"I had a headache," she said faintly.
"A migraine. I went to bed early."
"How early?"
"About eight-thirty I think it was."
"On the night Ellerbee was killed?"
"Yes."
"Your husband was here then?"
"Yes.
"You went into the bedroom?"
"Yes.
"Did you close the door?"
"Yes. He was watching television."
"Did you sleep?"
"Well, I took my medicine. It makes me very drowsy."
"So you slept?"
"Sort of."
"What time did you get up?"
"I got up around eleven to go to the bathroom." She wouldn't look at him when she said that.
"At eleven," Hogan repeated.
"Was your husband here then?"
"Yes, he was," she said defiantly.
"I saw him."
"But you didn't see him from eight-thirty to eleven?"
She began to cry, small tears sliding down her cheeks.
"Don't yell at me," she said, choking.
"Please."
"Answer my question. Otherwise I'll take you downtown."
"No!" she screamed at him.
"I didn't see him from eight-thirty to eleven."
Got him! Detective Timothy Hogan thought with savage satisfaction.
He drove back to 18th Street, delighted with his coup and hoping he hadn't lost Bellsey to mar the triumph. But the white Cadillac was still outside the meat market. Hogan parked nearby where he could watch the door. He urinated into an empty milk carton he always brought along on stakeouts for emergencies.
He sat there all day, getting hungrier and hungrier, and cursing his failure to buy a sandwich, candy bar, coffee anything. He went through almost a pack of cigarettes, but the son of a bitch still didn't come out.
"What the hell is he doing in there?" the detective said aloud. And having said it, began to dream of what the market contained: steaks, chops, ground meat, chickens. It made him faint to think about it, he was so ravenous.
He dozed off a couple of times, but when he jerked awake, the Cadillac was still there. Hogan stuck it out, trying to keep himself alert by recalling the interrogation of Mrs. Lama Bellsey and planning how he would word it in his report: play down the threats, play up the subtlety of his questions. it was almost 8:45 P.m.-the streetlights on-when Bellsey came out of the meat market with two other guys. They stood joking, laughing, pushing each other. Hogan wondered if they had been boozing.
Finally they separated. Bellsey got in his car and took off.
Hogan followed him up Eighth Avenue, sticking close in the heavy traffic, not wanting to lose him after sitting for so many hours and nearly dying of hunger.
Bellsey hung a left on 53rd Street and headed for the river through a darkened factory and warehouse district. Where the hell is he going?
Hogan puzzled, and dropped back a halfblock as traffic thinned. The Cadillac turned onto Eleventh Avenue and went two blocks, slowing. Then Bellsey found a parking slot and pulled in.
Beautiful, Hogan thought. It was a great neighborhood-if your life insurance was paid up.
He cruised along slowly and saw the subject go into a tavern. The street lighting wasn't the brightest, but Hogan could make out the name of the place: TAIL of THE whale. Charming. Why didn't they call it Moby's Dick and be done with it?
He parked and walked back. The windows were steamed up, and he couldn't see inside, but it looked like a seaman's bar, a boilermaker joint, and if you asked for an extra-dry martini with two olives, they'd look at you with loathing and throw your ass out on the street.
He couldn't make up his mind whether to go in, wait in his car for Bellsey to come out, or just scratch the day and go home. What decided him was a big sign over the door: FRANKS, BURGERS, CHILI DOGS, HOT SANDWICHES. He went in.
It was about what he figured: a real bucket of blood. White tiled walls slick with grease. An old-fashioned mahogany bar on one side, tables and booths on the other. A TV set suspended from the tin ceiling on chains.
Lighted jukebox and cigarette machine. In the back, a grill and steam table presided over by a fat black who was dripping sweat onto the sausages.
Hogan saw Bellsey at the bar, talking to two other guys. It looked like they were all working on doubles. The detective slid into an empty booth across the room and started on a new pack of cigarettes. He looked around.
