First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

He couldn’t breathe. Something was caught in his chest. He bowed his head, made a small noise, gripped her fingers tighter.

  “Promise?” she demanded.

  “Yes.”

  She smiled, nodded, slept.

  4

  CAPTAIN DELANEY WAS DETAINED by another demonstration at the embassy. By the time he got it squared away and the chanting marchers shunted off into side streets, it was late afternoon and almost time for Barbara’s operation. He had one of the precinct squad cars rush him over to the hospital. He knew it was a breach of regulations, but he determined to make a full report on it, explaining the circumstances, and if they wanted to discipline him, they could.

  He hurried up to her room, sweating under his longjohns and uniform jacket. They were wheeling her out as he arrived; he could only kiss her pale cheek and smile at her. She was on a cart, bundled up in blankets, the tube still attached to her arm, the jar of feeding fluid high on a rod clamped to the cart.

  He left her on the second floor where the operating rooms were located. There was also a recovery ward, offices of physicians and surgeons, a small dispensary, and a large waiting room painted a bilious green and furnished with orange plastic couches and chairs. This brutal chamber was presided over by a handsome nurse, a woman of about 40, buxom, a blonde who kept poking tendrils of hair back under her starched cap.

  Delaney gave his name, and she checked a frighteningly long list on her desk.

  “Mrs. Barbara Delaney?”

  “Yes.”

  “Captain, it will be another half-hour until the operation. Then Mrs. Delaney will go to the recovery ward. You won’t be allowed to see her until she’s returned to her room, and then only if her doctor approves.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll wait. I want to talk to the surgeon after the operation is finished.”

  “Well …” she said doubtfully, consulting her list. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to. Dr. Spencer has two more scheduled after your wife. Captain, if you’re hungry or want a cup of coffee, why don’t you go downstairs to the cafeteria? Our paging system is connected there, and I can always call if you’re needed.”

  “A good idea,” he nodded approvingly. “Thank you. I’ll do that. Do you happen to know if Dr. Bernardi is in the hospital?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but I’ll try to find out.”

  “Thank you,” he said again.

  The food in the hospital cafeteria was, as he expected, wretched. He wondered how long they had to steam it to achieve that spongy texture and uniform color; the string beans were almost the same shiny hue as the mashed potatoes. And it all tasted as bad as it looked. Even liberal sprinklings of salt and pepper couldn’t make the meat loaf taste like anything but wet wallboard. He thought of his wife’s Italian stew, scented and spiced with rosemary, and he groaned.

  He finally shoved the dishes away, hardly touched, and had a cup of black coffee and half a dish of chocolate pudding. Then he had another cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. He was sweltering in the overheated cafeteria, but he never considered unhooking his choker collar. It wouldn’t look right in public. He reflected on how you could always spot old cops, even in a roomful of naked men. The cops had a ring of blue dye around their necks: a lifetime of wearing that damned choker collar.

  He returned to the waiting room on the second floor. The nurse told him she had located Dr. Bernardi; he was gowned and observing the kidney operation on Mrs. Delaney. The Captain thanked her and went out to the public telephone in the hall. He called the precinct. Lieutenant Rizzo had the duty and reported nothing unusual, nothing that required the Captain’s attention. Delaney left the extension number of the waiting room in case he was needed.

  He went back in, sat down, and looked around. There was an elderly Italian couple sitting on a couch in a corner, holding hands and looking scared. There was a young man standing propped against a wall, his face vacant. He was smoking a cigarette that threatened to burn his fingers. Seated on a plastic chair was a mink-clad matron, face raddled, showing good legs and a wattled neck. She seemed to be making an inventory of the contents of her alligator handbag.

  Delaney was next to an end table scattered with magazines. He picked up a six-months-old copy of “Medical Progress,” flipped through it, saw he could never understand it, put it aside. Then he sat solidly, silently, and waited. It was the detectives’ art. Once, on a stake-out, he had sat in a parked car for 14 hours, relieving himself in an empty milk carton. You learned to wait. You never got to like it, but you learned how to do it.

