“Take the second one first … There’s no way we can keep it quiet that we’re looking for a woman. But fuzz the issue. Say the killer can be a man or a woman; we’re looking for both.”
“You still think it’s a woman?”
“Of course. But I could be wrong; I admit it. The brass will want an out—just in case. Cover yourself on this one.”
“All right, Edward; that makes sense. What about the wig?”
“Ivar, you’ve got to be definite on that. If the reporters print it was a blond wig, the killer will just switch to another color. That’s what happened when Slavin fucked up.”
“But if we don’t warn tourists about a killer wearing a strawberry blond wig, aren’t we endangering them?”
“Probably,” Delaney said grimly. “But the decoys have got to have something to look for. We can’t have her switching colors on us again.”
“Jesus,” Thorsen breathed, “if the papers find out, they’ll crucify us.”
“We’ve got to take the chance,” the Chief urged. “And if the reporters dig it up, we can always say we didn’t want the killer to go to another color—which is the truth.”
“But meanwhile we’re not warning the tourists.”
“Deputy,” Delaney said, his voice suddenly thick with fury, “do you want to stop this maniac or don’t you?”
“All right, all right,” Thorsen said hastily. “I’ll try to get them to do it your way. I should be out of the meeting and uptown by late this afternoon. Can you meet me at Midtown North at, say, about four o’clock? I’ll tell you how I made out and Boone can bring us up to date.”
“I’ll be there,” Delaney said and hung up.
He was a little ashamed of himself for getting shirty with Ivar. He knew what the Admiral was up against: superior officers concerned with the image of the Department and the public relations aspects of this highly publicized case.
It was bullshit like that—image, public relations, politics—that had persuaded Edward X. Delaney it was time for him to retire from the New York Police Department. With his stubbornness, temper, and refusal to compromise, he knew he could never hope for higher rank.
“If you want to get along, you go along.” That was probably true in every human organization. But being true didn’t make it right. Delaney admitted he was a maverick, always had been. But he consoled himself with the thought that it was the mavericks of the world who got things done. Not the yes-men and the ass-kissers.
All they got for their efforts, he thought morosely, were success, wealth, and admiration.
Detective Bentley had been right; the Osborne wasn’t much of a hotel. It could have been called the Seedy Grandeur. Located on 46th Street east of Seventh Avenue, it had a stone facade so gray and crumbled that it seemed bearded.
It was the type of Times Square hotel that had once hosted Enrico Caruso, Lillian Russell, and Diamond Jim Brady. Now it sheltered Sammy the Wop, Gage Sullivan, Dirty Sally, and others of hazy pasts and no futures.
Standing in the center of that chipped and peeling lobby, Delaney decided the odor was compounded of CN, pot, and ancient urinals. But the place seemed bustling enough, all the men equipped with toothpicks and all the women with orange hair. Tout sheets were everywhere.
Eddie Holzer was studying one, marking his choices. His feet were parked atop his splintered desk and he was wearing a greasy fedora. He held a cracked coffee cup in one trembling hand. Delaney guessed it didn’t contain coffee.
Holzer glanced up when Delaney paused in the opened door.
“Chrissake,” he said, lurching to his feet, “look what the cat drug in. Harya, Chief.”
They shook hands, and Holzer brushed magazines and old newspapers off a straight chair. Delaney sat down cautiously. He looked at the other man with what he hoped was a friendly smile.
He knew Holzer’s record, and it wasn’t a happy one. The ex-detective had worked out of the Narcotics Division, and eventually the big money had bedazzled him. He had been allowed to retire before the DA moved in, but everyone in the Department knew he was tainted.
Now here he was, Chief of Security in a sleazy Times Square hotel, marking up a tipsheet and sipping cheap booze from a coffee cup. For all that, Delaney knew the man had been a clever cop, and he hoped enough remained.
They gossiped of this and that, remembering old times, talking of who was retired, who was dead. The Department put its mark on a man. He might be out for years and years, but he’d be in for the rest of his life.