A good crowd for so early in the evening; by midnight it would probably be jammed. Bellsey was the best-dressed man in the joint. Most of the others looked like cruds: construction workers in hard hats, seamen with stocking caps, a sprinkling of derelicts. There was one bum facedown on a table, sleeping off a drunk.
Hogan couldn't figure why a moneyed guy like Bellsey would patronize a grungy joint Re this-until he saw that the wall behind the bar was covered with framed and autographed photos of boxers: dead ones, old ones, new ones-all in trunks, gloved, posed in attitudes of ferocious attack.
Big Tim remembered that Jason had said Bellsey was an ex-pug, so he probably dropped in here to gas about fights and fighters. The guys he was talking to, and the bartender, had all the stigmata: hunched shoulders, bent noses, cauliflower ears.
They looked like they could chew up Timothy Hogan and spit him over the left-field fence.
"Yeah?"
He looked up, startled. A waitress was slouched by his booth. She was an old dame with lumpy legs encased in thick elastic stockings. There was a heavy welt on her chin with two wiry black hairs sticking out.
"What kind of bottled beer you got?" he asked her.
"Bud, Miller, Heineken."
"I'll have a Bud and a burger."
"Okay.
"Make the burger rare."
"Lotsa luck," she said dourly and shuffled away.
He had two hamburgers-so bad that he would have walked out after the first bite if he hadn't been so hungry.
Even the dill pickle was lousy. How in hell could a cook spoil a pickle'?
He saw that Bellsey was alone now, talking to the bartender. Hogan carried his second bottle of beer and glass over to the bar and took a nearby stool. The two men were arguing about who had the better right hook, Dempsey or Louis.
Hogan took a swallow of beer.
"What about Marciano?" he said loudly.
Bellsey turned slowly to look at him.
"Who the fuck asked you?" he demanded.
"I was just-, the detective started.
"Just butt out," the other man advised.
"This is a private conversation."
If Timothy Hogan had had any sense, he'd have stopped right there, finished his beer, paid his bill, and left. He could see his first guess had been right: Bellsey had been boozing that afternoon, maybe all day, and was carrying a load.
He wasn't swaying or slurring his speech or anything like that, but his eyes were shrunken and bloodshot, and he was leaning forward with a truculent chin thrust out. He looked ready and eager to climb into a ring and go ten.
"What the hell you staring at?" Bellsey said to him.
"You piece of shit."
Hogan reached casually inside his jacket to touch his holster. He knew it was there, but he wanted to make sure.
"Take it easy," he said to Bellsey.
"I don't like talk like that."
"Well, fuck you, fatso," Bellsey said.
"You don't like it, wheel your ass somewhere else."
"Hey, Ron," the bartender said in a raspy voice, "cool it.
More trouble I don't need."
By this time the bar had quieted. Everyone seemed to have his head down, staring into his drink. But they were all listening.
"No trouble, Eddie," Bellsey said.
"Not from this little shithead."
"Mister," the bartender said to Hogan, "do me a favor: Finish your beer, pay up, and try another joint. Please."
It gave the detective an out,
and finally he had enough sense to take it. He finished his beer, put a bill on the bar.
"What kind of a place you running here?" he said aggrievedly and stalked toward the door.
"Asshole!" Bellsey yelled after him.
Hogan walked toward his car, thinking the subject was a real psycho and an odds-on favorite for having bashed Ellerbee's skull. He was so intent on planning what he was going to put in his report to Jason T. Jason that he didn't hear the soft footfalls behind him.
The first punch was to his kidneys and felt like someone had swung a sledgehammer. He went stumbling forward, mouth open, gasping for air. He tried to grab at a trash can for support, but a left hook crunched into his ribs just below the heart, and he went down into the gutter, fumbling at his holster.
Heavy shoes were thudding into his gut, his head, and he tried to cover his eyes with folded arms. It went on and on, and he vomited up the beer and burgers. Just before he lost consciousness he was certain he was gone, and Wondered why he was dying in a street like this, his vital report unwritten.
