By the time they pulled up with a squeal of brakes in front of the Tribunal, the street was already choked with police vehicles, vans, an ambulance. A crowd was growing, pushed back by precinct cops until barricades could be erected. The hotel was already cordoned: no one in or out without showing identification. Motor inn staff, residents, and visitors were being lined up in the lobby for questioning. A uniformed officer guarding the elevator bank sent them up to the fifth floor.
There was a mob in the corridor, most of them clustered about Room 508. Sergeant Boone stood in the doorway, his face stony.
“It was her all right,” he said, his voice empty. “Throat slashed, stab wounds in the nuts. The clunk was Chester LaBranche, twenty-four, from Barre, Vermont. He was here for some kind of a college convention.”
“A convention again,” Thorsen said bitterly. “And twenty-four. A kid!”
“Did we have any decoys in the place?” Delaney asked.
“No,” Boone said shortly. “The place is small and this neighborhood isn’t exactly Times Square, so we didn’t cover it.”
The Deputy Commissioner started to say something, then shut his mouth.
Tommy Callahan came to the doorway.
“Naked,” he reported. “Half-on and half-off the bed. No signs of a struggle. Looks like the early kills when she came up behind them. All the blood appears to be his. We’ll scrape the bathroom drains, but it doesn’t look good.”
Lou Gorki shouldered him out of the way. The Crime Scene Unit man was holding a wineglass by two fingers spread wide inside. There was a half-inch of amber liquid at the bottom. The outside of the glass was whitened with powder.
“It’s wine all right,” Gorki said. “I dipped a finger. Chablis. Vintage of yesterday. But the kicker is that there’s also a half-empty bottle of beer and a glass. No guy is going to drink beer and wine at the same time. Good prints on both. I figure this wineglass was hers.”
“Check it out,” Boone said.
“Sure,” Gorki said. “We’ll take everything downtown for the transfers. At least now we got a make if we ever pull someone in on this thing.”
“Sarge,” Detective Johnson said from behind them, “I think maybe we lucked onto something. I got a waiter upstairs who says he might have seen her.”
They trooped after him to a staircase at the end of the corridor, closed off with a red Exit sign above the door.
“This guy’s name is Tony Pizzi,” Johnson said as they climbed the concrete stairs. “He’s on the day shift today, but yesterday he worked from six until two. He hustles drinks in the outdoor lounge by the pool. Then, when the pool and bar closed at midnight, he went downstairs to help out in the main bar. He thinks he served LaBranche and a woman up here. Bottled beer and white wine.”
Anthony Pizzi was a sleepy-eyed man, short, chunky rather than fat. He was wearing a white apron cinched up under his armpits. The apron bulged with the bulk of his belly.
He had a fleshy, saturnine face cut in half with a narrow black mustache, straight across, cheek to cheek. His teeth were almonds, and he had a raspy New York voice. Delaney figured the accent for Brooklyn, probably Bushwick.
They got him seated at a corner table and hunched around him on metal chairs. A bartender, polishing one glass, watched them intently, but a man cleaning the pool with a long-handled screen paid no attention.
“Tony,” Detective Johnson said, “will you go through it again, please, for these men? When you came on duty, what you did, what you saw. The whole schmeer.”
“I come on duty at six o’clock,” Pizzi started, “and—”
“This was yesterday?” Boone interrupted sharply.
“Yeah. Yesterday. Monday. So I come on duty at six o’clock, and there’s a few people in the pool, not many, but at that time we’re busy at the bar. The cocktail crowd, y’unnerstan. Martinis and Manhattans. We got one waiter here, me, and one bartender. In the afternoon, you can buy a sandwich, like, but not after six. So’s people will go down to the dining room, y’unnerstan. So the crowd thins out like till nine-ten, around there, and then we begin to fill up again, and people come up for a swim.”
Sergeant Boone was the interrogator.
“What time do you close?”
