He flipped on the air conditioner, and stripped down to his shorts. He got a can of sugar-free soda from the fridge and sat down at the bedroom card table to write out a report while the interview with Susan Hemley was fresh in his mind. He typed out the report rapidly on an old Underwood that his ex-wife had left behind.
After he finished with the Hemley meet, he typed up a record of his two time trials, consulting his notebook to get the times exactly right. Then he added everything to his personal file on the Maitland homicide, wondering, not for the first time, if anyone would ever read it, or even consult it. But Delaney had told him to make daily reports, so he made daily reports. He owed the Chief that.
He took a tepid shower, dried in front of the air-conditioner, and felt a lot better. He started on his second pack of cigarettes and thought, fleetingly, of an iced Gibson. He opened another can of diet soda.
He checked his wallet and made a quick calculation of how much he could spend daily until the next payday. And he made a mental list of which creditors he could stiff, which he could stall, and who had to be paid at once. He knew how easy it was for a cop to get a loan, but he didn’t want to start stumbling down that path.
Finally, he called Rebecca Hirsch. She sounded happy to hear from him, and said she could offer a tunafish salad if he could stand it. He told her he had been dreaming of a tunafish salad all day and would be right over. After dinner, he said, they could take a drive, or see a movie, or watch TV, or whatever.
She said she would prefer whatever.
9
ON THE SAME FRIDAY morning that Detective sergeant Abner Boone began his time trials, Chief Edward X. Delaney was in his study planning the day’s activities. He jotted down a list of “Things to do,” and folded the note into his jacket pocket. He unpinned the three Maitland sketches from the map board, rolled them up, slid a rubber band around them. Then he called to Monica that he wouldn’t be home for lunch, and started out. He carefully double-locked the outside door behind him.
His first stop was at a Second Avenue printing shop that also made photostats. Delaney ordered three 11x14 stats of each Maitland sketch. The clerk examined the nude drawings, then looked up with a wise-ass grin that faded when he saw Delaney’s cold stare. He promised to have the photostats ready at noon.
The Chief then began walking slowly downtown to East 58th Street; his appointment with Theodore Maitland was at 11:00. Delaney had been doing so much riding in Boone’s car recently, he figured the exercise would do him good. For awhile he tried inhaling deeply and slowly for a count of twelve, holding the breath for the same time, then exhaling slowly for another twelve-count. That regimen lasted for two blocks, and he didn’t feel any better for it. He resumed his normal breathing and ambled steadily southward, observing the bustling life of the morning city and wondering when he was going to get a handle on the Maitland case: a break, a lead, an approach, anything that would give him direction and purpose.
He knew from experience that the first hours and days of an investigation were hardest to endure. Disparate facts piled up, evidence accumulated, people lied or spoke the truth—but what the hell did it all mean? You had to accept everything, keep your wits and nerve, let the mess grow and grow until you caught a pattern; two pieces fit, then more and more. It was like the traffic jam he saw at Second Avenue and 66th Street. Cars stalled every which way. Horns blaring. Red-faced drivers bellowing and waving. Then a street cop got the key car moving, the jam broke, in a few minutes traffic was flowing in a reasonably orderly pattern. But when was he was going to find the key to the Maitland jam? Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. And maybe, he thought morosely, he already had it and couldn’t recognize it.
Mrs. Alma Maitland was nowhere to be seen, for which Delaney was grateful. A Puerto Rican maid ushered him into that cold “family room,” where he sat on the edge of the couch, homburg on his knees. He waited for almost five minutes, guessing this was the son’s form of hostility, and willing to endure patiently.
He had seen photos of Victor Maitland, of course, and was surprised at the close resemblance when the son finally stalked into the room. The same husky body, burly shoulders. Heavy head thrust forward. Coarse, reddish hair. The glower. Big hands with spatulate fingers. A thumping tread. The young face was marked by thick, dark brows, sculpted lips. Older, it might be a gross face, seamed, the mouth thinned and twisted. But now it had the soft vulnerability of youth. Hurt there, Delaney decided, and anger. And want.