A different report from Roosevelt Hospital went up and down the chain of police command, and eventually a blue working the case called Jason. He, in turn, alerted Boone. By midnight, the two of them were at Roosevelt, talking to doctors and guys from Midtown North, trying to collect as much information as they could before taking it to Edward X. Delaney.
They woke him up a little after 5:00 A.M. Sunday morning and related what had happened. He told them to come over as soon as possible. He said he'd have coffee for them.
"What is it, Edward?" Monica said drowsily from her bed.
I'll tell you later," he said.
"Boone and Jason are coming over for a few minutes. You go back to sleep."
When they arrived, he took them into the kitchen. He was wearing his old flannel bathrobe with the frayed cord. His short hair spiked up like a cactus.
He had used the six-cup percolator and put a tray of frozen blueberry muffins in the oven. They sat around the kitchen table, sipping the steamy black coffee and munching on muffins while Sergeant Boone reported what had happened.
A squad car on patrol had spotted Detective Timothy Hogan lying semiconscious in the gutter and had called for an ambulance. It wasn't until they got him to Roosevelt Emergency that they found his ID and knew that one of New York's Finest had been assaulted.
"He had his ID?" Delaney said sharply.
"Yes, sir," Boone said.
"And his gun."
"And his wallet," Jason added.
"Nothing missing. It wasn't one of your ordinary, everyday muggings."
"But he's going to be all right?"
"Oh, hell, yes," Boone said.
"Cracked ribs, bruised kidneys, a gorgeous shiner, and assorted cuts and abrasions. He looks like he's been through a meat grinder-stomped up something fierce."
"I think his pride was hurt more than anything else," Jason offered.
"It should be," Delaney said grurripily.
"Letting himself be jumped like that. You talked to him?" -For a while,"
Boone said.
"They got him shot full of painkillers so he wasn't too coherent."
He told Delaney what they had been able to drag out of a groggy Timothy Hogan: How he had made Mrs. Lama Bellsey admit she was asleep and could not swear that her husband was home from, eight-thirty to eleven o'clock on the murder night.
How he had followed Bellsey up to the Tail of the Whale on Eleventh Avenue and gotten into a hassle with him at the bar.
How he was unexpectedly attacked while he was returning to his car.
"He swears it was Ronald Bellsey," Boone said.
"He saw him?" Delaney demanded.
"He can positively identify him?"
"Well… no," Boone said regretfully.
"He didn't get a look at the perp, and apparently no words were spoken."
"Jesus Christ!" Delaney said disgustedly.
"Can you think of any mistakes Hogan didn't make? Did the investigating officers go back to the bar what's its name?"
"Tail of the Whale. Yes, sir, they covered that bar and four others in the area. No one saw anything, no one heard anything, no one knows Ronald J. Bellsey or anyone resembling him. And no one admits seeing Tim Hogan either.
It's a blank."
"You want us to pull Bellsey in, sir?" Jason Two asked.
"For questioning?"
"What the hell for?" Delaney said irritably.
"He'll just deny, deny, deny. And even if we get the bartender and customers to admit there was a squabble in the Tail of the Whale, that's no evidence that Bellsey put the boots to Hogan. I'm going to call Suarez in a couple of hours and ask him to put a lid on this thing.
We'll go at Bellsey from a different angle."
Sergeant Boone took folded papers from his inside jacket pocket and handed them to Delaney.
"Benny Calazo stopped by my place last night and dropped off this report. He says that in his opinion, Isaac Kane is clean."
"You trust his opinion?" Delaney said sharply.
"Absolutely, sir. If Calazo says the kid is clean, then he is.
Ben has been around a long time and doesn't goof. I was thinking…
Hogan's going to be on sick leave for at least a month. How about putting Calazo onto Bellsey? If anyone can put the skids under that bastard, Ben will do it."
"Fine with me," Delaney said.
"Brief him on Bellsey and tell him for God's sake not to turn his back on the guy. Jason, you're still working with Keisman on Harold Gerber's confession?"
"Yes, sir. Nothing new to report."
"Keep at it. There's one blueberry muffin left; who wants it?" I'll take it," Jason Two said promptly.
