“I said there was no work for them on the top floor and to get their ass out of there. The woman said she was told a guy lived on the top floor, and she wanted to ask him. I told her he was fucking dead, and unless she wanted to mop up a puddle of old blood, she better disappear. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her that, but I didn’t want to stand there arguing with her. Anyway, it worked. She didn’t say another word. The two of them turned around and went back downstairs.”
“Ever see them again?” Boone asked.
“No,” Jason Two said. “Never.”
“Anything else you can tell us about them?” Delaney asked. “Their appearance? Any little thing?”
“Let’s see …” Jason T. Jason said, finishing his cole slaw. “The old woman had a gold tooth. In front. That any help?”
“Could be,” Delaney said. “Anything else?”
“The young girl,” the cop said. “Something about her. Something funny …”
“Funny?” Boone said.
“Not funny ha-ha,” Jason said, “but funny-strange. She had like a vacant expression. Kept staring up into the air like she was spaced out.”
“Drugs?” Boone asked.
“I don’t think so. More like she was maybe retarded or a little flaky. Like something wasn’t right there. I mean, she didn’t say word one so it was hard to tell. But I got the feeling she was out of it. Off somewhere.”
“Recognize them if you see them again?” Delaney asked.
“Is the pope Catholic?” Jason T. Jason said.
“Good,” the Chief said. He tore a blank page from his notebook, scribbled down his telephone number and Boone’s. “Here are our phone numbers. Keep and eye out on the street. If you make them, call one of us. Or leave a message.”
“You want me to hold them?”
“No, no, don’t do that. But tail them until they hole up in a restaurant or store or movie or their home. Whatever. Then call us. Don’t worry if it takes you off your beat. I’ll square it at the precinct.”
“Will do,” the cop nodded. He took the page, folded it into his wallet. “I better hit the pavement. Nice talking to you gents. I hope something comes of it.”
“So do we,” Boone said. He and Delaney half rose to shake hands with Jason Two. “Many thanks. You’ve been a big help.”
“Anything else I can do, give me a shout.”
They watched him move away. He had to go through the outer door sideways.
“Good cop,” Delaney said. “Observant. And he remembers.”
“How would you like to be a mugger or purse-snatcher?” Boone said. “You make your hit, you’ve got the loot, you’re running hell-for-leather, you come scrambling around a corner, and there’s Jason T. Jason.”
“I wouldn’t like that,” Chief Delaney said. “My God, they’re growing them big these days! Well, let’s eat. Want a hot coffee?”
They ordered fresh coffees, but ate their cold cheeseburgers and home fries without protest.
“Think the young girl was the model in those Maitland sketches?” Boone asked.
“It fits,” Delaney nodded. “How’s this: Our first scenario was correct; Maitland picks up a young, fresh twist on Friday. But she’s not alone. The woman sounds too old to be her mother, but maybe she’s a relative or friend.”
“Or madam,” the sergeant offered. “Jason said she looked like a hooker. Maybe she’s peddling the young kid’s ass.”
“Could be,” the Chief said. “So they go up to the studio on Friday. The girl strips down, and Maitland makes his drawings.”
“While the older woman has a drink and leaves her partials on the glass and bottle.”
“Right. Maitland likes what he draws, and makes a date to use the girl at eleven on Monday morning. That listens, doesn’t it?”
“Does to me,” Boone said. “The older woman wouldn’t have shivved him on Friday, would she? Because he tried to screw the girl?”
“No way,” Delaney said, shaking his head. “They’d never have come back on Monday if that had happened. No, I think when the two of them left the studio on Friday, Maitland was breathing. They were probably the last ones to see him alive.”
“Except for the killer,” Boone said.
“Except for the killer,” Delaney nodded. “I’d like to find those two women. Maybe they saw something. Maybe the guy we’re looking for was coming up the stairs on that Friday while they were going down.”
