Fourth Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Well, Edward? Will you help us?”

  Delaney shifted his heavy bulk uncomfortably. “If I do—and you notice I say if—I don’t know how it could be done. I don’t have a shield. I can’t go around questioning people or rousting them. For God’s sake, Ivar, I’m a lousy civilian.”

  “It can be worked out,” Thorsen said stubbornly. “The first thing is to persuade you to take the case.”

  Delaney drew a deep breath, then blew it out. “Tell you what,” he said. “Before I give you a yes or no, let me talk to Suarez. If we can’t get along, then forget it. If we hit it off, then I’ll consider it. I know that’s not the answer you want, but it’s all you’re going to get at the moment.”

  “It’s good enough for me,” the Deputy said promptly. “I’ll call Suarez, set up the meet, and get back to you. Thank you, Edward.”

  “For what?”

  “For the scotch,” Thorsen said. “What else?”

  After the Admiral left, Delaney went back into the kitchen. Monica had gone, but there was a note on me refrigerator door, held in place with a little magnetic pig. “Roast duck with walnuts and cassis for dinner. Be back in two hours. Don’t eat too many sandwiches.”

  He smiled at that. But they usually dined at 7:00 P.M. , and it was then barely 1:30. One sandwich was certainly not going to spoil his appetite for roast duck. Or even two sandwiches, for that matter.

  But he settled for one—which he called his U.N. Special: Norwegian brisling sardines in Italian olive oil heaped on German schwarzbrot, with a layer of thinly sliced Spanish onion and a dollop of French dressing.

  He ate this construction while leaning over the sink so it would be easy to rinse the drippings away. And with the sandwich, to preserve the international flavor, he had a bottle of Canadian Molson ale. Finished, the kitchen restored to neatness, he went down into the basement to find the newspapers of the last two days and read again about the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee.

  Shortly after midnight, Monica went up to their second-floor bedroom. Delaney made his customary rounds, turning off lights and checking window and door locks. Even those in the empty bedrooms where his children by his first wife, Barbara (now deceased), had slept—rooms later occupied by Monica’s two daughters.

  Then he returned to the master bedroom. Monica, naked, was seated at the dresser, brushing her thick black hair. Delaney perched on the edge of his bed, finished his cigar, and watched her, smiling with pleasure. They conversed in an intimate shorthand:

  “Hear from the girls?” he asked.

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Should we call?”

  “Not yet.”

  “We’ve got to start thinking about Christmas.”

  “I’ll buy the cards if you’ll write the notes.”

  “You want to shower first?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Rub my back?”

  “Later. Leave me a dry towel.”

  The only light in the room came from a lamp on the bedside table. The tinted silk shade gave the illumination a rosy glow. Delaney watched the play of light on his wife’s strong back as she raised her arms to brush, religiously, one hundred times.

  She was a stalwart woman with a no-nonsense body: wide shoulders and hips, heavy bosom, and a respectable waist. Muscular legs tapered to slender ankles. There was a warm solidity about her that Delaney cherished. He reflected, not for the first time, how lucky he had been with women: first Barbara and now Monica—two joys.

  She took up her flannel robe and went into the bathroom, pausing to glance over her shoulder and wink at him. When he heard the shower start, he began to undress, slowly. He unlaced his high shoes, peeled off the white cotton socks. He removed the heavy gold chain and hunter from his vest. The chunky chain had been his grandfather’s, the pocket watch his father’s. It had stopped fifty years ago; Delaney had no desire to have it started again.

  Off came the dark suit of cheviot as coarse as an army blanket. White shirt with starched collar. Silk rep tie in a muted purple, like a dusty stained-glass window. He hung everything carefully away, moving about the bedroom in underdrawers as long as Bermuda shorts and balbriggan undershirt with cap sleeves.

  Monica called him a mastodon, and he supposed he was. There was a belly now—not big, but it was there. There was a layer of new fat over old muscle. But the legs were still strong enough to run, and the shoulders and arms powerful enough to deal a killing blow.

