uptown in my direction. Knowing the subway trains would be few and far between this time of night (I mean, morning), I pounced out into the avenue and flagged the cab down. Then I hopped inside, gave the driver an address, and told him to step on it.

Sixteen minutes later, we reached my destination: 140 East 63rd Street. I gave the driver two dollars (the meter fare plus a thirty cent tip), jumped out of the taxi onto the sidewalk, and lunged like a beheaded chicken into the lobby of the Barbizon Hotel for Women.

Chapter 33

THE SMALL, DIM, ART DECO LOBBY HAD A sickly, greenish cast. Whether it was because of the early morning gloom or the faded colors of the walls and aging furniture, I couldn’t tell. Luckily, a garish orange Tiffany lamp was glowing at the reception desk, or I might not have been able to find it.

The man sitting behind the desk was large, bald, and dressed in a rumpled brown suit that looked as old as the furniture. He was also sound asleep. His head was lolling against the back of his chair, and his mouth was hanging wide open. He was snoring loudly.

“Excuse me,” I said, knocking my knuckles on the ornate wooden desk to rouse him. “I’m here to see one of your residents. Can you help me?”

The man started, snorted, and shot up straight in his chair. Rubbing his doughy, pink face with his nail-bitten fingers, he shook himself awake and aimed his unseeing gaze in my direction. “Umph! Wha-? What did you say?”

“I’m here to see one of your residents,” I repeated. “Jocelyn Fritz. Is she in?”

“Fritz…? Uh, yeah,” he mumbled, clearing his throat and turning to look at the clock on the wall behind him. “She came in a while ago. But it’s kinda late to be gettin’ visitors now, ya know.” He swiped his hand over his hairless noggin and eyed me suspiciously. “Is she expectin’ you?”

“No, but she’ll be glad to see me. Would you be kind enough to ring her suite and tell her Paige Turner is here?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah… sure,” he said, picking up the phone and dialing three numbers. While he was waiting for Jocelyn to answer, he gave me another distrustful look. “Paige Turner, huh? That a trick name or somethin’?”

“It’s my nom de plume,” I said, just to be tricky (and to practice my fake French accent).

“That’s funny,” he grunted, giving me a puzzled look and hanging up the phone. “Miss Fritz don’t answer. And I know she’s there. Came in ’bout a hour ago.” He looked at the clock again and scratched his pink scalp. “Or maybe she’s still takin’ a swim.”

“That’s it!” I said, feeling a warm rush of relief. “She swims every night before she goes to bed! I should have thought of that before.” I straightened my beret and gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry I woke you up, sir. Which way is the pool?”

He yawned and pointed to an open doorway on the far side of the lobby. “Down that hall and follow the signs.”

I COULD HAVE FOUND MY WAY WITHOUT THE signs. All I had to do was follow my nose toward the smell of chlorine. The lighting was poor, but I managed to dash down the hall and cut through a small gym full of exercise equipment without difficulty. Then I came to an entry marked POOL, clanked the heavy door open, and slipped inside.

The elegance of the spacious, windowless pool room took me by surprise. All visible surfaces-the walls, the floors, the numerous floor-to-ceiling pillars spaced evenly around the large rectangular pool-were inlaid with glistening, multicolored mosaics. And at the base of every pillar, in huge green and blue ceramic planters, sat an assortment of tall, lush, thriving palms. Golden light from the overhead fixtures and wall sconces twinkled across the gently rippling water, creating the effect of a set for a Hollywood movie starring-who else?- Esther Williams.

But it was too quiet to be a movie set, and there wasn’t a single swimmer in sight.

“Hello?” I called out, voice echoing against the tiles. “Is anybody here?” When nobody answered or appeared, I hollered again. “Hello, Jocelyn? Are you here? Come out, come out, wherever you are!” I made a beeline for the changing room at the far end of the pool, thinking she must have finished washing away her sins and begun toweling herself dry.