“Not much chance of finding them, Chief,” Boone sighed. “Unless Jason T. Jason hits it lucky and spots them on the street.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Chief Delaney said. “You finished? Let’s get uptown. We’ll brace Alma Maitland first.”
Once again they were ushered into that cheerless family room, which, today, smelled faintly of oiled machinery. They hadn’t yet seated themselves when Alma Maitland came sweeping in, hatted, tugging on white gloves.
“Really, Chief Delaney,” she said angrily. “I was just going out. This is very inconvenient.”
He stared at her coldly.
“Inconvenient, ma’am?”
She caught the implication; her face whitened, lips pressed.
“Of course I want to help,” she said. “As much as I can. But you might have called.”
Both the cops looked at her without expression. A proved technique: say nothing and let them yammer on and on. Sometimes they dug themselves deep simply because they could not endure the silence.
“Besides, I told you everything I know,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Did you?” Delaney said, and was silent again.
Finally, with a pinching of features, a small sound of exasperation, she asked them to be seated. They took the couch, sitting almost shoulder to shoulder, a bulwark. She sat in an armchair, in her ladylike position: spine frozen, ankles crossed, knees turned, gloved hands folded demurely in her lap.
“You don’t get along with your mother-in-law and sister-in-law, do you?” Delaney said suddenly. It came out more flat statement than question.
“Did they say that?” she demanded.
“I’m asking you,” Delaney said.
“We’re not close,” she admitted. A tinselly laugh. “We both prefer it that way.”
“And your late husband? How close was he to his mother and sister?”
“Very close,” she said stiffly.
“Oh?” the Chief said. “He only saw them once or twice a year.”
“Nonsense,” she said sharply. “He saw them at least once a month. Sometimes once a week. They were always coming down to have lunch or dinner with him.”
Neither Delaney nor Boone showed surprise.
“And you didn’t attend these lunches and dinners, Mrs. Maitland?” the sergeant asked.
“I did not.”
“Did they ever visit his Mott Street studio?”
“I have no idea.”
“He never told you they did?”
“No, never. What’s all this about?”
Delaney asked: “Did your husband ever contribute to the living expenses of his mother and sister? To your knowledge?”
She laughed scornfully. “I doubt that very much. My husband rarely spent any money that did not contribute to his own pleasure.”
“Belle Sarazen considered him a very generous man.”
“I’m sure she would,” Alma Maitland said furiously. “While I scrimped and saved to make ends meet.”
Delaney looked around the room.
“Hardly poverty,” he said mildly enough. “Mrs. Maitland, are you aware that unless other claims are filed, you and your son will probably be the sole beneficiaries of your husband’s estate?”
“Estate!” she cried. “What estate? This apartment that can’t even be sold in today’s market for what we paid for it? Bank accounts that will barely cover outstanding bills?”
“The unsold paintings …” Boone murmured.
“Oh yes!” she said, with something close to despair in her voice. “
And how much of that will be left after Saul Geltman takes his share, and all the tax departments take theirs? I assure you, my husband did not leave me a wealthy woman. Far from it!”
Delaney looked at her closely.
“You have an independent income?” he guessed.
“Some,” she said grudgingly. “It’s no business of yours, but I suppose you could find out—if you haven’t already. My father left me some municipal bonds. He, at least, knew a man’s responsibility.”
“What does that income amount to?” Delaney asked. “As you said, we can always find out.”
“About twenty thousand a year,” she said.
“Did your husband know of this income?”
“Of course he did.” She paused, then sighed. “Twenty years ago it seemed a fortune. Today it’s nothing.”
“Somewhat more than nothing,” Delaney said dryly, “but I won’t argue the point. Mrs. Maitland, I have here the three sketches found in your husband’s studio. I know you told me you knew none of his recent models, but I’d like you to take a look at these in case you may be able to identify the girl. I admit the face is just suggested, but there may be enough there.”
He rose and, with Sergeant Boone’s help, unrolled the drawings and held up each of the three for Alma Maitland’s inspection.
“They’re very good,” she said softly.
