First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Yes.”

  “If you retired today, you’d still have plenty of time on your hands. And I know you; after almost thirty years in the Department, you’d go nuts. All right … Now it’s been three—no, almost four days since the Lombard homicide. It’s been almost three days since the formation of Operation Lombard. Since then, Broughton has been drawing men and equipment from all over the city. He’s built up a big organization, and it’s still growing. I told you, the man’s power-hungry. And I can also tell you that Broughton and Operation Lombard haven’t come up with a thing. Not a lead, not a clue, not a single idea of how it was done, why it was done, and who did it. Believe me, Edward, they’re no farther ahead at this moment than when you saw Lombard on the sidewalk.”

  “That doesn’t mean they might not solve it tomorrow, tonight, or right now, while we’re talking.”

  “True. And if Broughton brings it off, he’ll crucify us. I mean Ben here and me and our friends. Broughton may be stupid, but he’s shrewd. He knows who his enemies are. I tell you this man is capable of farming you out just because you suggested Operation Lombard from which he profited. He’s the kind of man who can’t stand to feel gratitude. He’ll cut you down … somehow.”

  “He can’t touch me. I’m retiring.”

  “Edward,” Inspector Johnson said in a deep, throbbing voice, “suppose you didn’t retire. Suppose you requested an indefinite leave of absence. We could swing it.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “It would relieve you of the responsibility of the Two-five-one. We’d put in an Acting Captain. An Acting Captain. You wouldn’t be replaced. You agree it’s possible your wife may recover faster than anyone expects, and then you’d want back to active duty? That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s possible.”

  “All right,” Johnson said, seeming to look for words, to feel his way. “Now, say you’re on leave of absence. You’re relieved of responsibility. Now what we want you to do—” Then it all came out in rush: “WhatwewantyoutodoisfindLombard’skiller.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. We want you to solve the Lombard homicide before Broughton and his Operation Lombard do it.”

  Delaney looked from man to man, astonished.

  “Are you insane?” he finally demanded. “You want me, a single cop not even on active duty, working outside the Department like some kind of—some kind of private detective, you expect me to bring in Lombard’s killer before five hundred or a thousand detectives and uniformed men and specialists with all the resources of the Department behind them? Impossible.”

  “Edward,” Thorsen said patiently. “We think there’s a chance. A small chance, true, but it’s worth taking. Yes, you’d have to work in civilian clothes. Yes, you’d be by yourself; you couldn’t request personnel from the Department, or equipment. But we’ll set up a contact, and through the contact we’ll make certain you got anything you’d need: print identification, evidence analysis, lab work, criminal records: Whatever you need, you’ll get. We’ll cover it somehow so Broughton doesn’t get wind of it. If he does, we’re all down the drain.”

  “Listen,” Delaney said desperately, “is it only you two out to get Broughton or are there really a dozen others all the way up to the Commissioner?”

  “There are others,” Thorsen said gravely, and Johnson nodded just as solemnly.

  “It won’t work,” Delaney said definitely. He stood and began to pace back and forth, hands clasped behind him. “You know how many men you need for a homicide investigation like this? Men to search sewers. Men to dig in garbage cans. Men to ring doorbells and ask questions. Men to investigate Lombard’s private life, his business life, his political life. Men to trace him back to the day he was born, trying to find an enemy. How in God’s name could I—or any one man—do all that?”

  “Edward,” Johnson said softly, “you wouldn’t have to do all that. That’s what Operation Lombard is doing right now, and I swear to you, you’d get a Xerox copy of every report filed. Anytime a patrolman or detective or specialist puts anything down on paper about the Lombard off, you’ll see a copy within twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s a promise,” Thorsen nodded. “Just don’t ask how we’ll do it.”

  “I won’t, I won’t,” Delaney said hastily. “But just what more do you think I could do than Operation Lombard is doing right now?”

  “Edward,” Thorsen sighed, “don’t put yourself down. I remember once I had dinner at your house, and we were talking about something you had done and let your division commander take the credit for—you were a lieutenant then—and Barbara got angry and told you that you should assert yourself more. She was right. Edward, you have a talent, a drive, a genius—call it whatever the hell you like—for investigative work. You know it but won’t admit it. I know it and shout it every chance I get. It was my idea to bring you in on this, this way. If you say yes, fine. Then we’ll go to work. If you say no, and want to go through with your retirement, okay and no hard feelings.”

  Delaney walked over to one of the windows and stared down into the crowded street. People were scurrying between honking cars in a traffic jam. There was bright movement, surge and thrust. He heard the horns, a siren, the far-off hoot of a liner putting to sea, the drone overhead of a plane slanting down to Kennedy Airport.

  “No leads at all?” he asked, without turning around.

  “None whatsoever,” Thorsen said. “Not a thing. Not even a theory that makes sense. A blank. A compete blank. Broughton is beginning to show the strain.”

  Delaney turned around with a bleak smile. He looked at Inspector Johnson and spoke to him.

  “Ben, I gave him the solution probability figures on homicide. You know how they drop off after forty-eight hours?”

