The Fourth Deadly Sin exd-4

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Come on," Keisman said.

  "I'm on duty; I'm not even supposed to be drinking, especially with a pistol like you."

  "Well…" the vet said grudgingly, "if it wasn't for that, I'd put the bastard away. It wouldn't mean a thing to me. If I was alone, I'd just ace him, come back to the table, work on my beer, and wait for the blues to come get me,"

  "I believe you would."

  "You bet your ass I would. It wouldn't be the first time.

  What if I told you I put Doc Ellerbee down-would you believe me?"

  "Did you?"

  "If I told you I did, would you believe me?"

  "Sure, I'd believe you. Did you do it?"

  "I did it," Harold Gerber said.

  "He was a nosy fucker."

  Detective Robert Kcisman reported this conversation to Jason, and the two of them decided they better bring it to Delaney in person.

  It hadn't been a good day for Delaney. Too many phone calls; too many people leaning on him.

  It started right after breakfast when he went into the study to read the morning Times. There was a front-page article, with runover, about the declining solution rate for homicides in the New York area. It wasn't cheerful reading.

  The lead-in was about the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee, and how, after weeks of intensive investigation, the police were no closer to a solution than they had been the day the body was found. Delaney was halfway through the article when the phone rang.

  "Thorsen," he said aloud and picked up.

  "Edward X. Delaney here," he said.

  "Edward, this is Ivar. Did you see that thing in the Times?"

  "Reading it now."

  "Son of a bitch!" the Deputy said bitterly.

  "That's all we need. Did you come to that paragraph about Suarez?"

  "Not yet."

  "Well, it said that he's Acting Chief of Detectives, and implied that the outcome of the Ellerbee case will probably have a crucial effect on his permanent appointment."

  "That's true enough, isn't it? Ivar, what's all the foofaraw about the Ellerbee case? Suarez must have at least a dozen other recent unsolved homicides in his caseload."

  "Come on, Edward, you know the answer to that: Ellerbee was someone. The moneyed East Side people couldn't care less if some hophead gets knocked off in the South Bronx. But Ellerbee was one of their own kind: an educated professional, wealthy, with a good address. So the powers that be figure if it could happen to him, it could happen to them, and they're running scared. I've already had four phone calls on that Times article this morning. That kind of publicity the Department doesn't need."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Any progress, Edward?"

  "No," Delaney said shortly.

  "A lot of bits and pieces, but nothing earthshaking."

  "I don't want to pressure you, but-2' "But you are."

  "I just want to make certain you're aware of the time element involved.

  If this thing isn't cleared up by the first of the year, we might as well forget about it."

  "Forget about trying to find Ellerbee's killer?"

  "Now you really are acting like Iron Balls. You know what I mean. The Ellerbee file will remain open, of course, but we'll have to pull manpower.

  And Suarez goes back to his precincts-if he's lucky."

  "I get the picture."

  "by the way," the Admiral said breezily, "you may be getting calls from the Ellerbees-the widow and the father. To get them off my back, I suggested that you represent our best chance of solving the case."

  "Thank you very much, Ivar. I really appreciate your kind cooperation."

  "I thought you would," the Deputy said, laughing.

  "I'll keep in touch, Edward."

  "Please," Delaney said, "don't bother."

  The two Ellerbees called all right. Both were in a surly mood to start with, and even surlier when they hung up.

  Delaney would give them no comfort whatsoever. He said several leads were being followed, but no one had been identified as a definite suspect, and a great deal of work remained to be done.

  "When do you think you'll have some good news?" Henry Ellerbee demanded.

  "I have no idea," Delaney said.

  "When do you think you'll find the killer?" Dr. Diane Ellerbee said sharply.

  "I have no idea," Delaney said.

  The three phone calls irritated him so much that he was tempted to seek the solace of a good sandwich-but he resisted. Instead, he went to his files, driving himself to read through the records one more time.