He rose, but Ted Maitland made no effort to greet him or shake hands. Instead, he threw himself into one of the blonde wood armchairs, slumped down, began biting furiously at the hard skin around a thumbnail. He was wearing blue jeans with a red gingham shirt open almost to his waist. The inevitable necklace of Indian beads. Bare feet in moccasins. A bracelet of turquoise chips set in hammered silver.
“I don’t know why I’m even talking to you,” the boy said petulantly. “Only because Mother asked me. I’ve gone over this shit a hundred times with a hundred other cops.”
Delaney was shocked by the voice: high-pitched, straining. He wondered if the kid was close to breaking. His movements and gestures had the jerky, disconnected look the Chief had seen just before a subject tried to climb barbed wire or began screaming and couldn’t stop.
So he sat down slowly, set his hat aside slowly, spoke slowly in a low, quiet, and what he hoped was an intimate tone.
“I know you have, Mr. Maitland,” he said. “And I’m sorry to put you through this once again. But reading or even hearing reports is never good enough. It’s always best to go right to the source. A one-on-one, man-to-man conversation. Less chance of misinterpretation. Don’t you agree?”
“What difference does it make if I do or don’t agree?” Theodore Maitland demanded. His eyes were on his bitten thumb, on the rug, the ceiling, the walls, the air. Anywhere but on Delaney. He would not or could not meet his eyes.
“I know what you’ve been through,” the Chief soothed. “I really do. And this shouldn’t take long. Just a few questions. A few minutes …”
The boy snorted and crossed his knees abruptly. He was, Delaney thought, a handsome lad in a bruised, masculine way—his father’s son—and he wondered if the kid had a girlfriend. He hoped so.
“Mr. Maitland—” he started, then stopped. “Would you object if I called you Ted?” he asked gently. “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
“Call me anything you damn please,” the boy said roughly.
“All right,” Delaney said, still speaking slowly, softly, calmly. “Ted it is. Just let me run through, very briefly, your movements on the day your father was killed, and let’s see if I’ve got it straight. Okay, Ted?”
Maitland made a sound, neither assent nor objection, uncrossed his legs, crossed them in the other direction. He turned in his armchair so one shoulder was presented to Delaney.
“You left here about nine-thirty that Friday morning,” the Chief said. “Took the downtown IRT at Fifty-ninth Street. A local. Got off at Astor Place. Had classes at Cooper Union from ten to twelve. At noon you talked awhile with classmates out on the steps, then bought a couple of sandwiches and a can of beer and went over to eat your lunch in Washington Square Park. You were there until about one-thirty. Then you returned to Cooper Union in time for lectures from two o’clock to four. Then you returned directly home. Here. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“You ate lunch in the park alone?”
“I said I did.”
“Meet anyone you know, Ted?”
Maitland whirled to glare at him.
“No, I didn’t meet anyone I know,” he almost shouted. “I ate lunch alone. Is that a crime?”
Chief Delaney held up both hands, palms out.
“Whoa,” he said. “No crime. No one’s accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to get your movements straight. Yours and everyone else’s who knew your father. That makes sense, doesn’t it? No, it’s no crime to eat alone in the park. And I don’t ev
en question that you didn’t meet anyone you knew. I just walked down here from Seventy-ninth Street, and I didn’t meet anyone I knew. It’s natural and normal. Usually eat lunch alone, Ted?”
“Sometimes. When I feel like it.”
“Frequently?”
“Two or three times a week. Why?” he demanded. “Is it important?”
“Oh Ted,” Delaney said lightly, “in an investigation like this, everything is important. What are you studying at Cooper Union?”
“Graphic design,” Maitland muttered.
“Decoration and printing?” Delaney asked. “Things like that?”
“Yeah,” the boy grinned sourly. “Things like that.”
“Proportion?” Delaney asked. “Visual composition? The history and theory of art? Layout and design?”
Ted Maitland met his eyes for the first time.
“Yes,” he said grudgingly. “All that. How come a cop knows that?”