  A few things happened. The big, buxom nurse went off duty and was replaced by a woman half her size: a tough, dark, surprisingly young Puerto Rican girl with glowing eyes, a brisk way of moving, a sharp way of talking. She took all their names and why they were there. She straightened magazines on the tables. She emptied ashtrays. Then, unexpectedly, she sprayed the room with a can of deodorant and opened a window. The room began to cool; Delaney could have kissed her.

  The vacant-faced young man was called and slouched out, staring at the ceiling. The mink-clad matron suddenly stood, wrapped her coat tightly about her, and pushed through the door without speaking to the nurse. The elderly Italian couple still sat patiently in the corner, weeping quietly.

  New arrivals included a stiff, white-haired gentleman leaning on a cane. He gave his name to the nurse, lowered himself into a chair, and immediately fell asleep. Then there was a pair of hippie types in faded jeans, fringed jackets, beaded headbands. They sat cross-legged on the floor and began to play some game with oversize cards whose design Delaney could not fathom.

  Finally he let himself glance at the wall clock. He was shocked to see it so late. He hurried to the desk and asked the nurse about his wife. She dialed, asked, listened, hung up.

  “Your wife is in the recovery ward.”

  “Thank you. Can you tell me where Dr. Spencer is, so I can talk to him?”

  “You should have asked before. Now I have to call again.”

  He let her bully him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She called, asked, hung up.

  “Dr. Spencer is operating and not available.”

  “What about Dr. Bernardi?” he said doggedly, not at all fazed by her furious glare.

  Again she called, asked, spoke sharply to the person on the other end, then punched the phone down.

  “Dr. Bernardi has left the hospital.”

  “What? What?”

  “Dr. Bernardi has left the hospital.”

  “But he—”

  At that moment the door to the waiting room slammed back. It hit the wall with the sound of a pistol shot. Thinking of it later, Delaney decided that from that moment on, the night simply exploded and went whirling away.

  It was the mink-clad matron, her wrinkled face crimson.

  “They’re killing him!” she screamed. “They’re killing him!”

  The little nurse came from behind her desk. She reached for the distraught woman. The matron raised one fur-covered arm and clubbed her down.

  The others in the room looked up. Dazed. Bewildered. Frightened. Delaney rose lightly to his feet.

  “They’re killing him!” the woman screamed.

  The nurse scrambled up, rushed out the door.

  Delaney moved very slowly toward the hysterical woman.

  “Oh yes,” he said in a voice deliberately dulled, slowed. “They’re killing him. Oh yes,” he nodded.

  The woman turned to him. “They’re killing him,” she repeated, not yelling now but pulling at the loose skin beneath her chin.

  “Oh yes,” Delaney kept nodding. “Oh yes.”

  He, to whom touching a stranger was anathema, knew from experience how important physical contact was in dealing with irrational or maddened people.

  “Oh yes,” he kept repeating, nodding his head but never smiling. “I understand. Oh yes.”

  He put a hand lightly, tentatively, on her furred arm.

  “Oh yes,” he kept nodding. “
Oh yes.”

  She looked down at the hand on her arm, but she didn’t throw him off.

  “Oh yes,” he nodded. “Tell me about it. I want to know all about it. Oh yes. Tell me from the beginning. I want to hear all about it.”

  Now he had his arm about her shoulders; she was leaning into him. Then an intern and attendant, white-clad, came flinging in, followed by the furious nurse. Delaney, leading the matron slowly toward a couch, waved them away with his free hand. The intern had enough sense to stop in his tracks and halt the others. The old Italian couple, open-mouthed, and the hippie couple watched in silence. The white-haired gentleman slept on.

  “They’re killing him!” she screamed once more.

  “Oh yes,” he nodded, hugging her closer. “Tell me all about it. I want to know all about it.”

  He got her seated on a plastic couch, his arm still about her shoulders. The intern and his aides watched nervously but didn’t approach.

  “Tell me,” Delaney soothed. “Tell me everything. Start from the beginning. I want to know.”