“Twelve. On the dot. Then anyone he wants to keep on drinking, he’s got to go down to the lobby bar. Unless he wants to drink in his room, y’unnerstan. Anyways, last night about ten-eleven, like that, a couple of people in the pool, all the tables taken … Not that I’m all that rushed, y’unnerstan, with the tables filled. This is a small place; look around. Mostly couples and parties of four. Two guys by theirselves and one dame. The guys are double bourbons on the rocks and bottled Millers. The dame is white wine. The bourbon guy is like maybe fifty, around there, lushing like there’s no tomorrow, and the beer guy is nursing his bottles. The wine dame is sipping away, not fast, not slow.”
“You allow unescorted women up here?”
“Why not? If they conduct theirselves in a ladylike manner, y’unnerstan, they can drink up a storm—who cares?”
“Describe the young guy, Tony. The one drinking beer by himself.”
“He’s like—oh, about twenty-five, I’d guess. Tall, real tall, and thin. He’s got long blond hair, like down to his shoulders and all over his ears, and a beard. But not a hippie, y’unnerstan. He’s clean and dressed nice.”
“What was he wearing—do you remember?”
“Khaki pants and a sports jacket.”
They looked at Boone. The sergeant nodded grimly.
“Those were the clothes he took off,” he said. “That was him. What about the woman, Tony. Can you describe her?”
“I din get a good look. She’s sitting over there at that small table. See? Next to the palms. At night, most of the light comes from around the pool, so she’s in shadow, y’unnerstan. About forty, I’d guess, give or take.”
“Tall?”
“Yeah, I’d say so. Maybe five-six or seven.”
“Wearing a hat?”
“No hat. Brown hair. Medium. Cut short.”
“How was she dressed?”
“Very plain. Nothing flashy. White turtleneck sweater. One of those denim things with shoulder straps.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Nah. You’d never look at her once. Flat-chested. Flat heels. No makeup. A nothing.”
“All right, now we got the woman by herself drinking white wine and the young blond guy by himself drinking beer. How did they get together?”
“The kid stands up, takes his bottle and glass, and goes over to her table. I’m watching him, y’unnerstan, because if she screams bloody murder, then I’ll have to go over and tell him to cool it. But he talks and she talks, and I see them smiling, and after a while he sits down with her, and they keep talking and smiling, so I couldn’t care less.”
“Did you hear what they were talking about?”
“Nah. Who wants to listen to that bullshit? When they signal me, I bring another round of drinks. That’s all I’m getting paid for. Not to listen to bullshit.”
“When they left, did they leave together?”
“Sure. They were the last to go. That’s how come I remember them so good. The place emptied out and I had to go over and tell them we was closing. So they paid their bill and left.”
“Who paid the bill?”
“They each paid their own tabs. That was okay by me; they both left a tip so I did all right.”
“Did you see where they went? To the elevators?”
“I din see. I went to the bar with the money and checks. When I come back, they was gone. My tips was on the table. Also, they took their glasses with them.”
“Wasn’t that unusual?”
“Nah. People staying here at the hotel, they don’t finish a drink, they take it down to their rooms with them. The maids find the glasses and return them up here. No one loses.”
“So they left around midnight?”
“Right to the minute.”
Sergeant Boone looked at Delaney. “Chief?” he asked.
“Tony,” Delaney said, “this woman—can you tell us more about her?”
“Like what?”
“Can you guess what she weighed?”
“Skinny. Couldn’t have been more than one-twenty. Probably less.”
“What about her voice?”
“Nothing special. Low. Polite.”
“Her posture?”
“I din notice. Sorry.”
“You’re doing fine. You didn’t happen to notice if she was wearing a gold bracelet, did you?”
“I don’t remember seeing no gold bracelet.”
“You said she was plain looking?”
“Yeah. A kind of a long face.”
“If you had to guess what kind of work she does, what would you guess?”
“A secretary maybe. Like that.”
“Did she touch the young guy?”
“Touch him?”
“His cheek. Stroke his hair. Put her hand on his arm. Anything like that?”
