Boone rolled in again. Ready. In a few seconds Delaney reached around from the hallway. Snapped on the light. Took a quick glance around. Nothing. He had his keys out. Unlocked his equipment drawer in the bedside table. Took his loaded S&W .39 Chief’s Special. A belly gun. Two-inch barrel. Flicked off the safety.
“You,” he said to Boone, “take downstairs and the basement. Put all the lights on and leave them on. I want everything—closets, behind drapes, under couches … the works. Be careful of the men coming in from the precinct.”
The sergeant nodded and was gone.
Delaney stalked down the hallway to the girls’ bedroom, following his gun. He was stiffly erect, making an enormous target. He didn’t care. His stomach was sour with fury and sick fear. He tasted copper.
The light was on in their bedroom. He stepped through the doorway, gun first, without crouching. Then, that moment, he would kill, and he knew it.
The room was vacant. The bed was mussed, blankets and sheets scattered. The Chief turned slowly. He went down on one knee to peer under the bed. He swept the drapes aside. He went into the bathroom. Empty.
He came back into the bedroom. There was a sound from the closet. A small, mewing cry. He stood to one side. He gripped the knob, flung the door wide. He shoved his gun forward.
They were down on the floor. Mary and Sylvia. Cowering behind hanging clothes. They were hugging each other, weeping. They looked up at him, eyes wide and blinking.
He groaned, dropped to his knees. He gathered them into his arms, weeping with them. Hugging them. Kissing them. They all, the three of them, wept together, rubbing wet cheeks, all talking at once, sobbing. Holding each other. Patting. Stroking.
He heard the sound of feet pounding up the staircase, along the hall. And Monica’s despairing scream, “Edward! Edward!”
“Here!” he yelled, laughing and holding the girls to him. “We’re here. It’s all right. It’s all right.”
An hour later, the entire house had been twice searched thoroughly. No evidence of the intruder had been found. The precinct men departed, shaking their heads dolefully at the chutzpah of a B&E artist who selected a home next door to a station house.
Chief Delaney had insisted on making his own individual search, into every corner of every room, the attic, the basement, the back courtyard. As fear waned, cold fury grew. Worst of all was the disgust, knowing your home, your sanctuary, your private and secret place had been invaded, pillaged. It was a stranger putting his hands upon your body, feeling you, prying you out. And, hard to understand, there was shame there. As if, somehow, you had connived in your own despoiling.
The girls, once they had been calmed, petted, and clucked over, told a strange story. They were in bed, asleep, had heard nothing. But then the light in their bedroom had been switched on; a man stood in the doorway. He was wearing a mask, a knitted ski mask. Mary thought he was tall. Sylvia thought he was short. They agreed he was wearing a raincoat and carrying something. An iron bar. But it was flattened on one end.
The intruder ordered them into the closet. He said he would remain in their room, and if they came out of the closet or made any noise, he would kill them. Then he slammed the closet door. They huddled, terrified and weeping, not daring to move.
Monica and Rebecca, outraged, got the girls back into bed. They sat with them in the lighted bedroom. Chief Delaney and Sergeant Boone went back to the kitchen, nerves twanging. It was then almost two A.M. They had their delayed coffee and cake, lifting cups with trembling hands. They discussed the Why? For apparently nothing had been stolen. The things in plain view—transistor radio, portable TV set, silver service—had not been disturbed. Nothing touched, nothing taken.
Rebecca Hirsch, white-faced, came into the kitchen and heard the last part of their discussion.
“Maybe he got scared away,” she suggested nervously. “He broke in, and put the girls in the closet. Then some cops came out of the station house, or he saw a squad car pull up, or he heard a siren. So he just walked away.”
“It could have happened that way,” Sergeant Boone said slowly, looking at Delaney. “An addict with an itch and no sense.”
“That’s probably what it was,” the Chief said, with more confidence than he felt. “A hophead trying to make the price of a fix. He just picked the first place he came to. Our bad luck. He springs the door. Then he gets spooked and takes off. Without hurting the girls. Our good luck. Then he moves on to some other place. I’ll check tomorrow. Maybe some other house on the block got hit.”