  The purpose here was to immerse himself in the minutiae of the case. At this stage he could not allow himself to judge some details significant and some meaningless. All had value: from the hammer blows to Ellerbee's eyes to Sylvia Mae Otherton's use of a Ouija board.

  Now there was a curious coincidence, he suddenly realized. The victim had been deliberately blinded, and the Ouija planchette had spelled out "blind." What did that mean-if anything? He began to feel that he was sinking deeper into the irrational world of Ellerbee's patients.

  Hundreds of facts, rumors, and guesses had been accumulated, with more coming in every day. What detection came down to, in a case of this nature, a matter of choice.

  Selection: that was the detective's secret-and the poet's.

  He was bleary-eyed when Jason and Keisman arrived, providing a welcome break.

  Delaney listened carefully as the Spoiler gave a complete accounting of his most recent conversation with Harold Gerber.

  When the black detective finished, Delaney stared at him thoughtfully.

  "What's your take?" Delaney finally asked.

  "You think he was telling the truth or was it just drunken bragging?"

  "Sir, I can't give you a definite answer, but I think it's a big possible. That guy is bonkers."

  "So far we've had at least ten fake confessions on the Ellerbee homicide. Suarez's men have checked them all out.

  Zero, zip, zilch. Just crazies and people wanting publicity. But we've got to take this one seriously."

  "Pull him in?" Jason suggested.

  "No," Delaney said.

  "If he turns out to be clean, that will be the end of Keisman's contact with him. He'll know who spilled the confession."

  "You can say that again," the Spoiler agreed.

  "And I really don't enjoy the idea of that whacko being sore at me."

  "Then you'll have to check out his confession yourself.

  Find out what time he got there. Did he have an appointment?

  Was he the late patient? How did he get up to Ellerbee's office: subway, bus, taxi? He knows the victim was killed with a ball peen hammer because Boone and I asked him if he owned one and he said no. So ask him where he got the hammer, and check it out. Then ask him what he did with the hammer after he killed Ellerbee, and check that out. Ask him how many times he hit the victim and how Ellerbee fell. Facedown or up?

  Finally, ask him if he did anything else to the corpse. That business of the two hammer blows to the eyes was never released to the media; only the killer would know about it. I could be wrong, but I think Gerber is just blowing smoke. He may have thought about chilling Ellerbee, maybe dreamed about it, but I don't think he did it. He's so fucked-up that he'd admit kidnapping Judge Crater if it occurred to him."

  "I feel sorry for the guy," Jason said.

  "Sure," Delaney said, "but don't feel too sorry. Remember, he could be our pigeon. But what-interests me even more than the confession was what he wanted to do to the fat guy at the bar. Keisman, you think he meant it?"

  "Absolutely," the Spoiler said immediately.

  "I'm convinced of that. If I hadn't calmed him down and got him talking about other things, he'd have jumped the guy."

  "Well, he's done it before," Delaney said.

  "The man is a walking disaster.

  Jason, I think you better work on this, too.

  Check out that confession both ways from the middle. Keisman, were you ab
le to find out where Gerber was drinking the night of the murder?"

  "Negative, sir. I talked to three or four bartenders who know him-they all say he's strictly bad news-but none of them can remember whether or not he came in that Friday night. After all, it was weeks ago."

  Delaney nodded, looking down at his clasped hands. He was quiet a long moment, then he spoke in a low voice without raising his eyes.

  "Do me a favor, Jason. There's got to be a counseling service for Vietnam veterans somewhere in town. A therapy clinic maybe, or just a place where he can go and talk with other vets. See if you can get some help for him, will you? I hate to see that guy go down the drain. Even if he didn't zap Ellerbee, he's heading for bad trouble."

  "Yes, sir," Jason Two said.

  "I'll try."

  After they left, Delaney went back to the study and added a report on Harold Gerber's confession to his file. Another fact or fantasy to be considered. He thought it was fantasy, not because Gerber wasn't capable of murder but because Delaney just couldn't believe the Ellerbee case would break that easily and that simply.

