Fourth Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “I wish she would,” Delaney cried, “but she’s too smart for that. Because that would bring her into a courtroom, and the carnival would continue. And the whole business of her late husband’s affair would be dragged through the press. You think she’d enjoy that? Her lawyers won’t let her sue the city after they look over what we’ve got. No way! They’re going to tell her to forget it, lay low, and don’t make waves.”

  “It’s a gamble,” the Deputy said thoughtfully. “Charging someone when we know we don’t have an icicle’s chance in hell of getting a conviction.”

  “I told you it was a political decision,” Delaney said. “It’s two days until the end of the year. You can still pull this out if you’ve got the balls for it.”

  “I do not like it,” Suarez said. “It is somehow shameful. But still, the woman is guilty—no?”

  “When would you want to do this?” Thorsen asked.

  “Take her?” Delaney said. “Tomorrow night if I can set up a meet.”

  “Do you want the Chief and me there?”

  “No, I don’t think that would be wise. You keep your distance until it’s done. But have your statements ready, and schedule a press conference. My God, Ivar, you know how to use the media; you’ve been doing it long enough. I’ll take Boone and Jason. They’ve worked hard on this thing and should be in on the kill. And, by the way, Chief—I’ve got a list of people, including Boone and Jason, who deserve recognition for a hard job well done.”

  “Of course,” Suarez said with a wave of his hand. “It is understood.”

  “Good. I’ll hold you to that. Now let’s get to the nitty-gritty and figure how this is going down.”

  27

  HE FINALLY GOT THROUGH to Diane Ellerbee late on Monday morning, December 30th.

  “Edward X. Delaney here,” he said briskly. “Doctor, there’s been a major development in the investigation of your husband’s death—something I think you should know about.”

  “You’ve found the killer?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it on the phone. Could we meet sometime this evening?”

  They finally agreed on 8:30 P.M. at the East 84th Street townhouse. Delaney hung up, satisfied, then immediately called Boone, asking him to pick him up at the brownstone at eight o’clock.

  “And bring Jason with you,” he told the Sergeant. “I’d like both of you to be in uniform.”

  “My God, sir, my blues need cleaning and pressing!”

  “Try to get it done this afternoon. If you can’t, wear them the way they are. Full equipment for both of you.”

  A short pause, then: “We’re busting her?”

  “Tell you tonight at eight,” Delaney said, enjoying the suspense game as much as anyone.

  He had promised his ladies a fine lunch, and put the Ellerbee case from his mind for a few hours while he acted the expansive host. He took them to Prunelle’s on East 54th Street, where the women were suitably impressed with the Art Deco decor and burled maple walls.

  “On the first day of the new year,” Delaney vowed as they finished, “I am going to start my six thousand four hundred and fifty-eighth diet.”

  “Another of your one-day diets?” Monica said cruelly.

  “You like me massive,” he told her. “More of me to love.”

  “Hah!” she said.

  Their luncheon took almost two hours, and after, the women declared their intention of checking out the post-Christmas sales in Fifth Avenue stores. Delaney left them outside the restaurant determined to walk home and work off some of those calories.

  The temperature hovered around the freezing mark, but it was a bright, pleasant day with a washed blue sky dotted with puffy clouds. He tramped north on Madison Avenue, marveling at the proliferation of art galleries, antique shops, and boutiques.

  It was a long walk, almost thirty blocks, and he was happy to get in the warm brownstone, unlace his shoes, and treat himself to a cigar. He sat heavily in his swivel chair in the study and began plotting the confrontation with Diane Ellerbee.

  He would dress somberly with white shirt and black tie. Something like a mortician, he thought, amused. The only prop he’d need, he decided, would be a clipboard holding a heavy sheaf of papers. It meant nothing, of course, but it would impress.

  He was confident of his ability to wing it, adjusting his attitude and manner to counter her responses. Never for a moment did he expect her to admit anything; she would deny, deny, deny. But, being a civilian, he could badger her in ways a police officer on duty could not. He would not let her off the hook.