None of them believed it.
Rebecca was silent. She sat huddled, shrunk in on herself, tight hands clasped between her knees. Delaney didn’t like her color.
“I think a brandy would go good,” he said heartily. “A wee bit of the old nasty.”
Rebecca lifted her head. “I’ll take some up to Monica. And warm milk for the girls.”
The Chief rose, went into the study. Then he saw it. The third time he had been in this room in the last hour, and he saw it for the first time. He went back into the kitchen and got the others. Insisted on shepherding them into the study. Pointed toward his empty map board.
“That’s what it was,” he said. “The three Maitland sketches we found in his studio. The Jake Dukker drawing of the young model. That’s what he came for. That’s what he got.”
“Jesus Christ,” Abner Boone said.
14
CHIEF DELANEY SAT READING the Times in his study on Saturday morning, waiting patiently for nine o’clock, when, he figured, he could decently call Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen at home. But his own phone rang fifteen minutes before the hour.
“Edward X. Delaney here.”
“Edward, this is Ivar. I just heard what happened. My God, right next door to a police station! Are you all right? Monica? The girls?”
“Everyone’s all right, Ivar. Thank you. No one was hurt.”
“Thank God for that. What did they get?”
Delaney told him. There was a silence for a moment. Then …
“How do you figure that, Edward?”
“It could have been just for the intrinsic value of Maitland’s last drawings. But I doubt that; they took Dukker’s sketch, too. I think it was the killer, or someone hired by the killer. Has Boone been reporting to you, Ivar?”
A brief silence again, then: “Yes, he has, Edward. I didn’t want to bother—”
“That’s all right. At least I don’t have to fill you in. The break-in happened during the preview of Maitland’s last show at the Geltman Galleries. They were all there—everyone connected with the case. But it was a mob scene, Ivar. Any one of them could have skinned out, cabbed up here, grabbed the drawings, and returned within half an hour. Or hired someone to do it.”
“Risky, Edward. Next door to a precinct house?”
“Sure, risky. So it must have been important. I think what we were hoping for happened: that Spanish woman and the young girl saw the killer on Friday. Either near the studio or actually in the house, maybe on the stairs. The killer sees the sketches, remembers the women, and figures maybe they can finger him. So he grabs the drawings, thinking that’ll end any chance we have of finding the witnesses. But he doesn’t know about the photostats I had made, or Officer Jason, who saw the women on Monday.”
“Who knew about the sketches?” Thorsen asked.
“All of them did,” Delaney said. “Except Dora and Emily Maitland, and they could have been told about them.”
“Talking about Dora and Emily …” Thorsen said. “I’ve got something for you. It could be something. It could be nothing. Our contact with J. Barnes Chapin called. Dora’s in the hospital. Emily found her this morning lying at the bottom of a cliff. In the back of their house.”
“I know the place. A steep slope down to the river.”
“Fell or pushed, the deponent knoweth not. Anyway, the lady’s got a busted arm, a torn ligament in her knee, and sundry cuts and bruises.”
“She had
a snootful when I saw her at Geltman’s bash.”
“Edward, that must have been a very wet party.”
“It was.”
“So she fell?”
“Not necessarily,” Delaney said, remembering the scene Boone had reported witnessing between Saul Geltman, Dora and Emily Maitland. “Maybe someone gave her a gentle nudge.”
Thorsen sighed. “I’ll ask the Nyack blues to look into it. So where do we go from here?”
“I was going to call you,” Delaney said. “Here’s what we need …”
He spoke steadily for almost five minutes, carefully explaining the reasons for his requests. When he finished, Thorsen agreed to everything.
Jason T. Jason would be detached from patrol duty and assigned to the Maitland investigation. His first task would be to work with a police artist in creating likenesses of the Spanish woman and the young girl he had seen. Reproductions of the drawings would be circulated to all Manhattan precincts with a “Hold for questioning” request.
“And to the newspapers and TV stations?” Thorsen asked. “It would help, Edward. Prove to J. Barnes Chapin that we’re working on the case and getting close.”
Delaney thought a moment.
