The third Deadly Sin exd-3

by Lawrence Sanders

  "No, I have no comment."

  "Maybe it'll help me understand her better. Why she did what she did. Clues to her personality."

  "Whatever you say, dear," she said.

  He looked at her suspiciously. He didn't trust her complaisant moods.

  He told Abner Boone what he wanted to do, and the sergeant had no objections.

  "Better let Bentley know, Chief," he suggested. "He can tell his spooks you'll be tailing her too. In case they spot you and call out the troops."

  "They won't spot me," Delaney said, offended.

  But he spotted them: the unmarked cars parked near the Hotel Granger and Zoe Kohler's apartment house, the plainclothes policewomen who followed the suspect on foot. Some of the shadows were good, some clumsy. But Zoe seemed oblivious to them all.

  He picked her up on 39th Street and Lexington Avenue at 8:43 on Wednesday morning and followed her to the Granger. He hung around for a while, then wandered into the hotel and inspected the lobby, dining room, cocktail bar.

  He was back at noon, and when she came out for lunch, he tailed her to a fast-food joint on Third Avenue, then back to the Granger. At five o'clock he returned to follow her home. He never took his eyes off her.

  "What's she like?" Monica asked that night.

  "So ordinary," he said, "she's outstanding. Miss Nothing."

  "Pretty?"

  "No, but not ugly. Plain. Just plain. She could do a lot more with herself than she does. She wears no makeup that I could see. Hair a kind of mousy color. Her clothes are browns and tans and grays. Earth colors. She moves very slowly, cautiously. Almost like an invalid, or at least like a woman twice her age. Once I saw her stop and hang on to a lamppost as if she suddenly felt weak or faint. Sensible shoes. Sensible clothes. Nothing bright or cheerful about her. She carries a shoulder bag but hangs on to it with both hands. I'd guess the knife is in the bag. When she confronts anyone on the sidewalk, she's always the first to step aside. She never crosses against the lights, even when there's no traffic. Very careful. Very conservative. Very law-abiding. When she went out to lunch, I thought I saw her talking to herself, but I'm not sure."

  "Edward, how long are you going to keep this up-following her?"

  "You think it's morbid curiosity, don't you?"

  "Don't be silly."

  "Sure you do," he said. "But it's not. The woman fascinates me; I admit it."

  "That I believe," Monica said. "Does she look sad?"

  "Sad?" He considered that a moment. "Not so much sad as defeated. Her posture is bad; she slumps; the sins of the world on her shoulders. And her complexion is awful. Muddy pale. I think I was right and Dr. Ho was right; she's cracking."

  "I wish you wouldn't do it, Edward-follow her, I mean."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know… It just seems indecent."

  "You are a dear, sweet woman," he told her, "and you don't know what the hell you're talking about."

  He went through the same routine on Thursday. He maneuvered so he walked toward her as she headed up Madison Avenue on her way to work. He passed quite close and got a good look at her features.

  They seemed drawn and shrunken to him, nose sharpened, cheeks caved. Her lips were dry and slightly parted. The eyes seemed focused on worlds away. There was a somnolence about that face. She could have been a sleepwalker.

  No breasts that he could see. She appeared flat as a board.

  He was there a few minutes after 5:00 p.m., when she exited from the Hotel Granger and turned downtown on Madison. Delaney was behind her. Bentley's policewoman was across the avenue.

  The suspect walked south on Madison, then went into a luncheonette. Delaney strolled to the corner, turned, came back. He stood in front of the restaurant, ostensibly inspecting the menu Scotch-taped inside the plate glass window.

  Zoe Kohler was seated at the counter, waiting to be served. Everyone in the place was busy eating or talking. No one paid any attention to the activity on the street, to a big, lumpy man peering througn the front window.

  Delaney walked on, looked in a few shop windows, came back to the luncheonette. Now Zoe had a plate before her and was drinking a glass of something that looked like iced tea.

  If he had been a man given to theatrical gestures, he would have slapped his forehead in disgust and dismay. He had forgotten. They all had forgotten. How could they have been so fucking stupid?

