Fourth Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  Still, they talked for a while about where they’d like to live (Manhattan), the kind of place they’d need (preferably a two-bedroom 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 wild 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.”

  Bullshit! It was all hers, and this time she was going to track it down herself. Wasn’t that what a detective was supposed to do?

  She decided not to submit a report to Boone on the night’s conversation with Joan Yesell or even mention the mother’s Friday-night bridge club and how it was possible she was lying in confirming her daughter’s alibi. When Detective Venable checked it all out, then she’d report it. Until that time, all those more experienced guys could go screw.

  That same evening, one of those more experienced guys, Edward X. Delaney, was in a mellow mood. His irritation of the afternoon had disappeared with a dinner of pot roast, potato pancakes, and buttered carrots—all sluiced down his gullet with two bottles of dark Löwenbräu.

  Monica leaned forward to pat his vested stomach. “You ate everything on your plate except the flowers,” she said. “Feeling better?”

  “A lot better,” he affirmed. “Let’s just leave everything for now and have our coffee in the living room.”

  “There’s nothing to leave. We went through everything like a plague of locusts.”

  “I remember my mother used to say a good digestion is a blessing from heaven. Was she ever right.”

  In the living room, Monica said, “You don’t talk much about your mother.”

  “Well, she died when I was five; I told you that. So my memories are rather dim. I have some old snaps of her in the attic. I’ll dig them out one of these days. A lovely woman; you’ll see.”

  “What did she die of, Edward?”

  “In childbirth. So did the baby. My brother.”

  “Was he baptized?”

  “Of course. Terence. Terry.”

  “What was your father’s first name?”

  “Marion—believe it or not. He never remarried. So you and I are both only children.”

  “But we have each other.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Edward, why don’t you go to church anymore?”

  “Monica, why don’t you go to the synagogue anymore?”

  They both smiled.

  “A fine couple of heathens we are,” he said.

  “Not so,” she said. “I believe in God—don’t you?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Sometimes I think He’d like to be Deputy Commissioner Thorsen.”

  “You nut,” she said, laughing. “Want to watch the news on TV?”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll spend a nice relaxed evening for a change. I need a—”

  The phone rang.

  He got heavily to his feet. “There goes my nice relaxed evening,” he said. “Bet on it. I’ll take it in the study.”

  It was Dr. Diane Ellerbee.

  “Mr. Delaney,” she said, “I want to apologize for the way I spoke to you this morning. I realize you’re volunteering
your time, and I’m afraid I was rather hard on you.”

  “Not at all. I know how concerned you are. Sometimes it’s tough to be patient in a situation like this.”

  “I’m driving up to Brewster tonight,” she said. “To spend the weekend. There’s something I’d like to tell you that may or may not help your investigation. Would it be possible for me to stop by your home for a few minutes?”

  “Of course. We’ve finished dinner, so come whenever you like.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be there shortly.”

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

  “Oh, lord,” she said. “We’ve got to get the kitchen cleaned up. Are there fresh towels in the hall bathroom? Do I have time to change?”

  “To what?” he said. “You look fine just the way you are. And yes, there are fresh towels in the bathroom. Take it easy, babe; this isn’t a visit from the Queen of England.”

  But by the time Dr. Diane arrived, the kitchen was cleaned up, the living room straightened, and they were sitting stiffly, determined not to be awed by the visitor—and not quite succeeding.

  Diane Ellerbee was graciousness personified. She complimented them on their charming home, unerringly selected the finest piece in the living room to admire—a small Duncan Phyfe desk—and assured Delaney that the vodka gimlet he mixed for her was the best she had ever tasted.

  In fact, she played the grande dame so broadly that he made a cop’s instant judgment: The woman was nervous and wanted something. Having concluded that, he relaxed and watched her with a faint smile as she chatted with Monica.

  She was wearing a sweater and skirt of mushroom-colored wool, with high boots of buttery leather. No jewelry, other than a plain wedding band, and very little makeup. Her flaxen hair was down, and her classic features seemed softened, more vulnerable.

  “Mr. Delaney,” she said, turning to him, “was that list of patients I gave you any help?”

  “A great deal. They are all being investigated.”

  “I hope you didn’t tell them I gave you their names?”

  “Of course not. We merely said we’re questioning all your husband’s patients—which is true—and they accepted that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I still don’t feel right about picking out those six, but I wanted to help any way I could. Do you think one of them could have done it?”

  “I think possibly they are all capable of murder. But then, a lot of so-called normal people are, too.”

  “I really don’t know exactly how you go about investigating people,” she said with a confused little laugh. “Question them, I suppose.”

  “Oh, yes. And their families, friends, neighbors, employers, and so forth. We go back to them several times, asking the same questions over and over, trying to spot discrepancies.”

  “Sounds like a boring job.”

  “No,” he said, “it isn’t.”

  “Edward has the patience of a saint,” Monica said.

  “And the luck of the devil,” he added. “I hope.”

  The doctor laughed politely. “Does luck really have much to do with catching a criminal?”

  “Sometimes,” he said, nodding. “Usually it’s a matter of knocking on enough doors. But sometimes chance and accident take a hand, and you get a break you didn’t expect. The criminal can’t control luck, can he?”

  “But doesn’t it work the other way, too? I mean, doesn’t luck sometimes favor the criminal?”

  “Occasionally,” he agreed. “But it would be a very stupid criminal who depended on it. ‘The best laid schemes …’ and so on and so on.” He turned to Monica. “Who said that?” he asked her, smiling.

  “Shakespeare?” she ventured.