Finally the chatter stopped.
Holzer looked at the Chief shrewdly. “I don’t figure you stopped in by accident. How’d you find me?”
“Bentley,” Delaney said.
“Dapper Dan?” Holzer said, laughing. “Good cop.”
He was a florid, puffy man, rapidly going to flab. His face was a road map of capillaries, nose swollen, cheeks bloomy. Delaney had noted the early-morning shakes; Holzer made no effort to conceal them. If he was a man on the way down, it didn’t seem to faze him.
The Chief wasn’t sure how to get started, how much to reveal. But Holzer made it easy for him.
He said: “I hear you’re helping out on the Hotel Ripper thing.”
Delaney looked at him with astonishment. “Where did you hear that?”
Holzer flipped a palm back and forth. “Here and there. The grapevine. You know how things get around.”
“They surely do,” Delaney said. “Yes, I’m helping out. Deputy Commissioner Thorsen is an old friend of mine. I hunted you down because I—because we need your help.”
He had pushed the right button. Holzer straightened up, his shoulders went back. Light came into his dulled eyes.
“You need my help?” he said, not believing. “On the case?”
Delaney nodded. “I think you’re the man. You’re a hotel security chief.”
“Some hotel,” Holzer said wanly. “Some security chief.”
“Still …” Delaney said.
He explained that all the Ripper slayings had occurred at hotels in which conventions were being held. He was convinced the killer had prior knowledge of exactly where and when conventions and sales meetings and large gatherings were taking place.
Eddie Holzer listened intently, pulling at his slack lower lip.
“Yeah,” he said, “that washes. I’ll buy it. So?”
“So how would someone know the convention schedule in midtown Manhattan? It’s not published in the papers.”
Holzer thought a moment.
“These things are planned months ahead,” he said. “Sometimes years ahead. To reserve the rooms, you understand. Someone in the Mayor’s office would know. The outfit trying to bring new business to the city. The tourist bureau. Maybe there’s a convention bureau. The Chamber of Commerce. Like that.”
“Good,” Delaney said, not mentioning that he had already thought of those sources. “Anyone else?”
“The hotel associations—they’d know.”
“And … ?”
“Oh,” Holzer said, “here …”
He bent over with some effort, rooted through the stack of magazines and newspapers he had swept off Delaney’s chair. He came up with a thin, slick-paper magazine, skidded it across the desk to the Chief.
“New York hotel trade magazine,” he said. “Comes out every week. It lists all the conventions in town.”
“This goes to every hotel?” Delaney asked, flipping through the pages.
“I guess so,” Holzer said. “It’s a freebie. The ads pay for it. I think it goes to travel agencies, too. Maybe they send it out of town to big corporations—who knows? You’ll have to check.”
“Uh-huh,” Delaney said. “Well, it’s a place to start. Eddie, can I take this copy with me?”
“Be my guest,” Holzer said. “I never look at the goddamned thing.”
The Chief stood, held out his hand. The other man managed to get to his feet. They shook hands. Holzer didn’t want to let go.
�
�Thank you, Eddie,” Delaney said, pulling his hand away. “You’ve been a big help.”
“Yeah?” Holzer said vaguely. “Well … you know. Anything I can do …”
“Take care of yourself,” Delaney said gently.
“What? Me? Sure. You bet. I’m on top of the world.”
Delaney nodded and got out of there. In the rancid lobby, a man and a woman were having a snarling argument. As the Chief passed, the woman spat in the man’s face.
“Aw, honey,” he said sadly, “now why did you want to go and do that for?”
Pierre au Tunnel was Delaney’s favorite French restaurant on the West Side. And because it was Friday, he knew they would be serving bouillabaisse. The thought of that savory fish stew demolished the memory of Monica’s scrumptious breakfast.