“I’m an amateur,” Delaney shrugged. “I don’t know a lot about art, but—”
“But you know what you like,” the boy hooted.
“That’s right,” Delaney said mildly. “For instance, I like your father’s work. What do you think of it, Ted?”
“Ridiculous,” Maitland said. Scornful laugh. “Old-fashioned. Square. Dull. Out-of-date. Antique. Bloated. Emotional. Juvenile. Melodramatic. Reactionary. Is that enough for you?”
“Saul Geltman says your father was a great draftsman, a great anatomist, a great—”
“Saul Geltman!” Maitland interrupted angrily, almost choking. “I know his type!”
“What type is that?” Delaney asked.
“You don’t know a thing about art in modern society,” the boy said disdainfully. “You’re stupid!”
“Tell me,” Delaney said. “I want to learn.”
Theodore Maitland turned to face him squarely. Leaned forward, arms on knees. Dark eyes aflame. Face wretched with his intensity. Quivering to get it out. Shaking with his fury.
“An upside-down pyramid. You understand? Balanced on its point. And above, all the shits like Saul Geltman. The dealers. Curators. Critics. Rich collectors. Hangers-on like Belle Sarazen. Trendy sellouts like Jake Dukker. Publishers of art books and reproductions. Rip-off pirates. Smart-asses who go to the previews and charity shows. The whole stinking bunch of them. The art lovers! Sweating to get in on the ground floor. Find a new style, a new talent, and ride it. Then sell out, take your profit, and go on to the next ten-day wonder. Leeches! All of them! And you know what that upside-down pyramid is balanced on? Supported by? Way down there? The creative artist. Oh yes! At the bottom of the heap. But the point of the whole thing. The guy who spends his talent because that’s all he’s got. He’s the one who provides the champagne parties, the good life for the leeches. Yes! The poor miserable slob trying to get it down on paper or canvas, or in wood or metal. And they laugh at him. They do! They do! Laugh at him! Well, my father gave it to them. He gave it to them good! He saw them for the filth they are. Parasites! They were afraid of him. I mean literally afraid! But he was so good they couldn’t ignore him, couldn’t put him down. He could shit on them, and they had to take it. Because they knew what he had. What they’d never have. What they wanted and would never have. My father was a genius. A genius!”
Chief Delaney looked at him in astonishment. There was no mistaking the boy’s fervor. It burned in his eyes. Showed in his clenched fists, trembling knees.
“But you told me you didn’t like your father’s work,” Delaney said.
Ted Maitland jerked backward into his chair, collapsed, spread arms and legs wide. He looked at Delaney disgustedly.
“Ahh, Jesus!” he said, shaking his head. “You haven’t understood a word I’ve said. Not a word. Dumb cop!”
“Let me try,” Delaney said. “You might not like your father’s work, his style, the paintings he did, but that has nothing to do with his talent. That you recognize and admire. What he did with his talent isn’t what you like at all. Not your style. But no one can deny his genius. Certainly not you. Is that about right?”
“Yes,” Maitland said. A voice so low Delaney could barely hear him. “That’s about right … about right …”
“And you?” Delaney asked gently. “Do you have your father’s talent?”
“No.”
“Will you? Could you? I mean if you study, work …”
“No,” the boy said. “Never. I know. And it’s killing me. I want … Ahh, fuck it!”
He jumped to his feet, turned away, almost ran from the room. Delaney watched him go, made no effort to stop him. He sat on the couch a few moments, staring at the empty doorway. Everyone wanting. Either what they could not have, or more of what they had. The poor, greedy lot of them. Talent, money, fame, possessions, integrity—the prizes hung glittering just above their grasping fingers as they leapt, strained, grabbed air and fell back, sobbing …
The Chief stood and was moving toward the door when Alma Maitland came sweeping into the room, head up, fists balled: an avenging amazon. He had a moment to admire the mass of coppery hair piled high, the fitted suit of russet wool, the luxuriousness of her body and the glazed perfection of her skin.
Then she confronted him, stood close, directly in his path. For a second he thought she meant to strike him.
