“And don’t think you can talk your way out of it, either,” I added for good measure. “Pomeroy shoots first and asks questions later. By the time the sun goes down this evening, you could be out of a job.” In the interest of promoting good office relations, I resisted the urge to grin.
Mario gave me a nasty look and scratched his head. It took a few moments for the truth of my statement to sink in, but when it finally did, he let out a petulant grumble, slunk back to his desk, sat down to work, and left me alone for the rest of the morning.
Mike didn’t mess with me either-not until later, around eleven, after I’d retrieved the stack of morning newspapers from Mr. Crockett’s desk and sat down at my desk to clip them.
“If there’s any new reports on the Virginia Pratt murder in there,” Mike said, snickering, “you can cut ’em out and give ’em to me.”
I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. “The Virginia Pratt murder?”
“Yeah, you know. That hot blonde secretary who was tied up naked and choked dead with turpentine. Mr. Pomeroy gave the story to me.” Mike fastened his eyes on my face and bared his small yellow teeth in a gloating smile.
I was truly shocked by this revelation. I’d been so sure that Pomeroy would want an exclusive, in-depth, first-person account of such a sensational (i.e., salesworthy) crime, I had taken for granted he’d assign the story to me. I was, after all, the only one who would do the job right. Mike would deliver a dull, poorly written, bare-bones report that would disappoint readers and hurt DD sales-a story so bad it would have to be buried in the back of the magazine instead of splashed on the cover. And Pomeroy knew it.
So why the devil had he given the assignment to Mike? Was he trying to get even with me for something, or show me who’s boss, or deflate my blossoming ego and knock me down in the eyes of my publishing peers?
Or maybe he didn’t want the job done right, I thought, looking at the puzzle from a different angle. And maybe that was the reason he sent me to lunch early yesterday-so that he could give the story to Mike without me knowing and kicking up a fuss; so that later-if Mr. Crockett or any other DD higher-ups caught on and questioned his lousy judgment-he could say that Mike got the job because he was in the office the day the story broke and I wasn’t (thereby casting aspersions on me instead of himself).
The more I thought about this particular scenario, the more believable it became. Yet my brain kept concocting new questions. What did Pomeroy have to gain by keeping me off the case and suppressing the story? Was he personally involved in some way? Was he shielding himself or someone else? Was he acting alone or just following orders? Maybe he’d learned the truth about Virginia/Melody and was now striving to protect his boss and family benefactor (Oliver Rice Harrington, in case you’ve forgotten) from a scathing sex scandal and possible murder charges.
When this last hypothesis occurred to me, I felt a little queasy.
But as troubled and confused as I was by Pomeroy’s inexplicable behavior, I was also enormously relieved. Thank God he hadn’t assigned the story to me! How on earth would I have kept my promise to Sabrina and turned the story down? What in the world could I have said? Sorry, Mr. Pomeroy, but I’ll be washing my hair every night for the rest of the month? Or I’m too tired to take on any more work right now? or No can do, pal. I’m up to my eyeballs in research for a pressing retrospective on John Dillinger?
Call me a cockeyed pessimist, but I didn’t think any of those excuses (or any other on-the-spot pretexts I might have dreamed up) would have worked.
Head swirling with mixed emotions (surprise, gratitude, fear, relief, concern, outrage, suspicion-you name it, I was feeling it), I cut all the articles about the Virginia Pratt homicide out of the papers and handed them over to Mike. Then I hunched over my desk and began correcting the next issue’s page proofs, waiting-make that praying-for Pomeroy to come in. I wanted to monitor his every move. I wanted to examine every detail of his conduct and demeanor. I wanted to ask him some sneaky questions and study his reactions like a hawk.
I must have sent my prayers to the wrong address, though, because they were never answered. My lunchtime rolled around before Pomeroy rolled in. I considered delaying my departure until after he arrived, but quickly ditched that dumb idea. What if he pulled another stunt like yesterday’s and didn’t show up at all? Or what if he did come in and wouldn’t let me go out?
I couldn’t risk either occurrence. Both the clock and my pulse were ticking fast. I had places to go and people to see, and I had to get going while the going was good.
Chapter 11
I HAD BEEN INSIDE THE SEVENTEEN-STORY white limestone Criminal Courts Building at 100 Centre Street before, but I had never set foot in the Manhattan district attorney’s office. I didn’t even know what floor it was on. Standing under the hanging clock in the middle of the two-story-high marble lobby, I looked around at the polished Art Deco lighting fixtures, the gleaming metal doors, the two grand staircases with ornamental railings, and wondered-for the sixty-eighth time in sixty-eight seconds-what the hell I was doing there.
The lobby was swarming with people-determined, fast-walking people who seemed to know exactly where they were going. They whipped past me like stampeding steers. (Had the courts just been dismissed for lunch?) The crowd was mostly male-men wearing suits, overcoats, and fedoras, and carrying leather briefcases-but there were a few females, too. The women wore dresses, coats, white gloves, and hats trimmed with fur and feathers; their high heels tapped noisily across the marble floor as they tried to keep up with their hustling husbands, bosses, lovers, or lawyers.
Spotting a uniformed guard on the far side of the lobby, I cut through the herd and went to ask him for directions. He told me to exit the courthouse, walk around the corner to a different entrance, reenter the building, and take the elevator to the eighth floor.