“Aren’t they?” Delaney said. “Recognize the girl?”
“No. Never saw her or anyone like her before. When will you be finished with these? They’re part of the estate, you know.”
“I’m well aware of that, madam. They’ll be returned when our investigation is completed.”
“And when will that be?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer, but rolled up the drawings again and secured them with a rubber band. He signaled Boone, and the two moved toward the door. Then the Chief paused and turned back.
“Mrs. Maitland,” he said, “one more thing … Don’t you think it odd that the only work of your husband we found in his studio were these three drawings?”
“Odd?” she said, puzzled. “Why odd?”
“You told us you were a model; you must have been in many artists’ studios. We’ve been told that most painters usually have many works on hand. Unsold paintings. Half-finished works. Old things they don’t want to sell. And so forth. Yet all we found in your husband’s studio were these three sketches. Don’t you think that odd?”
“No, I don’t,” she said. “My husband was a very successful artist. After he became famous, he sold off all his old work. He was not a sentimentalist; he kept nothing around to remind him of the old days. And his style changed very little; his early work was as good as his most recent paintings. As soon as he finished a new canvas, it was brought to Saul Geltman for sale. Whether I was told of it or not,” she added bitterly.
“I see,” Delaney said thoughtfully. “Thank you for your time. Do you plan to attend the preview of your husband’s memorial show at the Geltman Galleries?”
“Of course,” she said, surprised.
“Your son, also?”
“Yes, we’ll both be there. Why?”
“We hope to see you then,” Delaney said politely. “Good day, Mrs. Maitland.”
They drove over to Jake Dukker’s studio, and the Chief said to Boone:
“What Jason T. Jason said about everyone lying to the cops—that’s true. But there’s something else he’s going to learn: no one ever volunteers any information either. I’m talking about Dora and Emily Maitland up in Nyack. They said Victor visited them a couple of times a year. They answered my question. But you see the inadequacy of interrogation? If you don’t ask the right questions, you find yourself farting around in leftfield. I came away with the impression that Victor was a cold-hearted bastard of a son who wanted as little as possible to do with his mother and sister. Didn’t you get that feeling?”
“Absolutely,” Boone said.
“Because I didn’t ask how often did you see Victor. Instead I asked how often did he visit Nyack. Now Alma claims they came down frequently for lunches and dinners with son Victor, and it was one big happy family. Son of a bitch! It’s my fault.”
“No harm done, Chief,” the sergeant said.
“Yes, harm done,” Delaney said wrathfully. “Not just because Dora and Emily scammed us, but because now they’ll think us pointy-heads and try it again on something else. Well, we shall see. We shall certainly, fucking-ay-right, see!”
They drove on a few minutes in silence, and then Abner Boone asked, somewhat timidly, “What she said about her independent income—twenty thousand a year. You think that’s important?”
“No,” Delaney said, still fuming. “All it proves is that Victor Maitland was as greedy as the whole slick, avaricious, grasping lot of them. Now we know why he married the Ice Maiden.”
In the old elevator, rising with wheezing stubbornness to Jake Dukker’s studio, Delaney said: “The second round. Bust in on them without warning. Keep them off balance. Alma reacted fast. You really think she was going out?”
“Wasn’t she?” Boone said.
“I’d bet no,” the Chief said. “Heard we were there, grabbed up a hat and gloves, and sallied forth. Not an intelligent woman, but shrewd. Let’s see how Jake baby reacts.”
He reacted as if a visit from police officers investigating a homicide was an everyday occurrence. Came out into the reception area to greet them friendlily, said he was finishing up a photography session and would be with them in a few minutes, offered them coffee, and disappeared. He was wearing a black leather jumpsuit decorated with gleaming metal studs. The pitted cheeks glistened with sweat, and his handshake slid.
True to his word, he welcomed them into the studio ten minutes later. The assistants were dismantling a set that apparently was designed to reproduce a middle-class, suburban living room. No models were present, but they heard dogs barking from somewhere.