  “Yes,” Johnson nodded. “It’s been almost four days now, with probability dropping every minute for Broughton.”

  “For me too,” Delaney said ruefully. “If I took this on,” he added hastily.

  He turned back to the window, his hands jammed into his pockets now. He wished with all his heart he could discuss this with Barbara, as he had discussed every important decision in his career. He needed her sharp, practical, aggressive, female intelligence to probe motives, choices, possibilities, safeguards. He tried, he strained to put himself in her place, to think as she might think and decide as she might decide.

  “I’d be in civilian clothes,” he said, his back to them. “Could I use my tin?”

  “Yes,” Johnson said immediately. “But as little as possible.”

  Delaney began to realize how completely they had thought this out, planned it, worried it for flaws, before they approached him.

  “How often would I report?”

  “As often as possible. Once a day or, if not, whenever you have something or a request for something.”

  “Who would I report to?”

  “Me,” Thorsen said promptly. “I’ll give you a clean number.”

  “Don’t tell me you think your home phone is tapped?”

  “I’ll give you a clean number,” Thorsen repeated.

  Delaney made up his mind and said what he thought Barbara would want him to say.

  “If I’m on leave of absence but not retired, I can still be racked up on Departmental charges. If Broughton finds out about this, he’ll fix me good. I met the man. I know what he is. I’ll do what you want if I get a signed letter from either of you, or both of you, authorizing this investigation.”

  He turned to face them. They looked at him, then at each other.

  “Edward …” Thorsen started, then stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s our ass.”

  “I know it. Without the letter, it’s my ass. Mine alone. If Broughton discovers what’s going on.”

  “Don’t you trust—” Thorsen began.

  “Now wait just one fat minute,” Johnson held up his ham-hand. “Let’s not get all riled here and start talking about tr
ust and friendship and saying things we might be sorry for later. Just let me think a minute. Edward has a very good point, Ivar. It’s something we didn’t consider. Now just let me think and see if I can come up with something that will satisfy all the parties concerned.”

  He stared off into the middle distance, while the other two watched him expectantly. Finally Johnson grunted and heaved himself to his feet. He scrubbed his curly grey hair with knuckles, then motioned toward Thorsen. The two men went over to one corner and began to speak in low voices, Johnson doing most of the talking and gesturing frequently. Delaney took his seat again in the club chair and wished he was with his wife.

  Finally the whispering ceased. The two men came over to stand before his chair.

  “Edward,” Johnson rumbled, “if we got a letter addressed to you personally, authorizing your unofficial or semi-official investigation into the death of Frank Lombard, and if this letter was signed by the Commissioner, would that satisfy you?”

  Delaney looked up in amazement.

  “The Commissioner? Why on earth would he sign a letter like that? He just appointed Broughton commander of Operation Lombard.”

  Inspector Johnson sighed heavily. “Edward, the Commish is a man of some ability. About a middleweight, I’d guess. And he’s well-meaning and kind. All to the good. But this is the first time he’s operated in New York. He’s never had to keep afloat in a school of barracudas. Not the kind we got. He’s learning—but the question is, will they give him time to learn? He’s just beginning to realize a good executive has got to spend as much time protecting his ass as he does coping with the problems in front of him. Nine times out of ten, it’s those strong, efficient executive assistants with the long knives who do a top man in. I think the Commissioner may just be starting to realize what Broughton is doing between those farts and belches. Broughton has some palsy-walsys on the Mayor’s staff, you know. There’s also another factor. This is something never talked about in business management manuals, but it exists in the Department, in federal, state and local government, in business, and in the military. I think the Commissioner is physically frightened of Broughton. I can’t give you any evidence, but that’s what I feel. It was the source of a lot of Joe McCarthy’s power. Plenty of those old, frail Senators were physically afraid of Joe. Well, we’ve got a man, a friend—real Machiavelli type—a Deputy the Commissioner trusts who could maybe put a bug in his ear. ‘Look Commissioner, Broughton is a fine fellow—a little crude for my taste but he gets things done—and maybe he’ll bring off this Operation Lombard thing and find the killer. But look, Commissioner, wouldn’t it be wise to have an ace in the hole? I mean if Broughton falls on his face, you really should have a back-up plan in the works. Now it just so happens I’ve got this smartass Captain who right now is on leave of absence, and this smart-ass Captain is the best detective this town ever saw, and if you ask him nice, Commissioner, and write him a polite letter, this smart-ass Captain just might be willing to smell around and find Frank Lombard’s killer for you. Without Broughton knowing a thing about it, of course.’ ”

  Delaney laughed. “Do you think he’ll go for that? Do you really think he’ll give me a letter of authorization?”

  “If we git it, will you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  4

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING, AS he was preparing to leave for the hospital, an envelope was delivered to his home by commercial messenger. The envelope contained a letter signed by the Commissioner, authorizing Captain Edward X. Delaney to undertake a “discreet inquiry” into the homicide of Frank Lombard. There was also a letter signed by the Chief of Patrol granting Captain Delaney an indefinite leave of absence “for personal reasons.” Delaney began to appreciate the clout swung by Thorsen, Johnson, and their friends.