  He loitered about the front of the luncheonette. He looked at his watch occasionally to give the impression of a man waiting for a late date. He saw Zoe Kohler pat her lips with a paper napkin, gather up purse and check, begin to rise.

  He was inside immediately, almost rushing. As she moved toward the cashier's desk, he brushed by her.

  "I beg your pardon," he said, raising his hat and stepping aside.

  She gave him a shy, timorous smile: a flicker.

  He let her go and slid onto the counter stool she had just left. In front of him was most of a tunafish salad plate and dregs of iced tea in a tall glass. He linked his hands around the glass without touching it.

  A porky, middle-aged waitress with a mustache and bad feet stopped in front of him. She took out her pad.

  "Waddle it be?" she asked, patting her orange hair. "The meat-loaf is good."

  "I'd like to see the manager, please."

  She peered at him. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong," he said, smiling at her. "I'd just like to see the manager."

  She turned toward the back of the luncheonette.

  "Hey, you, Stan," she yelled.

  A man back there talking to two seated customers looked up. The waitress jerked her head toward Delaney. The manager came forward slowly. He stood at the Chief's shoulder.

  "What seems to be the trouble?" he asked.

  "No trouble," Delaney said. "This iced tea glass here-I've got a dozen at home just like it. But my kid broke one. I'd like to fill out the set. Would you sell me this glass for a buck?"

  "You want to buy that glass for a dollar?" Stan said.

  "That's right. To fill out my set of a dozen. How about it?"

  "A pleasure," the manager said. "I've got six dozen more you can have at the same price."

  "No," Delaney said, laughing, "just one will do."

  "Let me get you a clean one," the porky waitress said, reaching for Zoe Kohler's glass.

  "No, no," Delaney said hastily, protecting the glass with his linked hands. "This one will be fine."

  Waitress and manager looked at each other and shrugged. Delaney handed over a dollar bill. Touching the glass gingerly with two fingers spread inside, he wrapped it loosely in paper napkins, taking care not to wipe or smudge the outside.

  He had to walk two blocks before he found a sidewalk phone that worked. He set the wrapped glass carefully atop the phone and called Sergeant Abner Boone at Midtown Precinct North. He explained what he had.

  "God damn it!" Boone exploded. "We're idiots! We could have had prints from her office or apartment a week ago."

  "I know," Delaney said consolingly. "It's my fault as much as anyone's. Listen, sergeant, if you get a match with that wineglass from the Tribunal, it's not proof positive that she wasted the LaBranche kid. It's just evidence that she was at the scene."

  "That's good enough for me," Boone said grimly. "Where are you, Chief? I'll get a car, pick up the glass myself, and take it to the lab."

  Delaney gave him the location. "After they check it out, will you call me at home and let me know?"

  "Of course."

  "Better call Thorsen and tell him, too. Yes or no."

  "I'll do that," Abner Boone said. "Thank you, sir," he added gratefully.

  Delaney was grumpy all evening. He hunched over his plate, eating pork roast and applesauce in silence. Not even complimenting Monica on the bowl of sliced strawberries with a sprinkle of Cointreau to give i! a tang.

  It wasn't until they had taken their coffee into the air-conditioned living room that she said: "Okay, buster, wha
t's bothering you?"

  "Politics," he said disgustedly, and told her about his argument with Ivar Thorsen.

  "He was right and I was right. Considering his priorities and responsibilities, picking the woman up and getting her out of circulation makes sense. But I still think going for prosecution and conviction makes more sense."

  Then he told Monica what he had just done: obtaining Zoe Kohler's fingerprints for a match with the prints found on the wineglass at the Tribunal Motor Inn.

  "So I handed Ivar more inconclusive evidence," he said wryly. "If the prints match, he's sure to pick her up. But he'll never get a conviction on the basis of what we've got."

  "If you feel that strongly about it," Monica said, "you could have forgotten all about the prints."

  "You're joking, of course."

  "Of course."

  "The habits of thirty years die hard," he said, sighing. "I had to get her prints. But no one will believe me when I tell them that even a perfect match won't put her behind bars. Her attorney will say, 'Sure, she had a drink with the guy in his hotel room-and so what? He was still alive when she left.' Those prints won't prove she slashed his throat. Just that she was there. And another thing is-"

  The phone rang then.