  “Shit,” the woman said suddenly, and fumbled in her alligator bag for a handkerchief. She blew her nose with a tremendous fluttering blast that startled everyone in the room. “You’re a beautiful man, you know that? You’re not like those other mother-fuckers in this butcher shop.”

  “Tell me,” he droned on, “tell me about it.”

  “Well,” she said, dabbing at her nose, “it began about six months ago. Irving came home early from the office and complained about—”

  Delaney heard a scuffling of feet and looked up. The room seemed filled with police uniforms. Oh God, he thought despairingly, don’t tell me that stupid nurse called the cops because of one poor, sad, frightened, hysterical woman.

  But it couldn’t be. There was Captain Richard Boznanski of the 188th Precinct, just north of his. And he recognized a detective lieutenant and a man from the public relations section. A sergeant had his arm around Boznanski’s waist and was half-supporting him.

  Delaney pulled apart from the matron.

  “Don’t go away,” she pleaded. “Please don’t go away.”

  “Just for a minute,” he whispered. “I’ll be back. I promise I’ll be back.”

  The loudspeaker was shouting: “Dr. Spencer, report to 201, please. Dr. Ingram, report to 201, please. Dr. Gomez, report to 201, please. Drs. Spencer, Ingram and Gomez, report to 201, please.”

  Delaney stalked over to Boznanski. He didn’t like the way the man looked. His face was waxy white and covered with a sheen of sweat. His eyes seemed to move uncontrollably, and there was a tremor to his chin: his lips met and drew apart every second.

  “Dick,” Delaney urged, “what is it? What is it?”

  Boznanski stared at him with dazed eyes. “Edward?” he said. “What are you doing here? Edward? How did you hear so soon?”

  Delaney felt a hand on his arm and turned. It was Ivar Thorsen, Deputy Inspector, in charge of personnel in the patrol division. He drew Delaney to one side. He began to speak in a low voice, his light blue eyes never moving from Delaney’s.

  “It was an ambush, Edward. A call came in about a prowler. A two-man car checked it out. Jameson was black, Richmond white. It was a false alarm. At a housing project on 110th Street. They were returning to their car. Shotguns from the bushes. Jameson got his head blown off. Richmond took it in the chest and belly.”

  “Any chance?” Delaney asked, stone-faced.

  “Well … no, I’d guess. I saw him. I’d guess no. But they’re rounding up this team of surgeons to work on him. Listen, Edward, if Richmond dies, it’ll be the fourth man Boznanski’s lost this year. He’s shook.”

  “I saw.”

  “Will you stay with him? The corridor’s full of reporters, and they’re moving in TV cameras. The Mayor and Commissioner are on their way. I’ve got a lot of crap to do—you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just sit by him—you know.”

  “Sure.”

  Thorsen looked at him curiously, his ice eyes narrowing.

  “What are you doing here, Edward?”

  “My wife was operated on tonight. For kidney stones. I’m waiting to hear how she made out.”

  “Jesus,” Thorsen breathed. “I’m sorry, Edward. I didn’t know. How is she?”

  “I’m trying to find out.”

  “Forget about Boznanski. The sergeant will stand by.”

  “No,” Delaney said. “That’s all right. I’ll be here.”

  “They’re killing him!” the matron cried, grabbing his arm. “They told me it was just a simple operation, and now they say there are complications. They’re killing him!”

  “Oh yes,” Delaney murmured, leading her back to the couch. “I want to hear. I want to know all about it.”

  He lighted a cigarette for her, then started out into the hall. He fumbled in his pocket and found he had only a quarter. He was about to ask someone for change, then realized how stupid that was. He called Dr. Bernardi’s office. He got an answering service. They told him they’d give the doctor his message.

  He came back into the waiting room. The shaken nurse was behind her desk. He asked if Dr. Spencer was still in surgery. She said she’d check and also check on his wife in the recovery ward. He thanked her. She thanked him, softened and human.

  He went back to Captain Richard Boznanski, seated now, his head thrown back, gasping for breath. He didn’t look good. The sergeant was standing by, worried.