  “Robert Burns,” he said. “Shakespeare didn’t say everything.” He turned to Diane Ellerbee. “Now it’s your chance. Who wrote, ‘O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive!’?”

  “That was Shakespeare,” she said.

  “Sir Walter Scott,” he said, still smiling. “Did you say you had something to tell me, doctor?”

  “Oh, you’ll probably think it’s silly,” she said, “but it’s been bothering me, so I thought I’d tell you anyway. The first time you and Sergeant Boone came to see me, you asked a lot of questions, and I answered them to the best of my ability. After you left, I tried to remember everything I had said, to make sure I hadn’t unintentionally led you astray.”

  She paused.

  “And?” he said.

  “Well, it probably means nothing, but you asked if I had noticed any change in Simon over the last six months or year, and I said no. But then after thinking it over, I realized there had been a change. Perhaps it was so gradual that I really wasn’t aware of it.”

  “But now you feel there was a change?” Delaney asked.

  “Yes, I do. Thinking over this past year, I realize Simon had become—well, distant and preoccupied is the only way I can describe it. He had been very concerned about his patients, and I suppose at the time I thought it was just overwork that was bothering him. But yes, there was a change in him. I don’t imagine it means anything, but it disturbed me that I hadn’t given you a strictly accurate answer, so I thought I better tell you.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Delaney said gravely. “Like you, I don’t know if it means anything or not, but every little bit helps.”

  “Well!” Diane Ellerbee said, smiling brightly. “Now I do feel better, getting that off my conscience.”

  She drained her gimlet, set the glass aside, and rose. They stood up. She offered her hand to Monica.

  “Thank you so much for letting me barge in,” she said. “You have a lovely, lovely home. I wish the two of you would come up to Brewster soon and see our place. It’s hot at its best in winter but Simon and I worked so hard to make it something special, I’d like to have you see it. Could you do that?”

  “We’d be delighted,” Monica said promptly. “Thank you.”

  “Let’s wait for a weekend when no blizzards are predicted,” Diane Ellerbee said, laughing. “The first good Saturday—all right?”

  “We don’t have a car,” Delaney said. “Would you object if Sergeant Boone and his wife drove us up?”

  “Object? I’d love it! I have a marvelous cook, and Simon and I laid down some good wines. I enjoy having company, and frankly it’s lonely up there now. So let’s all plan on getting together.”

  “Whenever you say,” Monica said. “I’m sorry you have to leave so soon. Drive carefully.”

  “I always do,” Dr. Ellerbee said lightly. “Good night, all.”

  Delaney locked and bolted the front door behind her.

  “What an intelligent woman!” Monica said when he came back to the living room. “Isn’t she, Edward?”

  “She is that.”

  “You’d like to see her Brewster home, wouldn’t you?”

  “Very much. The Boones will drive us up. We’ll make a day of it.”

  “What she said about her husband changing—does that mean anything?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “She really is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “So beautiful,” he said solemnly, “that she scares me.”

  “Thanks a lot, buster,” she said. “I obviously don’t scare you.”

  “Obviously,” he said, and headed toward the study door.

  “Hey,” Monica said, “I thought you weren’t going to work tonight.”

  “Just for a while,” he said, frowning. “Some things I want to check.”

  17

  DETECTIVE BENJAMIN CALAZO WAS a month away from retirement and dreading it. He came from a family of policemen. His father had been a cop, his younger brother was a cop, and two uncles had been cops. The NYPD wasn’t just a job, it was a life.

  Calazo didn’t fish, play golf, or collect stamps. He had no hobbies at all, and no real interests outside the Department. What the hell was he going to do—move the wif
e to a mobile home in Lakeland, Florida, and play shuffleboard for the rest of his days?

  The Ellerbee case seemed like a good way to cap his career. He had worked with Sergeant Boone before, and knew he was an okay guy. Also, Boone’s father had been a street cop killed in the line of duty. Calazo had gone to the funeral, and you didn’t forget things like that.

  The detective had asked to be assigned to Isaac Kane for the reason he stated: His nephew was retarded, and he thought he knew something about handling handicapped kids. Calazo had three married daughters, and sometimes he wondered if they weren’t retarded when he was forced to have dinner with his sons-in-law—a trio of losers, Benny thought; not a cop in the lot.

  His first meeting with Isaac Kane went reasonably well. Calazo sat with him for almost three hours at the Community Center, admiring the kid’s pastel landscapes and talking easily about this and that.

  Every once in a while Calazo would spring a question about Dr. Simon Ellerbee. Isaac showed no hesitation in answering, and the subject didn’t seem to upset him. He told the detective pretty much what he had told Delaney and Boone—which didn’t amount to a great deal.

  The boy didn’t display any confusion until Calazo asked him about his activities on the night of the murder.

  “It was a Friday, Isaac,” Calazo said. “What did you do on that night?”

  “I was here until the Center closed. Ask Mrs. Freylinghausen; she’ll tell you.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask her. And after the Center closed, what did you do then?”

  “I went home.”

  “Uh-huh. You live right around the corner, don’t you, Isaac? So I guess you got there around nine-five or so. Is that correct?”

  Kane didn’t look at the detective, but concentrated on adding foliage to a tree in his landscape.

  “Well, uh, it was probably later. I walked around awhile.”

  “That was a very rainy night, Isaac. A bad storm. You didn’t walk about in that, did you?”

  “I don’t remember!” Kane said, breaking one of his chalks and flinging it away angrily. “I don’t know why you’re asking me all these questions, and I’m not going to answer any more. You’re just—” He began to stutter unintelligibly.