  Maybe, he admitted ruefully, he didn't want it to. It would be as disappointing as a game called off because of rain. If he was absolutely honest, he'd concede he was enjoying the investigation. Which proved there was life in the old dog yet.

  Another person who was enjoying the search for Simon Ellerbee's killer was Detective Helen K. Venable. For the first time in her career she was on her own, not saddled with a male partner who insisted on giving her unwanted and unneeded advice or asked her raunchy questions about her sex life.

  I Also, she felt a strong affinity for Joan Yesell. Venable was younger than the Yesell woman, but she too had a bitch of a mother, lacked a special man in her life, and sometimes felt so lonely she could cry-but not try to slash her wrists; things never got that bad.

  She had talked to Joan twice, and thought they hit it off well, even though that bulldog mother was present at both meetings and kept interrupting. Venable asked the same questions that Delaney and Boone had asked, and got the same answers. She also asked a few extras.

  "Joan," she said, "did you ever meet Simon Ellerbee's wife, Diane?"

  "I met her once," Yesell said nervously.

  "While I was waiting for my appointment."

  "I hear she's stunning. Is she?"

  "Oh, yes! She's beautiful."

  "In a hard sort of way," Mrs. Blanche Yesell said.

  "Oh?" the detective said, turning to the mother.

  "Then you've met her, too?"

  "Well… no," Mrs. Yesell said, flustered.

  "But from what my Joan says…"

  "I've never seen Diane," Venable said to the daughter.

  "Can you describe her?"

  "Tall," Joan Yesell said, "slender and very elegant. A natural blonde.

  She was wearing her hair up when I met her. She looked like a queen-just lovely."

  "Humph," Mrs. Yesell said.

  "She's not so much."

  Following orders, Venable included this little byplay in her report to Boone, although she didn't think it meant a thing.

  Neither did the Sergeant, who initialed the report and forwarded it to Delaney, who made no judgment but filed the report away.

  On the Friday night following Thanksgiving, restless in her Flatbush apartment and bored with her mother's chittering about the latest scandal in the National Enquirer, Helen decided to drive over to Chelsea and have another talk with Joan Yesell.

  She phoned first, but the line was busy and she didn't bother calling again. She got into her little Honda and headed for or New York-which was what most Brooklynites called Manhattan. She had nothing special in mind to ask Joan Yesell; it was,just a fishing expedition. And also, she was lonely.

  Helen was happy to find Mrs. Yesell out. Joan seemed delighted to see the detective. She made them a pot of tea and brought out a plate of powdered doughnuts. They were comfortable with each other and chatted easily about what they had eaten for Thanksgiving dinner. Then Helen asked, "How's the wrist coming along?"

  "Better, thank you," Joan said.

  "I'm getting strength back in my fingers. I exercise by squeezing a rubber ball. The doctor said he'll take the bandage off next week, but he wants me to wear an elastic strap for a while."

  "The next time you feel like doing something like that, will you call me first?"

  "All right," Joan said faintly.

  "Promise?"

  "I promise."

  Then the talk got around to tyrannical mothers, and they traded anecdotes, each trying to outdo the other with tales of outrageous maternal despotism.

  "I've got to get my own place," Helen said, "or I'm going to go right up the wall. The only trouble is, I can't afford it.

  You know what rents are like today."

  "I'd love to get out, too," Joan said forlornly. Then she suddenly brightened.

  "Listen, I make a good salary. Do you think we might take a place together?"

  "That's an idea…" the detective said cautiously. She liked Joan and thought they would get along, but even if she were ruled out as a suspect it was possible her problems would be too severe for Helen to live with.

  Still, they talked for a while about where they'd like to live (Manhattan), the kind of place they'd need (preferably a twobedroom apartment), and how much rent they could afford.

  "I'll need a desk," Venable said.

  "For my typewriter and reports."

  "I'll want at least one cat," Joan said.

  "I have some furniture. My bed is mine."

  "I don't own any of these things," Joan said, looking around at the overstuffed apartment.

  "And even if I did, I wouldn't want any of it for my own place. Our own place. I hate all this; it's so suffocating. You should see the Ellerbees' home; it's beautiful!"