“You mean was she coming on? Nah, nothing like that.”
“Did you ever see either of them before?”
“Never.”
“Together or separately? Never been here before?”
“I never saw them.”
“Did they act like they knew each other? Like old friends meeting by accident?”
“Nah. It was a pickup, pure and simple.”
“When they left at midnight, would you say they were drunk?”
“No way. I could look up the bill, but I’d say he had three-four beers and she had three-four wines. But they wasn’t drunk.”
“Feeling no pain?”
“Not even that. Just relaxed and friendly. No trouble. When I told them we was closing, they din make no fuss.”
“Do you remember the color of the woman’s eyes?”
“I din see.”
“Guess.”
“Brown.”
“Did you think they were guests here at the hotel?”
“Who knows? They come and go. Also, we get a lot of outsiders stop by for a drink. Off the street, y’unnerstan.”
“Was the woman wearing perfume?”
“Don’t remember any if she was.”
“Anything at all you recall about her? Anything we haven’t asked?”
“No, not really. She was nothing special, y’unnerstan. Just another woman.”
“Uh-huh. Thank you, Tony. That’s all I’ve got. Sergeant?”
“Thanks for your help, Tony,” Boone said. “Detective Johnson will take you over to the station house and get a signed statement. Don’t worry about getting docked; we’ll make it right with your boss.”
“Sure, I don’t mind. You think this woman put him under?”
“Could be.”
“She the Hotel Ripper?”
“Johnson,” Boone said, gesturing, and the detective led Anthony Pizzi away.
“Good witness,” Delaney said. “Those hooded eyes fooled me. He doesn’t miss much. Hit him again in a day or so, sergeant. He’ll be thinking about it, and maybe he’ll remember more things.”
“I suppose you blame me, Edward,” Ivar Thorsen said.
“Blame you? For what?”
“She did what you said she’d do—left off the wig and bracelet, dressed plainly. After she read the newspaper stories.”
Delaney shrugged. “Under the bridge and over the dam. Even if she had dressed up like a tart, I think she would have murdered LaBranche and walked away. Maybe it worked out for the best; now we got a firmer description of what she really looks like. Sergeant, don’t forget to have Bentley take Anthony Pizzi to the police artist. Maybe they can refine that sketch/’
“Do it today,” Boone promised. “Anything else, Chief?”
“Nooo, not really.”
“Something bothering you, Edward?”
“Up to now she’s been so goddamned clever. Made sure she picked up her victims in a big, crowded place so no one would remember her. Made sure she wiped her prints clean. Now, all of a sudden, she meets the guy in a small place. Lets him pick her up in a way that people will recall. Stays late until they’re the only two left. The waiter was sure to remember. Then carries her wineglass down to his room and leaves it there with prints all over it. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I can’t understand it. It’s just not like her.”
“Maybe,” Ivar Thorsen said slowly, “maybe she wants to be caught.”
Delaney looked at him. “You think so? It’s possible, but that’s a fancy-schmancy explanation. Maybe the reason is simpler than that. Maybe she’s just tired.”
“Tired?”
“Weary. Fatigued. Can you imagine what the stress must be like? Picking up these strangers, any one of whom could be a sadistic killer himself. Then going up against them with a pocket knife. Killing them and destroying any evidence that would point to her. My God, the strain of doing all that, month after month.”
“You think she’s falling apart?” Boone asked.
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? Especially when she reads the papers and realizes that little by little we’re getting closer. I think the tension is beginning to get to her. She’s not thinking straight anymore. She’s forgetting things. The pressure is building up. Yes, sergeant, I think she’s cracking.”
“Is there anything more we could be doing?” Thorsen asked anxiously.
“Finish that sketch,” Delaney said, “and get it out to all the newspapers and TV stations. Better put extra men on to handle the calls. Start immediately on individual interviews with every woman between the ages of, say, twenty-five and fifty, on the convention schedule access list. Get Johnson’s men started on the physical examination of every tear gas container sold in New York.”