He walked uptown through Times Square, not at all offended by the flashy squalor. For all its ugliness, it had a strident vitality that stirred him. This section was quintessential New York. If you couldn’t endure Times Square, you couldn’t endure change.
But there were some things that didn’t change; Pierre au Tunnel was just as he remembered it. The entrance was down a flight of stairs from the sidewalk. There was a long, narrow front room, bar on the right, a row of small tables on the left. In the rear was the main dining room, low-ceilinged, walls painted to simulate those of a tunnel or grotto.
It was a relaxed, reasonably priced restaurant, with good bread and a palatable house wine. Most of the patrons were habitués. It was the kind of neighborhood bistro where old customers kissed old waitresses.
The luncheon crowd had thinned out; Delaney was able to get his favorite table in the corner of the front room. He ordered the bouillabaisse and a small bottle of chilled muscadet. He tucked the corner of his napkin into his collar and spread the cloth across his chest.
He ate his stew slowly, dipping chunks of crusty French bread into the sauce. It was as good as he remembered it, as flavorful, and the hard, flinty wine was a perfect complement. He ordered espresso and a lemon ice for dessert and then, a little later, a pony of Armagnac.
Ordinarily, lunching alone at this restaurant, he would have amused himself by observing his fellow diners and the activity at the bar. But today, with the hotel trade magazine tucked carefully at his side, he had other matters to occupy him.
His original intention had been to take a more active role in the investigation. He had hoped that he alone might handle the search for persons with access to a list of current conventions in New York.
He saw now that such an inquiry was beyond his capabilities, or those of any other single detective. It would take a squad of ten, twenty, perhaps thirty men to track down all the sources, to make a list of all New Yorkers who might have access to a schedule of conventions.
It was a dull, routine, interminable task. And in the end, it might lead to nothing. But, he reflected grimly, it had to be done. Sipping his Armagnac, he began to plan how the men selected for the job should be organized and assigned.
He arrived at Midtown Precinct North a little after 3:30 P.M. Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen was already present, and Delaney met with him and Abner Boone in the sergeant’s office. Thorsen told them of the results of his meeting with the police brass.
“You got everything you wanted, Edward,” he said. “I’ll hold a press conference tomorrow. The official line will be that new leads are enlarging the investigation—which is true—and we are now looking for either a female or male perpetrator. Nothing will be released about the killer switching to a strawberry blond wig.”
“Good,” Boone said. “They picked up more blond hairs when they vacuumed Bergdorfer’s suite at the Cameron Arms. What about the knife blade tip? And the Mace?”
“We’ll keep those under wraps for the time being,” Thorsen said. “We can’t shoot our wad all at once. If the screams for action become too loud, we’ll give them the investigation into the knife, and later into the tear gas. The PR guys were insistent on that. It looks like a long job of work, and we’ve got to hold something back to prove we’re making progress.”
Delaney and Boone both sighed, the Machiavellian manipulations of public relations beyond their ken.
“Edward,” Thorsen went on, “we’re keeping a lid on your involvement in the case for the time being.”
“Keep it on forever as far as I’m concerned.”
“Sergeant, all inquiries from the media will be referred to me. I will be the sole, repeat, sole spokesman for the Department on this case. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make certain your men understand it, too. I don’t want any unauthorized statements to the press, and if I catch anyone leaking inside information, he’ll find himself guarding vacant lots in the South Bronx so fast he won’t know what hit him. Now … I don’t suppose you have any great revelations to report, do you?”
“No, sir,” Boone said, “nothing new. We’re just getting organized on the knife and tear gas jobs. Lieutenant Crane’s research hasn’t turned up anything.”
“I have something,” Delaney said, and they looked at him.
He told them of his belief that the killer had prior knowledge of the location and dates of conventions held in midtown Manhattan. He listed the sources of such information and showed them the hotel trade magazine he had been given by Eddie Holzer.
“It’s got to be someone connected with the hotel or convention business in some way,” he argued. “We’ll have to compile a list of everyone in the city who has access to the convention schedule.”