“Mrs. Maitland …” he murmured.
“What did you do to Ted?” she demanded loudly. “What did you do to him?”
“I did nothing to him,” Delaney said sternly. “We discussed his movements on the day his father was killed. We talked about art and Ted’s feelings about his father’s work. If that was enough to upset him, I assure you it was none of my doing, madam.”
She shrunk suddenly, shoulders drooping, head bowed. She held a small handkerchief in her fingers, twisting it, pulling it. Delaney looked at her coldly.
“Is the boy getting professional help?” he asked. “Psychologist? Psychiatrist?”
“No. Yes. He goes—”
“Psychiatrist?”
“He really doesn’t—”
“How often?”
“Three afternoons a week. But he’s showing—”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Almost three years. But his analyst said—”
“Has he ever become violent?”
“No. Well, he does—”
“To his father? Did he ever attack his father or fight with him?”
“You’re not giving me time to answer,” she cried frantically.
“The truth takes no time,” he snapped at her. “Do you want me to ask the maid? The doorman? Neighbors? Did your son ever attack his father?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“How often?”
“Twice.”
“During the past year?”
“Yes.”
“Violently? Was one or both injured?”
“No, it was just—”
“Mrs. Maitland!” he thundered.
She was a step away from an armchair, and collapsed into it, huddling, shaking and distraught. But he observed that it had been a graceful fall, and even in the chair her posture of distress was pleasingly composed, knees together and turned sideways, ankles neatly crossed. The bent head with its gleaming plait revealed a graceful line of neck and shoulder. Victor Maitland, he reflected, wasn’t the only artist in the family.
“Well?” he said.
“Once they fought,” she said dully. “Victor knocked him down. It was horrible.”
“And once … ?” he insisted.
“Once,” she said, her voice raddled, “once Ted attacked him. Unexpectedly. For no reason.”
“Attacked him? With his fists? A weapon?”
She couldn’t answer. Or wouldn’t.
“A knife,” Delaney said. Declaration, not question.
She nodded dumbly, not showing him her face.
“What kind of a knife? A hunting knife? A carving knife?”
“A p
aring knife,” she muttered. “A little thing. From the kitchen.”
“Was your husband wounded?”
“A small cut,” she said. “In his upper arm. Not deep. Nothing really.”
“Was a doctor called?”
“Oh no. No. It was just a small cut. Nothing. Victor wouldn’t see a doctor. I—I put on disinfectant and—and put a bandage on. With tape. Really, it was nothing.”
“What is your doctor’s name? Your family physician. And where is his office?”
She told him, and he made a careful note of it.
“Does your son own a knife? Hunting knife, a switchblade, pocket knife? Anything?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He had a—like a folding knife. Swiss. Red handle. But after he became—became—disturbed, I took it away from him.”
“Took it away from him?”
“I mean I took it out of his dresser drawer.”
“Where is it now?”
“I threw it away. Down the incinerator.”
He stood, feet firmly planted, staring unblinking at the top of her head. He drew a deep breath and exhaled in a sigh.
“All right,” he said. “I believe you.”
She raised her head then, looked at him. He saw no sign of tears.
“He didn’t,” she said. “I swear to you, Ted didn’t. He worshipped his father.”
“Yes,” Delaney said stonily, “so he told me.”
He turned away and moved to the door. Then paused and turned back.
“One more thing, Mrs. Maitland,” he said. “Did you know any of the models your husband used?”
She looked at him, bewildered.
“The girls or women your husband used in his paintings,” Delaney said patiently. “Did you know any of them personally? By name?”
She shook her head. “Years ago I did. But not recently. Not in the past five years or so.”
“A young girl? Very young. Puerto Rican perhaps, or Italian. Latin-type.”
“No, I know no one like that. Why do you ask?”
He explained about the three charcoal sketches of the young model found in Victor Maitland’s studio.
“They belong to you, of course,” he said. “Or rather to your husband’s estate. I wanted you to know they are presently in my possession and will be returned to the estate when our investigation is completed.”
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