The eighth-floor hallway was almost as busy as the courthouse lobby. People were scurrying every which way-up, down, and across the hall, out one door and in another. The corridor was lined with offices, and most of them were furnished with more than one desk-a fact I observed as I slowly made my way down the crowded passageway, peeping through all the open doors and reading the names on all the others, looking for the hallowed portal marked SAMUEL F. HOGARTH, DISTRICT ATTORNEY.
I found it at the end of the hall. The stately double doors were closed, but they opened right up when I filled my chest with air, threw back my shoulders, and-doing my best Wonder Woman impression-thrust my way inside.
(Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. What really happened was that I slowly twisted the knob on one of the doors, carefully edged it open a couple of inches, and peered through the crack. Then, when I saw a middle-aged woman with a long, skinny neck and a bun of brown hair sitting at a wooden desk in the center of a small reception area, I ventured into the room.)
The receptionist was talking on the phone, so I just stood there for a second or two, glancing around at the worn dark blue carpeting, empty wood chairs, and leather couches, feeling as nervous as a lamb in a lion’s den. I was glad that nobody else was waiting to see the DA, but-since I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say to the man-I wasn’t the least bit happy that I was. Madly trying to think up a good fake reason for being there, and a stealthy but productive way to launch my investigation, I took a seat on the old brown leather couch closest to the door and lit up one of Abby’s Pall Malls.
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir!” the receptionist was saying, blushing and batting her lashes like a bobby-soxer. “I have you down on the calendar for this Friday night. Mr. Hogarth confirmed the date just this morning. He said he and his wife are looking forward to it very much. They will meet you at the Copacabana at eight o’clock sharp.”
She paused for a moment (during which time, I assumed, the other party was speaking), then she let out a girlish giggle. “Oh, no, sir!” she exclaimed, fluttering her lashes so fast I thought they’d fly off her face. “I couldn’t possibly do anything as bold as that!” Her scrawny cheeks looked as if they’d be hot to the touch. She giggled again and cupped her hand over her mouth, conducting the rest of her conversation in a voice so soft her words were indecipherable. When the hushed dialogue was over, she dropped the receiver back in the cradle, tucked a few loose strands of hair back in her bun, straightened the collar of her prim white blouse, and reluctantly turned her attention to me.
“May I help you?” she asked, face still flaming. “Do you have an appointment with the district attorney?
“Uh, no, I don’t,” I replied, stubbing my cigarette in a nearby ashtray and hastily rising to my feet. “I should have called for one, I know, but I was afraid he wouldn’t want to see me.”
She sat up straight as a broomstick and narrowed her eyes into menacing slits. The rosy warmth drained out of her cheeks in an instant. “And why, may I ask, do you want to see him? Please state your name and your business.” The blushing bobby-soxer had turned into the Wicked Witch of the East. (Or was it the West? I never could remember.)
“My name is Paige Turner,” I said, “and I’m a staff writer for Daring Detective magazine.” (I didn’t dare use an alias or make up a fraudulent occupation on the off chance that Sam Hogarth had seen my picture in the paper and read about my recent crime-busting exploits.) “I’m working on a story about the shockingly high new murder statistics in Manhattan,” I continued, “and I was hoping to get the DA’s personal views on the subject.” (That sounded pretty good, don’t you think?)
The woman arched one eyebrow and gave me a look that was dripping with distrust. “Paige Turner, you say?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, stepping closer to her desk, flashing my most genuine and sincere Loretta Young smile.
She wasn’t buying it. “Humph!” she sputtered. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Well, yes, I-”
“Ha! You must think I’m a total cabbagehead!” She rose from her chair and craned her skinny neck forward. “I know a phony name when I hear one-and Paige Turner is the phoniest one I’ve ever heard!”
See what happens when you tell the truth?
“I know it sounds phony,” I hurried to explain, “but it really isn’t. My parents gave me the name Paige, and my husband gave me the name Turner, and the absurd combination has been giving me grief ever since my wedding day. Whenever I’m introduced to someone, they crack up laughing. Believe you me, if I had it to do all over again I’d marry a man named Smith. Or Jones. Or even Wartbottom. Anything but Turner!”
She scowled at me for a couple more seconds, then relaxed her witchy features into something that almost resembled a smile. “Sorry, Mrs. Turner, but I’m sure you can understand my position. It’s my job to screen all visitors to this office and to protect the district attorney from kooks, pests, and charlatans.”
I chose not to confess that, in the eyes of some people, I belonged in all three categories.
“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “With a preposterous name like mine, I’m used to having my identity questioned.” I stood quietly for a second, giving us both the chance to compose ourselves, then (in deference to my shrinking lunch hour) I quickly forged ahead. “Mr. Hogarth may have heard of me, however,” I said. “My name pops up in the newspapers every once in a while. Would you please tell him that I’m here, and that I’d like to interview him for a special article I’m working on? I promise I won’t take up too much of his time.”
(I stressed the words “interview” and “article” because of their irresistible appeal to elected officials. Particularly those who were planning to run for the Senate in three years-and maybe the presidency someday.)
“Yes, I’ll tell him,” the receptionist said, sitting back down at her desk and reaching for the phone. “But don’t be surprised if he refuses to meet with you. He never sees anybody without an appointment, and he has a very important lunch date in twenty minutes.”