I GOT TO THE OFFICE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, and the place was a complete mess. The Coffeemaster had an inch-thick layer of muck on the bottom, and all the cups were dirty. The contents of the cream pitcher had curdled, and sugar was scattered all over the table and the floor. Lenny’s drawing table was heaped with so many unfinished layouts and boards, I figured he hadn’t been in to work since the day I sent him home sick, and my desk was piled halfway to the ceiling with unclipped newspapers, unopened mail, unsorted deliveries, unedited manuscripts, and uncorrected page proofs.
Ugh. Maybe I didn’t want my job back after all.
The first thing I did was check out the morning papers. The main headline on every front page of every edition was TONY CORONA ARRESTED FOR MURDER!, or words to the same effect. Virginia was named in some of the headlines and all of the stories, of course, but the reporters had-for obvious reasons- focused ninety-nine percent of their attention and copy on the accused killer rather than the murder victim. A world-famous singer and movie star would sell a hell of a lot more newspapers than a lowly secretary for an accounting firm (or even a high-priced hooker-a fact not mentioned in any of the articles).
Each paper had a brief write-up about the death of a young Saks Fifth Avenue hat designer named Jocelyn Fritz, who drowned in the pool at the Barbizon Hotel for Women, but none of the accounts mentioned murder. It was also reported that Manhattan District Attorney Sam Hogarth had been admitted to the hospital late Saturday afternoon with severe head and foot injuries. He was in critical condition. The cause of his injuries had yet to be determined, but some newswriters suggested they might have been mob-inflicted, in retaliation for the DA’s courageous crusade against organized crime.
So much for accurate journalism. If the full truth about Hogarth and Corona was ever going to be reported, I realized, the reporter would have to be me.
I slapped all the papers closed and carried them into Mr. Crockett’s office. I wanted to put them out of my sight. As I was returning to the main workroom, Mr. Crockett came through the front door and gave me-wonder of wonders!-a hearty hello. He was clearly glad to see me. Knowing that now was the best time to talk to him-while he was weak from a debilitating caffeine deficiency-I walked right up to him and asked why Harrington had changed his mind about firing me, and why he wanted to see me in his office.
“Harrington didn’t fire you,” he said. “Pomeroy did it without his knowledge.”
“You mean Pomeroy lied?”
“Right. Scummy thing to do. I wanted to fire him, but Harrington said no. Family reasons. And blood is thicker than whatever, so we’re stuck with the bastard.”
Figures. “So why does Harrington want me to come to his office?
“Don’t know. You gotta go see for yourself.” He hung up his hat and coat. “But make the coffee first, okay?”
As I carried the Coffeemaster into the hall and headed for the ladies’ room to wash it, Lenny burst out of the stairwell, huffing and puffing like a marathon runner at the finish line. He was thinner and more red-faced than usual, but he’d made it up nine flights of stairs, so I knew he’d made a full recovery. I walked over, patted him on the back, and, while I was waiting for him to catch his breath, gave him a quick rundown of recent office events.
He was shocked that I’d been fired, relieved that I’d been re-hired, and very upset that his illness had caused me so much trouble. I told him not to worry about it-that I’d been glad to have the time off, and that our crabby bosses and lazy coworkers had been at such a loss without us, we’d probably be treated with kid gloves from now on. Or for a couple of hours at least.
As if to prove my words, Mike and Mario stepped out of the elevator and walked toward us-faint but detectable smiles slipping across their faces. They were surprised to see me, but not sorry. You could tell by the way they each nodded and said, “Good morning, Paige,” without a single snicker, rude comment, or lousy joke about my name. They even gave Lenny a civil hello.
OLIVER RICE HARRINGTON GAVE ME AN EQUALLY civil welcome when I arrived at his office later that morning.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, ushering me inside and guiding me to the guest chair closest to his desk. He offered me a cigarette, lit it, then sat down and extended his “sincere” apologies for the “inappropriate” actions of his “headstrong” cousin Pomeroy, and for the “unseemly” way in which I was “terminated,” and for the “unpleasantness” of our last “visit,” for which he took full responsibility, asking me to forget it ever happened. (I knew I wouldn’t, but I said I would.)
After that, he raked his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses on his prominent nose, and got down to business.
“I asked you here to discuss a matter of some importance to us both, Mrs. Turner,” he said, eyes fastened on mine. “I know that you’re working on a story about the murders of Virginia Pratt and Jocelyn Fritz, and I want to purchase exclusive rights to that story for my newspapers and magazines, Daring Detective included. And after your report has been featured in the selected Harrington News publications, I want you to turn the story into a full-length crime novel for Harrington House Books. I am, of course, prepared to pay a large sum for your efforts, with a twenty-five percent advance due the day you sign the contracts.”
I was agog. I took a deep drag on my cigarette and exhaled slowly, through my nose, hoping the sting of the rising smoke would scare my eyeballs back into their sockets.
“So what do you say, Mrs. Turner? Does my proposal interest you?”
“Well, uh… sure,” I said, doing my best to act blasé. “But I can’t give you a commitment right now. I have to talk things over with my fiancé first.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, “the indefatigable Detective Dan Street. You must consult with him, of course. And congratulations on your engagement.”
Harrington was starting to spook me out. “How do you know so much about me?” I asked. “Are you having me tailed or something?”
He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “I run a successful news empire, Mrs. Turner. There isn’t much that escapes my notice.”
I decided to test the validity of his statement. “Are you aware that District Attorney Sam Hogarth murdered Jocelyn Fritz?”
“I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”
“And that he also tried to murder me?”
“Yes…”
“And are you willing to publish all the dirty details about the DA’s many crimes-including the fact that he had a hot and heavy relationship with your favorite call girl?”
A storm cloud fell over his face, but he remained calm and in control. “I was getting to that point, Mrs. Turner,” he said, “and these are my terms: I expect you to write the truth about Hogarth and Melody, but I want you to keep my name out of it.”
“Oh, so that’s it,” I sneered. “You’re trying to buy me off. I should have known your offer was too good to be true. Tell me, Mr. Harrington,” I said, in the most scathing tone I could summon, “are there any other special clauses in your contract I should know about?”
“Just one,” he said. “Somebody else I want you to protect.”
“And who, pray tell, is that?”
“Sabrina Stanhope.”
SO THERE I SAT, IN A CUSHY LEATHER CHAIR IN the luxurious penthouse office of the most powerful media mogul in the country (maybe even the whole world), wondering what crazy quirk of fate had determined that said mogul should want to defend the same high-class madam that I had pledged to protect. (Well, it was a pretty bizarre situation, don’t you think?) It took me a good half hour to gather my wits, ask the right questions, extract the true answers, and get to the mind-boggling bottom of things.