  "His office, too?"

  "Well, that was very-you know, sort of empty. I mean, it was all right, but very white and efficient. Almost cold."

  "Was he like that?"

  "Oh, no. Doctor Simon was a very warm man. Very human."

  "Which reminds me," Helen said, "if you and I ever do get an apartment together, what about men? Would you object if I brought a man home-for the night?"

  Yesell hesitated.

  "Not if we had separate bedrooms. Do you do that often?"

  "Bring a guy home to my place? Are you kidding? If I did that, my mother would have one of her famous nosebleeds.

  No, the only times I've been with men have been at their place, in cars, and once at a motel." Joan said nothing, but lowered her eyes. She touched the bandage on her left wrist lightly. The two, like enough to pass as sisters, sat in silence awhile, the detective staring at the bowed head of the other woman.

  "Joan," she said gently, "you're not a virgin, are you?"

  "Oh, no," Yesell said quickly.

  "I've been with a man."

  "A man? One man?"

  "No. More than one."

  "But it never lasted?"

  Joan shook her head.

  "No," Helen said, "it never does-the bastards!" Then, because she could see that Joan was depressed by this kind of talk, she changed the subject.

  "I wish I had your figure. But I've got a weight problem and these doughnuts aren't helping They talked about diets and aerobic dancing and jogging for a while and then got into clothes and how difficult it was to find anything nice at a decent price. After about an hour, the doughnut plate being empty, the detective rose to leave.

  "Take care of yourself, kiddo," she said, leaning forward to kiss Joan's cheek.

  "I expect I'll be around again-it's my job-but don't be bashful about calling me if you're feeling blue. Maybe we could have a pizza together or take in a movie or something."

  "I'd like that," Joan said gratefully.

  "Thank you for dropping by, Helen."

  At the door, the detective, tugging her knitted cap down around her ears, said, "Where's Mama tonight-sowing some w
ild oats?"

  "Oh, no," Joan said, laughing, "nothing like that. She's at her bridge club. They're neighborhood women, and they get together every Friday night without fail. It usually breaks up around eleven, eleven-thirty."

  "I wish my old lady would get out of the house occasionally," Helen grumbled.

  "One night without her is like a weekend in the country."

  She was halfway down the stairs when it hit her, and she started trembling.

  She didn't stop shaking until she got into the Honda, locked the doors, and took a deep breath. She sat there in the darkness, gripping the wheel, thinking of the implications of what she had just heard.

  She knew Joan Yesell's alibi: She had come home from work at about 6:00 on the Friday night Simon Ellerbee was killed, and had never left the house. Her mother had said yes, that was true.

  But now here was mommy dearest out to play bridge every Friday night and not returning until 11:00 or 11:30. That would give Joan plenty of time to get up to East 84th Street and get home again before her mother returned.

  And why was Mrs. Blanche Yesell lying? Because she was trying to protect "my Joan."

  Wait a minute, Detective Venable warned herself. If Mama's bridge club was like most of them, they'd rotate meeting places, with each player acting as hostess in turn.

  Maybe on the murder night they all met and played bridge in the Yesells' apartment.

  But if that was so, why hadn't Joan or her mother mentioned it? It would have given them three more witnesses to Joan's presence that night.

  No, Mrs. Blanche Yesell had gone elsewhere for her weekly bridge game.

  But what if there was no game that night? It was raining so hard, maybe they decided to call it off, and Mrs. Yesell really was at home, playing two-handed bridge with her daughter.

  Helen leaned forward, resting her forehead on the rim of the steering wheel, trying to figure out what to do next. First of all, she wasn't about to throw poor Joan to the wolves. Not yet. Second of all, she wasn't about to turn over a juicy lead like this to one of the men and let him grab the glory.

  It had happened to her too many times in the past. She'd uncover something hot in an investigation and they'd take the follow-up away from her, saying in the kindliest way imaginable, "Helen, that's nice going, but we'll want a guy with more experience to handle it."