  "That'll be Boone," Delaney said, rising. "I'll take it in the study."

  But it wasn't the sergeant; it was Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen, and he couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice.

  "Thank you, Edward," he said. "Thank you, thank you. We got a perfect match on the prints. I had a long talk with the DA's man and he thinks we've got enough now to go for an indictment. So we're bringing her in. It'll take all day tomorrow to get the paperwork set and plan the arrest. We'll probably take he Saturday morning at her apartment. Want to come along?"

  Delaney paused. "All right, Ivar," he said finally. "If that's what you want to do. I'd like a favor: will you ask Dr. Patrick Ho if he wants to be in on it? That man contributed a lot; he should be in at the end."

  "Yes, Edward, I'll contact him."

  "One more thing… I'd like Thomas Handry to be there."

  "Who's Thomas Handry?"

  "He's on the Times."

  "You want a reporter to be there?"

  "I owe him."

  Thorsen sighed. "All right, Edward, if you say so. And thank you again; you did a splendid job."

  "Yeah," Delaney said dispiritedly, but Thorsen had already hung up.

  He went back into the living room and repeated the phone conversation to Monica.

  "So that's that," he concluded. "If she keeps her nerve and doesn't say a goddamn word until she gets a smart lawyer, I think she'll beat it."

  "But the murders will end?"

  "Yes. Probably."

  She looked at him narrowly.

  "But that's not enough for you, is it? You want her punished."

  "Don't you?"

  "Of course-if it can be done legally. But most of all I want the killings to stop. Edward, don't you think you're being vindictive?"

  He rose suddenly. "Think I'll pour myself a brandy. Get you one?"

  "All right. A small one."

  He brought their cognacs from the study, then settled back again into his worn armchair.

  "Why do you think I'm being vindictive?"

  "Your whole attitude. You want to catch this woman in the act, even if it means risking a man's life. You want, above all, to see her punished for what she's done. You want her to suffer. It's really become an obsession with you. I don't think you'd feel that strongly if the Hotel Ripper was a man. Then you'd be satisfied just to get him off the streets."

  "Come on, Monica, what kind of bullshit is that? The next thing you'll be saying is that I hate women."

  "No, I'd never say that because I know it's not true. Just the opposite. I think you have some very old-fashioned, romantic ideas about women. And because this particular woman has flouted those beliefs, those cherished ideals, you feel very vengeful toward her."

  He took a swig of brandy. "Nonsense. I've dealt with female criminals before. Some of them killers."

  "But none like Zoe Kohler-right? All the female murderers in your experience killed from passion or greed or because they were drunk or something like that. Am I correct?"

  "Well…" he said grudgingly, "maybe."

  "You told me so yourself. But now you find a female killer who's intelligent, plans well, kills coldly with no apparent motive, and it shatters all your preconceptions about women. And not only does it destroy your romantic fancies, but I think it scares you-in a way."

  He was silent.

  "Because if a woman can act in this way, then you don't know anything at all about women. Isn't that what scares you? Now you've discovered that women are as capable as men. Capable of evil, in this case. But if that's true, then they must also be as capable of good, of creativity, of invention and art. It's upsetting all the prejudices you have and maybe even weren't aware of. Suddenly you have to revise your thinking about women, all your old, ingrained opinions, and that can be a painful process. I think that's why you want more than the killings ended. You want revenge against this woman who has caused such an upheaval in all your notions of what women are and how they should act."

  "Thank you, doctor, for the fifty-cent analysis," he said. "I'm not saying you're completely wrong, but you are mistaken if you think I would have felt any differently if the Hotel Ripper was a man. You have to pay for your sins in this world, regardless of your sex."

  "Edward, how long has it been since you've been to church."

  "You mean for mass or confession? About thirty-five years."

  "Well, you haven't lost your faith."

  "The good sisters beat it into me. But my faith, as you call it, has nothing to do with the church."

  "No?"