“Yes,” he said finally. “The danger is that the killer will get to the women before we do. Goodbye witnesses. But I’m willing to risk that for spooking the killer and maybe panicking him into doing something stupid. He hasn’t made any mistakes yet, as far as I can see. Let’s give him, or her, a chance. What’s happening with the Nyack banks?”
“I’ve been working on it, Edward, I really have. But these things take time; you know that. I hope to have some word on Monday.”
“Good enough. If they won’t cooperate, we’ll have to get a court order, and screw J. Barnes Chapin.”
“It’s that important?”
“Yes,” Chief Delaney said stonily, “it’s that important.”
“All right, Iron Balls,” Thorsen sighed. “It’s not the first time I’ve crawled out on a limb for you.”
“Never sawed it off, have I?”
“No,” Thorsen laughed. “Not yet you haven’t. How’s Boone getting along?”
“Fine.”
“Staying sober?”
There was the briefest of pauses before Delaney said, “Far as I know.”
The moment Thorsen got off the phone, the Chief called Abner Boone and briefed him on what was happening.
“You handle Jason Two,” he told the sergeant. “Get him to a police artist first thing Monday morning. Take along that set of photostats I gave you. If the artist can’t come up with good likenesses, take the stats to Jake Dukker and have him do another drawing.”
“He should be willing to cooperate,” Boone said.
“I’d say so,” Delaney said dryly. “Even if he was the guy who grabbed the original Maitland sketches. He doesn’t know we have photostats. If you go to him, watch his face when you show him the copies; I’ll be interested in his reactions.”
“Will do,” Boone said. “Anything else?”
“Better make sure Jason Two knows how to operate. By Monday morning, I’ll have a list of Maitland’s hangouts. You can stop by and pick it up on your way downtown. I think that’s about all.”
“Chief, should Jason Two flash his tin or work undercover?”
“I’ll leave that to you,” Delaney said. “And to him. Whichever you feel will get the best results. And try to figure how we’re going to get the home address of Martha, the Maitlands’ housekeeper up in Nyack. If all goes well, we’ll be heading that way next Friday.”
All that being accomplished, Edward X. Delaney carefully clipped from the morning New York Times the news story on the preview of the Victor Maitland Memorial Show. The headline read: SLAIN ARTIST REMEMBERED AT GALA. There was a small photo of Saul Geltman and a large photo of Belle Sarazen. She had been photographed standing next to a Maitland oil. The contrast between her hard, silvery slimness and the lush nude made an eye-catching picture. The caption referred to “Belle Sarazen, well-known patroness of the arts …” Chief Delaney grunted.
Monica and the girls were out, shopping at Bloomingdale’s for last-minute items before Mary and Sylvia departed for summer camp on Monday. The windows were open wide; a warm breeze billowed through. It promised a shining day in early June, one of those rare marvels: big sky, washed clouds, a smoky sun, air smelling green and eager.
Savoring his quiet solitude, wondering if it was too early for a chilled beer and deciding it was, Edward X. Delaney carried the original file folders of the official Maitland investigation to his desk, sat down, prepared to draw up a list of the bars, restaurants, cabarets, and other public places known to have been frequented by the victim. Then Jason T. Jason could …
But, as had happened to him before on other cases, he found himself reading once again every document in the file. Not that he had any great hope of happening upon a revelation he had previously missed; it was just that official paper fascinated him. The most laconic police document was an onion, Chief Delaney decided, a goddamned onion. The layers peeled away, and the thing got smaller and smaller until you were left with a little white kernel you could hold between thumb and forefinger. And what was that? The truth? Don’t count on it. Don’t take it to the bank.
His eyes skimmed the autopsy report for the third time. And in the “Incidental Notes”—a heading that invited inattention—he read about an enlarged liver; evidence of a broken arm, healed normally; some old lung lesions, healed normally; perhaps a heart murmur in Victor Maitland’s youth, healed normally. And, almost as an afterthought, the PM noted casually: “Possible polymyositis.”
Delaney blinked, reading that and set the report aside.