"I could OD on those little beauties."
After they were gone, Delaney sat at the kitchen table and finished his lukewarm coffee, too keyed-up to go back to bed.
He reflected on the latest developments and decided he had very little sympathy for Detective Timothy Hogan. You paid for your stupidity in this world one way or another.
He rinsed out the cups and saucers, set them in the rack to dry, cleaned up the kitchen. He took Calazo's report on Isaac into the study and put on his glasses. He read slowly and with enjoyment. Calazo had a pungent style of writing that avoided the usual Department gibberish.
When he finished, Delaney put the report aside and lighted a cigar. He pondered not so much the facts Calazo had recounted but what he had implied.
The detective (covering his ass) had said there was a possibility he was wrong, but he believed Isaac Kane innocent of the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee. He was saying, in effect, that there were no perfect solutions, only judgments.
Edward X. Delaney knew that mind set well; it was his own. In the detection of crime, nothing cohered. It was an open-ended pursuit with definite answers left to faith. There was a religious element to detection: Rational investigation went only so far. Then came the giant step to belief for which there was no proof.
Which meant, of course, that the detective had to live with doubt and anxiety. If you couldn't do that, Delaney thought not for the first time you really should be in another line of business.
Detective Helen Venable was having a particularly severe attack of doubt and anxiety. She was uncertain of her own ability to establish the truth or falsity of Joan Yesell's alleged alibi without seeking the advice of her more experienced male colleagues.
She was nervous about her failure to report Mrs. Blanche Yesell's possible absence from her apartment on the murder night. She was worried that there were inquiries she should be making that she was not. And she fretted that an entire week had to pass before she could confirm or deny the existence of the stupid bridge club.
But her strongest doubt was a growing disbelief in Joan's guilt. That soft, feeling, quiet woman, so overwhelmed by the hard, brutal, raucous world of Manhattan, was incapable of crushing the skull of a man she professed to admire. Or so Detecti
ve Venable thought.
She met with Joan every day, spoke to her frequently on the phone, went out with her Monday night for a spaghetti dinner and to a movie on Thursday afternoon. The closer their relationship became, the more Helen was convinced of the woman's innocence.
Joan was almost physically sickened by the filth and ugliness of city streets. She was horrified and depressed by violence in any form. She could not endure the thought of cruelty to animals. The sight of a dead sparrow made her weep. She never objected to Helen's squad room profanity, but the detective could see her wince.
"Kiddo," Venable told her, "you're too good for this world.
Angels finish last."
"I don't think I'm an angel," Joan said slowly.
"Far from it. I do awful, stupid things, like everyone else. Sometimes I get so furious with Mama that I could scream. You think I'm goody-goody, but I'm not."
"Compared to me," Helen said, "you're a saint."
Frequently, during that week, the detective brought the talk around to Dr. Simon Ellerbee. Joan seemed iilling, almost eager, to speak of him.
"He meant so much to me," she said.
"He was the only therapist I ever went to, and I knew right from the start that he would help me. I could see he'd never be shocked or offended by anything I'd tell him. He'd just listen in that nice, sympathetic way of his. I'd never hold back from him because I knew I could trust him. I think he was the first man-the first person-I really and truly trusted. We were so close. I had the feeling that things that hurt me hurt him, too. I suppose psychiatrists are like that to all their patients, but Doctor Simon made me feel like someone special."
"Sounds like quite a guy," Venable said.
"Oh, he was. I'm going to tell you something, but you must promise never to tell anyone. Promise?"
"Of course."
"Well, sometimes I used to daydream about Doctor Simon's wife dying.
Like in a plane crash-you know? Quick and painless. Then he and I would get married. I imagined what it would be like seeing him every day, living with him, spending,the rest of my life with him."
"Sounds to me like you were in love with him, honey."
"I suppose I was," Yesell said sorrowfully.
"I guess all his patients were. You call me a saint; he was the real saint."
Another time she herself brought up the subject of the murder: "Are. the police getting anywhere?" she asked Venable.
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