  He had come to an acceptance of age. Not what it did to his mind, for he was convinced that was as sharp as ever. Sharper. Honed by experience and reflection. But the body, undeniably, was going. Still, it was no good remembering when he was a young cop and could scamper up a fire escape, leap an airshaft, or punch out some gorilla who wanted to remake his face.

  His face … The lines were deeper now, the features ruder—everything beginning to look like it had been hacked from an oak stump with a dull hatchet. But the gray hair, cut en brosse, was still thick, and Doc Hagstrom assured him once a year that the ticker was still pumping away sturdily.

  Monica came out of the bathroom in her robe, sat again at the dresser, and began to cream her face. He headed for the shower, pausing to touch her shoulder with one finger. Just a touch.

  He bathed swiftly, shampooed his stiff hair. Then he put on his pajamas—light cotton flannel, the pants with a drawstring waist, the coat buttoned as precisely as a Norfolk jacket.

  When he came out, Monica was already in her bed, sitting up, back propped with pillows. She had taken the bottle of Rémy from the bedside table and poured them each a whack of the cognac in small crystal snifters.

  “Bless you,” he said.

  “You smell nice,” she said.

  “Nothing but soap.”

  He turned down the thermostat, opened the window a few inches. Then he got into his own bed, propping himself up as she had done.

  “So tell me,” she said.

  “Tell me what?” he asked, wide-eyed.

  “Bastard,” she said. “You know very well. What did Ivar Thorsen want?”

  He told her. She listened intently.

  “Ivar’s done a lot for me,” he concluded.

  “And you’ve done a lot for him.”

  “We’re friends,” he said. “Who keeps score?”

  “Diane Ellerbee,” she said. “The wife—the widow of the man who was killed—I know her.”

  “You know her?” he said, astonished.

  “Well, maybe not know—but I met her. She addressed one of my groups. Her subject was the attraction between young girls and horses.”

  “Horses?”

  “Edward, it’s not a joke. Young girls are attracted to horses. They love to ride and groom them.”

  “And how did Mrs. Diane Ellerbee explain this?”

  “Dr. Diane Ellerbee. There was a lot of Freud in it—and other things. I’ll dig out my notes if you’re interested.”

  “Not really. What did you think of her?”

  “Very intelligent, very eloquent. And possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Breathtaking.”

  “That’s what Ivar said.”

  They were silent a few moments, sipping their cognacs, reflecting.

  “You’re going to do it?” she asked finally.

  “Well, as I said, I want to talk to Suarez first. If we can get along, and work out a way I can act like a, uh, consultant, maybe I will. It might be interesting. What do you think?”

  She turned onto her side to look at him. “Edward, if it was a poor nobody who got murdered, would Ivar and the Department be going to all this trouble?”

  “Probably not,” he admitted. “The victim was a white male WASP. Wealthy, educated, influential. His widow has been raising hell with the Department, and his father, who has mucho clout, has been raising double-hell. So the Department is calling up all the troops.”

  “Do you think that’s fair?”

  “Monica,” he said patiently, “suppose a junkie w
ith a snootful of shit is found murdered in an alley. The clunk has a sheet as long as your arm, and he’s a prime suspect in muggings, robberies, rapes, and God knows what else. Do you really want the Department to spend valuable man-hours trying to find out who burned him? Come on! They’re delighted that garbage like that is off the streets.”

  “I suppose …” she said slowly. “But it just doesn’t seem right that the rich and influential get all the attention.”

  “Go change the world,” he said. “It’s always been like that, and always will. I know you think everyone is equal. Maybe we all are—in God’s eyes and under the law. But it’s not as clear-cut as that. Some people try to be good, decent human beings, and some are evil scum. The cops, with limited budgets and limited personnel, recognize that. Is it so unusual or outrageous that they’ll spend more time and effort protecting the angels than the devils?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, troubled. “It sounds like elitism to me. Besides, how do you know Dr. Simon Ellerbee was an angel?”

  “I don’t. But he doesn’t sound like a devil, either.”

  “You’re really fascinated by all this, aren’t you?”

  “Just something to do,” he said casually.

  “I have a better idea of something to do,” she said, fluttering her eyes.

  “I’m game,” he said, smiling.