Thorsen was aghast.
“My God, Edward!” he burst out. “That could be thousands of people!”
“Hundreds, certainly,” Delaney said stonily. “But it’s got to be done. Sergeant?”
“I guess so,” Boone said glumly. “You want men and women listed?”
“Yes,” Delaney said, nodding. “Just to cover ourselves. No use in doing the job twice. What do you figure—twenty or thirty more detectives?”
“At least,” the sergeant said.
Thorsen groaned. “All right,” he said finally, “you’ll get them. Who’s going to handle it?”
“I’ll get it organized and rolling,” Sergeant Boone said. “We better call in Slavin on the scheduling.”
Delaney left them discussing the exact number of men needed and the office space that would be required. He walked uptown from the precinct house until he found a telephone booth in working order.
He called Thomas Handry.
He told the reporter there would be a press conference held at police headquarters the following day. An expanded investigation would be announced and it would be stated that the killer could be either a man or a woman. Delaney said nothing about the blond wig, the knife blade tip, or the Chemical Mace.
“So?” Handry said. “What’s so new and exciting? An expanded investigation—big deal.”
“What’s new and exciting,” Delaney explained patiently, “is that actually the investigation is zeroing in on a female killer.”
A moment of silence …
“So that research convinced you?” Handry said. “And you convinced them?”
“Half-convinced,” Delaney said. “Some of them still think I’m blowing smoke.”
He then went over the evidence that had persuaded him the Hotel Ripper was female. He ended by telling Handry that the timing of the homicides matched a woman’s menstrual periods.
“Crazy,” the reporter said. “You’re sure about all this?”
“Sure I’m sure. I’m giving you this stuff in advance of the press conference for background, not for publication. I owe you one. Also, I thought you might want to prepare by digging out old stories on women killers.”
“I already have,” Handry said. “It wasn’t hard to figure how your mind was working. I started looking into the history of mass murders. A series of homicides in which the killer is a stranger to the victims. One criminologist calls them ‘multicides.’ ”
“Multicides,” Delaney repeated. “That’s a new one on me. Good name. What did you find?”
“Since 1900, there have been about twenty-five cases in the United States, with the number of victims ranging from seven to more than thirty. The scary thing is that more than half of those twenty-five cases have occurred since 1960. In other words, the incidence of multicides is increasing. More and more mass killings by strangers.”
“Yes,” Delaney said, “I was aware of that.”
“And I’ve got bad news for you, Chief.”
“What’s that?”
“Of those twenty-five cases of multicide since 1900, only one was committed by a woman.”
“Oh?” Delaney said. “Did they catch her?”
“No,” Handry said.
Monica came out of the bathroom, hair in curlers, face cold-creamed, a strap of her nightgown held up with a safety pin.
“The Creature from Outer Space,” she announced cheerfully.
He looked at her with a vacant smile. He had started to undress. Doffed his dark cheviot jacket and vest, after first removing watch and chain from waistcoat pockets. The clumpy gold chain had been his grandfather’s. At one end was a hunter that had belonged to his father and had stopped fifty years ago. Twenty minutes to noon. Or midnight.
At the other end of the chain was a jeweled miniature of his detective’s badge, given to him by his wife on his retirement.
Vest and jacket hung away, he seated himself heavily on the edge of his bed. He started to unlace his ankle-high shoes of black kangaroo leather, polished to a high gloss. He was seated there, one shoe dangling from his big hands, when Monica came out of the bathroom.
He watched her climb into bed. She propped pillows against the headboard, sat up with blanket and sheet pulled to her waist. She donned her Benjamin Franklin glasses, picked up a book from the bedside table.
“What did you eat today?” she demanded, peering at him over her glasses.
“Not much,” he lied effortlessly. “After that mighty breakfast this morning, I didn’t need much. Skipped lunch. Had a sandwich and a beer tonight.”
“One sandwich?”
“Just one.”
“What kind?”
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