  "No. I'm for civilization and against the swamp. It's as simple as that."

  "And that is simple. You believe in God, don't you?"

  "I believe in a Supreme Being, whatever you want to call him, her, or it."

  "You probably call it the Top Cop."

  He laughed. "You're not too far wrong. Well, the Top Cop has given us the word in a body of works called the law. Don't tell me how rickety, inefficient, and leaky the law is; I know better than you. But it's the best we've been able to come up with so far. Let's hope it'll be improved as the human race stumbles along. But even in the way it exists today, it's the only thing that stands between civilization and the swamp. It's a wall, a dike. And anyone who knocks a hole in the wall should be punished."

  "And what about understanding? Compassion? Justice?"

  "The law and justice are not always identical, my dear. Any street cop can tell you that. In this case, I think both the law and justice would be best served if Zoe Kohler was put away for the rest of her life."

  "And if New York still had the death penalty, you'd want her electrocuted, or hanged, or gassed, or shot?"

  "Yes."

  July 25; Friday…

  Her pubic hair had almost totally disappeared; only a few weak wisps survived. And the hair on her legs and in her armpits had apparently ceased to grow. She had the feeling of being peeled, to end up as a skinless grape, a quivering jelly. Clothing rasped her tender skin.

  She took a cab to work that morning, not certain she had the strength to walk or push her way aboard a crowded bus. In the office, she was afraid she might drop the tray of coffee and pastries. Every movement was an effort, every breath a pain.

  "Did you bring it in, Zoe?" Everett Pinckney asked.

  She looked at him blankly. "What?"

  "The tear gas dispenser," he said.

  She felt a sudden anguish in her groin. A needle. She knew her period was due in a day, but this was something different: a steel sliver. But she did not wince. She endured, expressionless.

  "I lost it," she said in a low voice. "Or misplaced it. I can't find it."

  He was bewildered.

  "Zoe," he said, "a thing like that
-how could you lose it or misplace it?"

  She didn't answer.

  "What am I going to do?" he asked helplessly. "The cop will come back. He'll want to know. He'll want to talk to you."

  "All right," she said, "I'll talk to him. I just don't have it."

  He was not a man to bluster. He just stood, wavering…

  "Well…" he said, "all right," and left her alone.

  The rest of the day vanished. She didn't know where it went. She swam in agony, her body pulsing. She wanted to weep, cry out, claw her aching flesh from the bones. The world about her whirled dizzily. It would not stop.

  She walked home slowly, her steps faltering. Passersby were a streaming blur. The earth sank beneath her feet. She heard a roaring above the traffic din, smelled scorch, and in her mouth was a taste of old copper.

  She turned into the luncheonette, too weak to continue her journey.

  "Hullo, dearie," the porky waitress said. "The usual?"

  Zoe nodded.

  "Wanna hear somepin nutty?" the waitress asked, setting a place for her. "Right after you was in here last night, a guy comes in and buys the iced tea glass you drank out of. Said he had glasses just like it at home, but his kid broke one, and he wanted to fill the set. Paid a dollar for it."

  "The glass I used?"

  "Crazy, huh? Din even want a clean one. Just wrapped up the dirty glass in paper napkins and rushed out with it. Well, it takes all kinds…"

  "Was he tall and thin?" Zoe Kohler asked. "With a sour expression?"

  "Nah. He was tall all right, but a heavyset guy. Middle sixties maybe. Why? You know him?"

  "No," Zoe said listlessly, "I don't know him."

  She was still thinking clearly enough to realize what had happened. Now they had her fingerprints. They would compare them with the prints on the wineglass she left at the Tribunal. They would be sure now. They would come for her and kill her.

  She left her food uneaten. She headed home with stumbling steps. The pains in her abdomen were almost shrill in their intensity.

  She wondered if her period had started. She had not inserted a tampon and feared to look behind her; perhaps she was leaving a spotted trail on the sidewalk. And following the spoor came the thin, dour man, nose down and sniffing. A true bloodhound.

  At home, she locked and bolted her door, put on the chain. She looked wearily about her trig apartment. She had always been neat. Her mother never had to tell her to tidy her room.