  What he needed to do, he determined, was to rattle her from the start, knock her off balance, and keep her confused. She was an intelligent woman with an enormous ego. His best course would be to dent that self-esteem and then keep her disturbed and witless.

  He wanted her to say to herself, “Can this be happening to me?”

  So sure was he of her guilt that he designed her downfall coldly and without mercy. He never questioned his own motives. If Monica had said to him, “What right do you have to do this?” he would have looked at her in astonishment. For it wasn’t his right; it was society’s right—or perhaps God’s.

  Boone and Jason arrived promptly at eight o’clock, both in full uniform. He called them into the study for a few minutes to give them a quick rundown.

  “We’re going to take her tonight,” he said. “Let me do the talking, but if you think I’ve missed something, don’t be afraid to chime in. And don’t be surprised to hear me state suppositions as facts; I want her to believe we’ve got a lot more than we actually have.”

  “One thing we haven’t got is a warrant,” Boone reminded him.

  “True,” Delaney said, “but we have probable cause. This is not a minor offense she’s being charged with, and I think the courts will hold that a warrantless arrest was justified in this case by the gravity of the crime.”

  He didn’t tell them that it was extremely unlikely the case would ever come to trial; they were smart cops and could figure that out for themselves.

  “If this thing self-destructs,” he told them, “neither of you will suffer. There will be no notations on your records that you participated. I have Deputy Thorsen’s word on that. On the other hand, if it goes down as planned, Chief Suarez assures me you’ll get something out of it. Any questions? No? Then let’s get this show on the road.”

  They drove over to East 84th in Jason’s car. When they stood in the lobby of the townhouse, Delaney was pleased with the way they looked: three big men with the physical presence to command respect. Or to intimidate.

  He rang her bell. The intercom clicked on.

  “Who is it?”

  “Delaney,” he said tensely.

  “I’m in my office, Mr. Delaney. Please come up to the second floor.”

  The door lock buzzed. They pushed in and silently climbed the staircase. She was waiting in the hallway, and blinked when she saw the officers in uniform.

  “Is this an official visit, Mr. Delaney?” she asked with a tight smile.

  “You’ve already met Sergeant Boone,” he said, ignoring her question. “This man is Officer Jason who, incidentally, was on the scene when the homicide was discovered. May we come in?”

  She led the way into her office, and once again he admired her carriage: head held high, shoulders back, spine straight. But nothing was stiff; she moved with sinuous grace.

  Her hair was up in a braided crown, her face free of makeup, that marvelous translucent complexion aglow. She was wearing an oversize block-check shirt in lavender and black, cinched at the waist with a man’s necktie. And below, pants of purple suede, so snug that Delaney wondered if she had to grease her legs to get into them.

  She sat regally behind her desk, hands held before her, fingertips touching to form a cage. Delaney pulled up an uncomfortable straight chair to face her directly. The two officers sat behind him in the cretonne-covered armchairs.

  All three men had left their overcoa
ts in the car, and Delaney’s homburg as well. But he had instructed them to wear their caps and not to remove them indoors. Now they sat with peaks pulled low, as solid and motionless as stone monoliths.

  “You say you have discovered something about my husband’s death?” Dr. Ellerbee said, voice cool and formal.

  With slow deliberation Delaney took a leather spectacle case from his inside jacket pocket, removed his reading glasses, donned the glasses, adjusting the bows carefully. He then looked down at the clipboard on his lap, made a show of flipping over a few pages.

  He glanced sharply at the doctor. “Let’s start from the beginning,” he said in a hard, toneless voice. “For the past year your late husband was having an affair with one of his patients, Joan Yesell. Not only was this a violation of professional ethics, but it was also a betrayal of his marriage vows and a grievous insult to you personally.”

  He was watching her closely as he spoke, and saw no signs of surprise or horror. But those touching fingers clenched to form a ball of whitened knuckles, and the porcelain complexion blanched.

  “You don’t—” she began, her voice now dry and cracked.