“Flea spray,” Dukker explained. “A print campaign. Don’t get Fido’s fleas in your upholstery. Use Fidoff. The hounds were easier to work with than the models. Let’s go upstairs and relax.”
He led the way up the spiral staircase, and offered them the lip-shaped couch again. They settled for more conventional chairs. Once again Dukker collapsed into the overstuffed baseball mitt.
“How are you coming?” he asked cheerily. “Anything new?”
They looked at him. He sat slumped far down, fingers laced across his bowling-ball belly. The black leather jumpsuit glistened, and so did his face and bare forearms. He smiled at them genially, showing his stained teeth.
“We timed it from here to Maitland’s Mott Street studio,” Delaney told him. “You could have made it.”
The smile held, but all the mirth went out of it. Then it was just stretched mouth and wet teeth, framed by the droopy Stalin mustache.
“I told you I was up here with Belle Sarazen,” Dukker said hoarsely.
“So you say,” Boone shrugged. “So she says. Means nothing.”
“What do you mean it means nothing?” Dukker said indignantly. “Do you really think—”
“She says you like to be spanked,” Delaney said. “Is that also the truth?”
“And that you envied him,” Boone said. “Hated him because he did his own thing, and you chased the buck.”
“The bitch!” Jake Dukker shouted, jerking forward to the edge of his chair. “Are you going to listen—Let me tell you that she—I can’t believe that you actually think I—Well, she sold him drugs—did she tell you that? I know it for a fact. Snappers. Poppers. She kept him supplied. Oh yes! For a fact. And she’s got the goddamned nerve to—”
He stopped suddenly, fell back suddenly into the baseball mitt, put his knuckles to his mouth.
“I didn’t,” he mumbled. “I swear to God I didn’t. I couldn’t have killed him. Couldn’t have.”
“Why not?” Boone said.
“Well, because,” Jake Dukker said. “I’m just not l
ike that.”
The two cops looked at each other. A unique alibi.
“We figure maybe you were in on it together,” Chief Delaney said in a gentle, musing voice. “You both had reasons. Crazy reasons, but neither of you has what I’d call your normal, run-of-the-mill personality. You both come up here for lunch on that Friday. The models and assistants are downstairs. You duck out that doorway, take the elevator down, either drive or take the subway downtown, put Maitland’s lights out, and come back. You could have managed it.”
“Easy,” Boone said. “I timed it. Myself.”
“I don’t believe this,” Jake Dukker said, shaking his head from side to side. “I-do-not-believe-this. Jesus.”
“It’s possible,” Edward X. Delaney smiled. “Isn’t it? Come on, admit it; it’s possible.”
“You’re going to arrest me?” Dukker said.
“Not today,” Delaney said. “You asked us what’s new. We’re telling you—that we discovered you could have done it. Possibly. That’s what’s new.”
They regarded him gravely as he gradually calmed, quieted, stopped gnawing his knuckles. He tried a smile. It came out flimsy.
“I get it,” he said. “Just throwing a scare—right?”
They didn’t answer.
“Nothing to it—right?”
“You ever go down to Maitland’s studio?” Sergeant Boone asked. “Ever?”
“Well, sure,” Dukker said nervously. “Once or twice. But not for months. Maybe not in a year.”
“He have any paintings there?” Delaney demanded. “In the studio?”
“What?” Dukker said. “I don’t understand.”
They were coming at him so fast, from so many angles, he couldn’t get set.
“In Maitland’s studio,” Delaney repeated. “Did he have paintings stacked against the walls? Like you have. Unsold stuff. Things he was working on. Old paintings.”
“No,” Dukker said. “Not much. He sold everything he did. He didn’t keep things around. Geltman moved his stuff fast.”
“And you said he was fast,” Boone said. “A fast worker. He sold everything?”
“Sure he did. He could—”
“You on anything?” Delaney asked. “Pot? Pills? Or stronger? From Belle Sarazen?”
“What? Hell, no! A little grass now and then. Not from her.”
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