He had filled six personal pocket notebooks since he began the Maitland investigation (and he assumed Sergeant Boone had done the same). In his methodical way, Delaney had Scotch-taped a précis of each notebook to the inside of the front cover so he wouldn’t have to paw through the lot to find a particular fact or statement he wanted. So it didn’t take him long to find the notebook that contained his second interrogation of Alma Maitland, and the name of the Maitland’s family physician.
Dr. Aaron Horowitz, Delaney had written, followed by “dwn blk,” which in Delaney’s shorthand meant that the doctor’s office was down the block from the Maitland apartment on East 58th Street.
He looked up Dr. Aaron Horowitz’s number in the Manhattan telephone directory, using a magnifying glass to read it. He dialed and, as he expected, this being a Saturday, was connected with an answering service. When the operator asked him if he cared to leave a message, Delaney had no qualms at all in telling her it was an emergency, a matter of life-or-death, a police matter, and please have Dr. Horowitz call him at once.
He just had time to settle back, peel the cellophane wrapper from his first cigar of the day, and pierce it, when his phone shrilled. He thought even the ring was angry, but perhaps that was an after-the-fact reaction—after he heard the voice of Dr. Aaron Horowitz.
“What the hell is this?” the doctor screamed, after Delaney identified himself. “What’s this ‘emergency’ shit? This ‘life-or-death’ shit? What the hell you pulling here?”
“Doctor, doctor,” Delaney said, as soothingly as he could. “It is an emergency, a matter of life-or-death, a police matter. It concerns a patient of yours. His name is—”
“You got your brains in your ass?” Dr. Horowitz demanded. “The doctor-patient relationship is privileged. You didn’t know that? I won’t tell you a word about any patient of mine.”
Chief Delaney took a deep breath. “This is a dead patient,” he yelled at Dr. Horowitz. “You got no fucking privilege, no fucking right to deny information to the police about a deceased patient.”
“Who says so?” the doctor shouted.
“The courts say so,” Delaney thundered, and then launched into a brilliant flight of fantasy. “In case after case—the most recent being Johnson versus the St
ate of New York—the courts have held that a medical practitioner has no right, by statute or by precedent, to withhold vital information regarding a deceased patient from police officers discharging their legal duty.”
It was amazing how easily educated men could be conned.
“What patient you talking about?” Dr. Aaron Horowitz said grudgingly. He was no longer yelling.
“Victor Maitland.”
“Oh … him.”
“Yes, him,” Delaney said sternly. “All I want is five minutes of your time. Can’t you spare five minutes from your golf game?”
“Golf game!” Dr. Horowitz said bitterly. “Very funny. I’m laughing all over. For your information, my dear Chief Delaney, I am at Roosevelt Hospital, and I got a kid who’s going. From what? Nobody knows from what. Meningitis maybe. Some golf game!”
“If I come over now,” Delaney said, “can you spare me five minutes?”
“Can’t it wait till Monday?”
“No,” Delaney said, “it can’t. Five minutes is all I need. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“If you’re coming, how can I stop you?” Horowitz said.
Delaney took that for acquiescence. He slammed down the phone, grabbed up reading glasses and notebook, and was on his way.
In addition to a normal dislike of all hospitals, Edward X. Delaney had special reason for aversion to Roosevelt: it was the hospital where his first wife, Barbara, had languished and died. It was, he admitted, irrational to hold a building accountable for that, but it was the way he felt. He knew that if, God forbid, he was ever stricken on the steps of Roosevelt Hospital, his first words to those who ran to aid him would be, “Take me to Mount Sinai, goddammit!”
He finally located Dr. Aaron Horowitz in the surgeons’ lounge, a small cheerless room with a television set, a couch and two armchairs covered with orange plastic, a card table and four folding chairs, and not much else.
Dr. Horowitz turned out to be a small man, about a head shorter than Delaney, but as old, if not older. He had a pinched, disillusioned face. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles. There was a horseshoe of white hair around his scalp, but it was mostly bare skin, tan and freckled. He was wearing a white surgical gown. A mask hung loosely around his neck. He didn’t offer to shake hands, and Delaney stood well away from him, across the room.
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