  “Captain,” he said, “is there any booze …?”

  Delaney looked at the man in the chair. “I’ll try,” he said.

  “He came home early from work about six months ago,” the mink-clad matron said at his elbow, “and he complained of this pain in his chest. He’s always been a heavy smoker, and I thought—”

  “Oh yes,” Delaney said, holding her by the arm. “And what did they say it was?”

  “Well, they weren’t sure, and they wanted to do this exploratory.”

  “Oh yes,” Delaney nodded. “Just a minute now, and I’ll be right back.”

  He asked the nurse if she had any or could find any whiskey. She explained that regulations prohibited her from giving anything like that to patients or visitors. Delaney nodded and asked if she could find Dr. Bernardi’s home phone number. She said she’d try. He asked if she could change a dollar. She couldn’t, but she gave him what change she had and refused to accept the dollar he offered. He gave her a grateful smile.

  He called Ferguson, who wasn’t home. Delaney realized he had awakened the spinster sister. He explained the situation and asked, if Ferguson returned, if he would try to reach Bernardi and find out about Mrs. Delaney’s condition. Then Ferguson could call Delaney in the waiting room.

  The Captain stalked to the end of the second floor corridor. The swinging doors to the elevators were guarded by two patrolmen. They drew back to let him through.

  The moment he stepped out he was surrounded by reporters, all shouting at once. Delaney held up a hand until the newsmen quieted.

  “Any statements will have to come from Deputy Inspector Thorsen or others. Not from me.”

  “Is Richmond still alive?”

  “As far as I know. A team of surgeons is working. That’s all I know. Now if you’ll …”

  He pushed through the crush. They were setting up small TV cameras on tripods near the elevators. Then Delaney saw Thomas Handry leaning against a wall. He was the reporter who had accompanied Delaney on his midnight rounds. He pulled Handry aside. The man’s eyes seemed huge and feverish.

  “I told you, I told you,” he said to Delaney.

  “Do you have any whiskey?” the Captain asked.

  Handry looked at him, bewildered.

  “Take off your hat,” Delaney commanded.

  Handry snatched his hat away.

  “Do you have any whiskey?” Delaney repeated.

  “No, I don’t, Captain.”

  “All I need is a shot. Ask around,
will you? See if any of your boys is carrying a flask. Maybe one of the TV men has a pint. I’ll pay for it.”

  “I’ll ask, Captain.”

  “Thank you. Tell one of the men on the door to call me. I’ll be in the waiting room.”

  “If no one’s got anything, I’ll go out for it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is Richmond dead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He went back into the waiting room.

  “Dr. Spencer is still in surgery,” the nurse told him.

  “Thank you. Did Dr. Ferguson call?”

  “No. But I checked recovery. Your wife is sleeping peacefully.”

  “Thank you.”

  “An exploratory,” the matron said, holding onto his elbow. “They said it would just be an exploratory. Now they won’t tell me anything.”

  “What’s his name?” Delaney asked. “Maybe I can find out what’s going on.”

  “Modell,” she said. “Irving Modell. And my name is Rhoda Modell. We have four children and six grandchildren.”

  “I’ll try to find out,” Delaney nodded.

  He went back to the nurse. But she had heard his conversation with the woman.

  “Not a chance,” she said softly. “A few hours. Before morning. They took one look and sewed him up.”

  He nodded and glanced at the clock. Had time speeded up? It was past midnight.

  “What I’d like—” he started, but then there was a patrolman next to him.

  “Captain Delaney?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a reporter at the door. Guy named Handry. Says you—”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Delaney walked back with him. The door was opened wide enough for Handry to give him a wrinkled brown paper bag.

  “Thank you,” Delaney said, and reached for his wallet. But Handry shook his head angrily and turned away.

  He peeked into the bag. It was an almost full pint bottle of bourbon. He took several paper cups from the water cooler in the hallway and went back into the waiting room. Boznanski was still lolling in the chair, his head thrown back. Delaney filled a cup with bourbon.

  “Dick,” he said.

  Boznanski opened his eyes.