  “The evidence cannot be controverted,” Delaney interrupted. He flipped through more pages on his clipboard. “We have the sworn statements of Miss Yesell, her mother, the testimony of an eyewitness who saw the doctor driving away after delivering Yesell to her home on a Friday night. And the clause canceling his patients’ outstanding bills in your late husband’s will was expressly designed to benefit Miss Yesell. Now do you wish to deny that Doctor Simon was carrying on an illicit relationship?”

  “I was not aware of it,” she said harshly.

  “Ah, but you were. You are an intelligent, perceptive woman. We are certain you were aware of your husband’s transgression.”

  Diane Ellerbee stood abruptly. “I think this meeting is at an end,” she said. “Please leave before I—”

  Delaney reached out to slap the top of her desk with an open palm. The sharp crack made her jump.

  “Sit down, madam!” he thundered. “You are going nowhere without our permission.”

  She stared at him, blank-faced, and then slowly lowered herself back into her chair.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Delaney said. “We don’t want to waste too much time on a tawdry murder.” That got to her, he could see, and he peered down at his clipboard, flipping pages with some satisfaction.

  “Now then,” he said, looking up at her again, “the evidence we have uncovered indicates that you became aware of your husband’s affair sometime last year, probably soon after it started. This is supposition on my part, but I would guess you let it continue because you hoped it was just a passing fancy and would soon end.”

  “I don’t have to answer any of your questions,” she said.

  Delaney showed his big yellow teeth in something approximating a smile. “But I haven’t asked any questions, have I? Let me continue. About three weeks prior to his death, your husband came to you, confessed his love for Joan Yesell, and asked for a divorce. There went your hope that his adulterous relationship was a temporary infatuation. Worse, it was a tremendous blow to your self-esteem.”

  “You’re a dreadful man,” she whispered.

  “That’s true,” he said, almost happily, “I am. Let me psychoanalyze you, doctor, for a few minutes. Turn the tables, so to speak. You are a beautiful and wealthy woman, and all your life you’ve lived in a cocoon, protected and sheltered from reality. What do you know about a waitress’s aching feet or how hard the wife of a poor man works? It’s all been peaches and cream, hasn’t it? All those relatives dying and leaving you money. A successful career. And best of all, being worshiped by men. You could see it in their eyes and the way they acted. Every man you ever met wanted to jump on your bones.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “Please stop it.”

  “Never a defeat,” he continued relentlessly. “Never even a disappointment. But then your husband comes to you, says Bye-bye, kiddo, I want to leave you to marry another woman. And a quiet, timid, plain, rather dowdy woman at, that. It was the worst thing that could possibly happen to you. Because you couldn’t handle defeat. Didn’t know how—you had no experience. So all you could feel was anger. Your husband’s declaration of love for Yesell not only destroyed you, but it destroyed your world.”

  He paused a moment, expecting a reply. But when she said nothing, he flipped more pages on his clipboard, then looked up at her again.

  “All right,” he said, “so much for the psychoanalysis, doctor. No charge. But I think it gives us a motive a jury would believe. Now let’s talk about the weapon—the ball peen hammer that crushed your husband’s skull and put out his eyes. We spent a lot of time on that hammer, Doctor Ellerbee, and, lo and behold, we discovered a ball peen hammer was stolen sometime in October from May’s Garage and Service Station in Brewster, where you take your cars. You could have lifted it. It’s possible, isn’t it? And where do you think that hammer is now? At the bottom of the brook that runs through your land. Which is why we’re getting a warrant to drag the stream. And if we find it—what then? Fingerprints and bloodstains, I suppose. You’d be amazed at what the laboratory men can do these days.”

  She stirred restlessly, moving her body in the chair and turning her head back and forth. She reminded Delaney of one of the great cats he had seen behind bars in the Central Park Zoo—a cheetah, he recalled—whipping its head from side to side, pacing, endlessly pacing, plotting how to get out.