  3

  THE SMALL, NARROW TOWNHOUSE on East 84th Street, between York and East End Avenues, was jointly owned by Drs. Diane and Simon Ellerbee. After its purchase in 1976, they had spent more than $100,000 on renovations, stripping the pine paneling of eleven layers of paint, restoring the handsome staircase, and redesigning the interior to provide four useful floor-throughs.

  The first level, up three stone steps from the sidewalk, was occupied by the Piedmont Gallery. It exhibited and sold hand-woven fabrics, quilts, and primitive American pottery. It was not a profitable enterprise, but was operated almost as a hobby by two prim, elderly ladies who obviously didn’t need income from this commercial venture.

  The offices of Dr. Diane Ellerbee were on the second floor, and those of Dr. Simon Ellerbee on the third. Both floors had been remodeled to include living quarters. Living room, dining room, and kitchen were on the second; two bedrooms and sitting room on the third. Each floor had two bathrooms.

  The professional suites on both floors were almost identical: a small outer office for a receptionist and a large, roomy inner office for the doctor. The offices of Drs. Diane and Simon Ellerbee were connected by intercom.

  The fourth and top floor of the townhouse was a private apartment, leased as a pied-à-terre by a West Coast filmmaker who was rarely in residence.

  In addition to the townhouse, the Ellerbees owned a country home near Brewster, New York. It was a brick and stucco Tudor on 4.5 wooded acres bisected by a swift-running stream. The main house had two master bedrooms on the ground floor and two guest bedrooms on the second. A three-car garage was attached. In the rear of the house was a tiled patio and heated swimming pool.

  Both the Ellerbees were avid gardeners, and their English garden was one of the showplaces of the neighborhood. They employed a married couple, Polish immigrants, who lived out. The husband served as groundsman and did maintenance. The wife worked as housekeeper and, occasionally, cook.

  It was the Ellerbees’ custom to stay in their East 84th Street townhouse weekdays—and, on rare occasions, on Saturday. They usually left for Brewster on Friday evening and returned to Manhattan on Sunday night. Both spent the entire month of August at their country home.

  The Ellerbees owned three cars. Dr. Simon drove a new bottle-green Jaguar XJ6 sedan, Dr. Diane a 1971 silver and black Mercedes-Benz SEL 3.5. Both these cars were customarily garaged in Manhattan. The third vehicle, a Jeep station wagon, was kept at their Brewster home.

  On the Friday Dr. Simon Ellerbee was murdered, he told his wife—according to her statement to the police—that he had scheduled an evening patient. He suggested she drive back to Brewster as soon as she was free, and he would follow later. He said he planned to leave by 9:00 P.M. at the latest.

  Dr. Diane said she left Manhattan at approximately 6:30 P.M. She described the drive north as “ferocious” because of the 40 mph wind and heavy rain. She arrived at their country home about 8:00 P.M. Because of the storm, she guessed her husband would be delayed, but expected him by 10:30 or 11:00.

  By 11:30, she stated she was concerned by his absence and called his office. There was no reply. She called two more times with the same result. Around midnight, she called the Brewster police station, asking if they had any report of a car accident involving a Jaguar XJ6 sedan. They had not.

  Becoming increasingly worried, she phoned the Manhattan garage where the Ellerbees kept their cars. After a wait of several minutes, the night attendant reported that Dr. Simon Ellerbee’s Jaguar had not been taken out; it was still in its slot.

  “I was getting frantic,” she later told detectives. “I thought he might have been mugged walking to the garage. It happened once before.”

  So, at approximately 1:15 A.M., Dr. Diane Called Dr. Julius K. Samuelson. He was also a psychiatrist, a widower, and close friend and frequent houseguest of the Ellerbees. Dr. Samuelson was also president of the Greater New York Psychiatric Association. He lived in a cooperative apartment at 79th Street and Madison Avenue.

  Samuelson was not awakened by Diane Ellerbee’s phone call, having recently returned from a concert by the Stuttgart String Ensemble at Carnegie Hall. When Dr. Diane explained the situation, he immediately agreed to taxi to the Ellerbees’ house and try to find Dr. Simon or see if anything was amiss.