“Right,” Sergeant Boone said. “We’ll put on the heat.”
“You better,” Delaney said drily. “We’ve only got another twenty-six days.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be around then,” Deputy Commissioner Thorsen said.
They looked at him and realized he wasn’t joking.
Delaney left the motor inn, pushed through the crowd on the street, and caught a cab going uptown on Tenth Avenue. He sat crossways on the back seat, stretching out his legs.
He thought of Thorsen’s last comment. He reckoned the Admiral might weather this latest unsolved killing, but if there was another late in July, Thorsen would be tossed to the wolves and a new commander brought in.
It would be a hard, cruel thing to do, and would put an effective end to the Deputy’s career in the NYPD. But Ivar knew the risk when he accepted the job of stopping the Hotel Ripper. Delaney could imagine the man’s fury with this “plain looking, nothing special” woman whose fate was linked with his.
Monica met him in the hallway and put a hand on his arm. She had evidently heard the news on the radio, for she looked at him with shocked eyes.
“Another one?” she said.
He nodded.
“Edward,” she said, almost angrily, “when is this going to stop?”
“Soon,” he said. “I hope. We’re getting there, but it’s slow work. Ivar won’t—”
“Edward,” she interrupted, “Dr. Ho is waiting for you in the living room. I told him I didn’t know when you’d be back, but he said he had to see you.”
“All right,” Delaney said, sighing. “I’ll see what he wants now.”
He hung his skimmer away in the hall closet, then opened the door to the living room.
The moment he appeared, Dr. Patrick Ho bounced to his feet. His eyes were burning with triumph. He waved a sheaf of yellow telegrams wildly.
“Addison’s disease!” he shouted. “Addison’s disease!”
11
JULY 1ST; TUESDAY …
There had been a brief, hard summer squall just before Zoe Kohler left work. When she came out onto Madison Avenue, the pavement was steaming, gutters running with filth. The clogged air bit and stank of wet char.
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She walked down to the office of Dr. Oscar Stark. She passed a liquor store, saw in the window a display of wines. She thought of the wineglass she had left in the hotel room of Chester LaBranche.
It was not a serious oversight—her fingerprints were not on file, anywhere—but the slipup bothered her. In many ways—in the Hotel Granger office, in the clean order of her home—she was a perfectionist. She knew it and found pride in it.
So this minor error annoyed her. It was the first mistake she could not blame on chance or accident. It depressed her because it tainted her adventure, made it bumbling happenstance instead of a clear statement of her will.
“Did you hear about the new murder?” the receptionist asked excitedly. “The Hotel Ripper again.”
“I heard,” Zoe Kohler said. “It’s awful.”
“Just awful,” the woman agreed.
When Dr. Stark came into the examination room, preceded by a plume of cigar smoke, the first thing he said was, “Where’s your bracelet?”
Her heart surged, then settled when she realized he was not referring to the gold links with the WHY NOT? legend, but to her medical identification strap stating she was a victim of Addison’s disease.
“Uh, I took a shower this morning,” she said, “and forgot to put it back on.”
“Oh sure,” he said. “But the kit’s in your purse, isn’t it?” Then, when she didn’t answer, he said, “Zoe, Zoe, what am I going to do with you?”
He scanned the clipboard Gladys handed him. Then he commanded Zoe to stand and drop the sheet. He hitched the wheeled stool closer until his face was only inches from her sunken abdomen.
“Look at you,” he said wrathfully. “Skin and bones! And look at this … and this … and this …”
He showed her the bronzy discolorations on her knees, elbows, knuckles, nipples. Then he plucked at her pubic hair, displayed what came away.
“See?” he demanded. “See? You’re taking your medication?”
“Yes, I am. Every day.”
He grunted. The remainder of the examination was conducted in silence. Because she was having her period, the pelvic probing and Pap smear were omitted.
It seemed to Zoe that he was not as gentle as usual. He was rough, almost savage, in his handling of her body. He ignored her gasps and groans.
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