  “Not much more now,” he said stonily. “You couldn’t handle your anger, so you got hold of the hammer and started planning. It had to be on a Friday night, because that’s when Joan Yesell came up here, and she and your husband made love on his black leather coach. Right? So, on that stormy night, you didn’t drive up early to Brewster at all, did you?”

  “I did!” she cried. “I did!”

  “Don’t jerk me around,” he said, tapping his clipboard. “We’ve got evidence here that you didn’t. That instead you stayed in Manhattan, watched the townhouse, waiting for Joan Yesell to arrive. But she was late that night. Your anger was building, building … Finally you came in here and murdered your husband. And then smashed his eyes because he had the effrontery to look at another woman.”

  She stared at him with horrified wonder.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” she asked. “Why?”

  He stood suddenly and slammed a hard fist down on her desk top, a heavy blow that made everyone in the room jump. He leaned far over the desk.

  “Why?” he said in a strangled voice, glaring at her. “Why? Because you visited my home, you were sweet to my wife, you invited us to your home and fed us. You actually sat down at table with us and acted the bountiful hostess. Then you sent us flowers. The beginning of your downfall—if only you could have known. But throughout you’ve played me for a fool—a fool! And that I can’t take. You want to know why? That’s why!”

  He subsided into his chair, his fury ebbing. She looked at him, bewildered, not understanding. Boone and Jason understood but remained silent.

  The silence grew. He gave her time, watching her face working. He guessed what was going through her mind. He could almost see her confidence slowly returning as she reviewed everything he had said. She straightened in her chair, raised a hand to make certain her braids were in place.

  “You don’t know that I stole a hammer from May’s,” she said finally, “and you certainly can’t prove it.”

  “That’s true,” Delaney said, nodding.

  “And you can’t prove that I stayed in Manhattan that night.”

  He nodded again.

  “You can’t even prove that I knew about my husband’s sleazy little affair,” she concluded triumphantly. “So you’ve got nothing.”

  He showed his teeth again. “We’ve got you, madam,” he said.

  She was shaken, expecting to hear a proven indictment. But this great, shaggy bear of a man sat silently, star
ing at her over his reading glasses.

  “Stop calling me ‘madam,’ ” she said petulantly. “If you don’t wish to address me as ‘Doctor,’ then ‘Mrs. Ellerbee’ will do as well.”

  He leaned forward. “Why don’t we cut out the shit,” he said pleasantly, using the crude word deliberately to further unsettle her. “You’re going to waltz away from this, smiling bravely. If you don’t know it, your lawyers will.”

  “Well, then,” she said, “this has all been an exercise in futility, hasn’t it?”

  “Not quite. If I had my druthers, you’d be behind bars for ten-to-twenty, eating off tin plates and afraid to pick up the soap in the shower. But if I can’t have that, I’ll settle for second best.” He extended a big hand, fingers spread wide, then slowly clenched them into a rocky fist. “I’m going to crush you, madam—just like that.”

  She looked at him, then looked at the two uniformed officers sitting behind him. They returned her stare.

  “Let me tell you what’s going to happen to you,” Delaney said, hunching forward to rest his clasped hands on the desk. “We’re going to make what they call a media event out of this. We’re going to arrest you, charging you with the premeditated murder of your husband, Simon Ellerbee. You’ll be taken to the nearest precinct house, photographed, and fingerprinted. Then you’ll be allowed a phone call to your attorney. While you’re waiting for him, you’ll be locked in a cage. Won’t that be nice? Oh, you’ll be out in a few hours, I’m sure—maybe a day at the most. Meanwhile we’ll have alerted the newspapers and television stations. It’s going to be a circus: Wife accused in brutal slaying of husband. The media will love it. Prominent East Side couple. Wealthy, well-known psychiatrists. And the other woman—a patient! Have you ever been photographed wearing a bikini? I’ll bet the tabloids get hold of the photo and splash it all over their front pages.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she gasped, her face suddenly a death’s-head.

  “Oh, I’d dare a great deal more than that, madam. Leaks to the press about your husband’s affair. Maybe Joan Yesell can sell her story and make a few bucks—she’s entitled.”