  Samuelson stated he arrived at the East 84th Street townhouse at about 1:45 A.M. He asked the cabdriver to wait. It was still raining heavily. He stepped from the cab into a streaming gutter, then hurried across the sidewalk and up the three steps to the front entrance. He found the door ajar.

  “Not wide open,” he told detectives. “Maybe two or three inches.”

  Samuelson was fifty-six, a short, slender man, but not lacking in physical courage. He tramped determinedly up the dimly lighted, carpeted staircase to the offices of Dr. Simon on the third floor. He found the office door wide open. Within, he found the battered body.

  He checked first to make certain that Ellerbee was indeed dead. Then, using the phone on the receptionist’s desk, he dialed 911. The call was logged in at 1:54 A.M.

  All the above facts were included in New York City newspaper reports and on local TV newscasts following the murder.

  4

  DELANEY PLANTED HIMSELF ACROSS the street from Acting Chief Suarez’s house on East 87th, off Lexington Avenue. He squinted at it, knowing exactly how it was laid out; he had grown up in a building much like that one.

  It was a six-story brownstone, with a flight of eight stone steps, called a stoop, leading to the front entrance. Originally, such a building was an old-law tenement with two railroad flats on each floor, running front to back, with almost every room opening onto a long hallway.

  “Cold-water flats,” they were sometimes called. Not because there was no hot water; there was if you had a humane landlord. But the covered bathtub was in a corner of the kitchen, and the toilet was out in the hall, serving the two apartments.

  Not too many brownstones like that left in Manhattan. They were being demolished for glass and concrete high-rise co-ops or being purchased at horrendous prices in the process called “gentrification,” and converted into something that would warrant a six-page, four-color spread in Architectural Digest.

  Edward X. Delaney wasn’t certain that was progress—but it sure as hell was change. And if you were against change, you had to mourn for the dear, departed days when all of Manhattan was a cow pasture. Still, he allowed himself a small pang of nostalgia, remembering his boyhood in a building much like the one across the street.

  He saw immediately that the people who lived there were waging a valiant battle against the city’s bl
ight. No graffiti. Washed windows and clean curtains. Potted ivy at the top of the stoop (the pots chained to the railing). The plastic garbage cans in the areaway were clean and had lids. All in all, a neat, snug building with an air of modest prosperity.

  Delaney lumbered across the street, thinking it was an offbeat home for an Acting Chief of the NYPD. Most of the Department’s brass lived in Queens, or maybe Staten Island.

  The bell plate was polished and the intercom actually worked. When he pressed the 3-B button alongside the neatly typed name, M.R. SUAREZ, a childish voice piped, “Who is it?”

  “Edward X. Delaney here,” he said, leaning forward to speak into the little round grille.

  There was static, the sound of thumps, then the inner door lock buzzed, and he pushed his way in. He tramped up to the third floor.

  The man waiting for him at the opened apartment door was a Don Quixote figure: tall, thin, splintery, with an expression at once shy, deprecatory, rueful.

  “Mr. Delaney?” he said, holding out a bony hand. “I am Michael Ramon Suarez.”

  “Chief,” Delaney said. “Happy to make your acquaintance. I appreciate your letting me stop by; I know how busy you must be.”

  “It is an honor to have you visit my home, sir,” Suarez said with formal courtesy. “I hope it is no inconvenience for you. I would have come to you gladly.”

  Delaney knew that; in fact, Deputy Commissioner Thorsen had suggested it. But Delaney wanted to meet with the Acting Chief in his own home and get an idea of his life outside the Department: as good a way to judge a man as any.

  The apartment seemed mobbed with children—five of them ranging in age from three to ten. Delaney was introduced to them all: Michael, Jr., Maria, Joseph, Carlo, and Vita. And when Mrs. Rosa Suarez entered, she was carrying a baby, Thomas, in her arms.

  “Your own basketball team,” Delaney said, smiling. “With one substitute.”

  “Rosa wishes to try for a football team,” Suarez said dryly. “But there I draw the line.”

  They made their guest sit in the best chair, and, despite his protests that he had just dined, brought coffee and a platter of crisp pastries dusted with powdered sugar. The entire family, baby included, had coffee laced with condensed milk. Delaney took his black.