Free Dial Me for Murder by Amanda Matetsky Page B

prostitute? Did he like it better when he paid for it, or was Melody more desirable to him because she was costly? Was he just showing off his wealth— proving to his peers that he could buy and control the most expensive call girl in the city—or was he an insatiable womanizer, so addicted to sex he always had to have an extra bedmate waiting in the wings? Could it be that his lady-killer libido had raged out of control and turned him into a real killer?
    There were lots of homicidal possibilities, and it was up to me to sort them all out. But how the hell was I supposed to do that? How was I, a lowly writer for a two-bit detective magazine, ever going to get in to see—much less observe and interrogate!—two such mighty men?
    I was in over my head this time. Way over my head. And if the first two names on Sabrina’s list hadn’t totally convinced me of this fact, then the third one made it downright official. Throat so constricted I couldn’t breathe (or even smoke!), I stared at the final entry in utter awe and bewilderment.
     
OLIVER RICE HARRINGTON—Publishing Magnate. Age 52; married to Katherine; three sons, Clayton, Edgar, and Zachary. Owns over half the country’s newspapers and magazines, plus largest book company in the world. Works out of his New York offices: Harrington House Publishers at Madison and 45th. Private line: MUrrayhill 5-7001.
     
Get the picture? One of the clients who frequently “met” with Melody—and may even have murdered her—was the man who paid my salary!
    Oliver Rice Harrington, if you’ll recall, was the owner of Daring Detective magazine, and also a blood relative of my immediate “superior,” Brandon Pomeroy. So I was in double trouble now. I’d never met Mr. Harrington in person, but I knew from the office grapevine that he knew who I was, and that he’d seen my picture in some of his own newspapers. So how the devil was I going to sniff out the truth about his involvement in the case without attracting both his and Pomeroy’s attention? And without getting myself fired?
    I thought I was going to throw up. There were too many shocking details to absorb. Too many questions and crazy complications to consider. My stomach was tied in knots of confusion, fear, curiosity, disgust, and self-doubt.
    I needed a stiff drink, and I needed it fast. And I knew right where to get the strongest and (by necessity) cheapest highball in the city. Without even glancing at the second page of the list, or dialing a single phone number on the first, I refolded the two sheets of stationery and jammed them back in my purse. Then I grabbed my hat and coat and took off for Abby’s.

Chapter 7
    STRETCHING FROM EIGHTH AVENUE ON THE west side to the Bowery on the east, Bleecker Street cut a narrow, busy, smile-shaped path through the hub of Greenwich Village. Abby Moskowitz and I lived on Bleecker between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, in the very heart of the hub, in a tiny, rundown three-story building that had probably been built before the turn of the century (which one, I couldn’t say).
    There were two apartments in our building, each perched above a small ground-level storefront. Abby’s pad sat atop Angelo’s fruit and vegetable store, and my humble abode was planted over Luigi’s fish market. Due to the particular placement of our respective apartments—or, rather, the distinct aromas rising from the two shops underneath—Abby and I usually got together at her place instead of mine. Even rotten fruit smelled better than fish.
    “Well, look who’s here!” Abby chirped, sticking her head out into the hall and watching me climb the creaky flight of stairs from the street to the landing between our front doors. “It’s the illustrious Paige Turner, and she looks thirsty.”
    Abby wasn’t clairvoyant, you should know. I arrived home around this time most evenings, and I was always thirsty. Luckily for me, Abby was both a cheerful hostess and a very accommodating bartender. (I think