  He was about to call Ivar Thorsen from his home, but after dialing two digits he hung up and sat a moment, staring at the phone. He remembered the Deputy Inspector had stressed that the number he had been given was “clean.” He pulled on his overcoat, walked two blocks to a public phone booth and called from there. The “clean” number proved to be an answering service. He gave only his last name and the number of the phone he was calling from. Then he hung up and waited patiently. Thorsen was back to him within three minutes.

  “I got the papers,” Delaney said. “Quick work.”

  “Yes. Where are you calling from?”

  “A public phone booth two blocks from my house.”

  “Good. Keep doing that. Use different booths.”

  “All right. Have you made any decision on an Acting Captain?”

  “Not yet. Any suggestions?”

  “I have a lieutenant. Dorfman. Know him?”

  “No. But a lieutenant? I’m not sure we can swing it. That’s a boss precinct, Edward. It should have a captain or deputy inspector. I don’t believe there’s any precedent for a lieutenant commanding a precinct.”

  “Consider it, will you? Look up Dorfman’s file. Four commendations. A good administrator. A fine lawyer.”

  “Can he hack it?”

  “We’ll never know until he gets the chance, will we? There’s another thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He trusts me. More than that, he likes me. He’d make a perfect contact. The man to handle the requests I’ll have for records, print identification, research, lab analysis, things like that. It could be shuffled in with the usual precinct paper. No one could spot it.”

  “How much would you tell him?”

  “As little as possible.”

  There was a silence.

  “There’s another factor,” Delaney said quickly. “I gave Broughton the idea for Operation Lombard and the homicide was in my precinct. It would be natural for him to think I was pissed-off and jealous. He’ll be suspicious of any possible interference from me. I’m guessing how his mind works from what you and Johnson told me about him.”

  “You guess right.”

  “Well, he’ll hear I’ve gone on leave of absence, and he’ll relax. He’ll relax even more if he hears Dorfman has been appointed Acting Captain. A lieutenant? And a man with no detective experience? Broughton will cross off my old Precinct as a potential trouble spot, and I’ll be able to use Dorfman as a contact with little possibility of discovery.”

  “It’s a thought,” Thorsen said. “And a good one. Let me discuss it with—with others. Maybe we can swing it. I’ll get back to you. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I know Broughton came out of patrol. Who’s straw-boss of his detectives on Operation Lombard?”

  “Chief Purley.”

  “Oh God. He’s good.”

  “You’re better.”

  “Keep telling me that. I need all the reassurance I can get.”

  “When are you starting?”

  “As of now.”

  “Good. You’ll have the Xerox tomorrow. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  The two men hung up without saying goodbye. Delaney took a cab to the hospital, pressed back into a corner of the rear seat, biting at his thumbnail. He was beginning to feel the old, familiar excitement. Forget his reasoning and emotions about police work. His gut reaction was obvious: the chase was on and he was the hunter.

  He came into her room smiling determinedly, taking from his pocket a silly little thing he had bought her: a cheap, brilliant brooch, a rhinestoned penguin she could pin to her hospital gown. She held her arms out to him; he bent to embrace her.

  “I was hoping you’d come.”

  “I told you I would. Better?”

  She smiled brightly and nodded.

  “Here.” He handed her the penguin. “From Tiffany’s. A little over a hundred thousand.”

  “Beautiful,” she laughed. “What I’ve always wanted.”

  He helped her pin it to the shoulder of her gown. Then he took off his overcoat, pulled a chair over to the bed, sat down and took one of her hands in his.

 
“Truly better?”

  “Truly. I think I should start seeing people. Some close friends.”

  “Good,” he said, being careful to avoid false heartiness. “Eddie will be up next week. What about Liza?”

  “No, Edward. Not in her condition. Not yet.”

  “All right. Shall I call your friends?”

  “I’ll do it. Most of them I want to see call me every day. I’ll tell them I’d like to see them. You know—two or three a day. Not everyone at once.”

  He nodded approvingly and looked down at her smiling. But her appearance shocked him. She was so thin! The tubes and jars were gone, her face was flushed with the familiar fever, but the frailty was what tore his heart. She who had always been so active, strong, vibrant … Now she lay flaccid and seemed to strain for breath. The hand he was not holding picked weakly at blanket fluff.

  “Edward, are you eating all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Sticking to your diet?”

  “I swear.”

  “What about sleep?”

  He held out a hand, palm down, then turned it over, then flipped it back and forth a few times.

  “So-so. Listen, Barbara, there’s something I must tell you. I want to—”

  “Has something happened? Are the children all right?”

  “The children are fine. This doesn’t concern them. But I want to talk to you for about an hour. Maybe more. It won’t tire you, will it?”

  “Of course not, silly. I’ve been sleeping all day. I can tell you’re excited. What is it?”

  “Well … four days ago—actually early in the morning following your operation—there was a homicide in my precinct.”

  He described to her, as concisely and completely as he could, the discovery and appearance of Frank Lombard’s body. Then he went on to tell her how important it was to solve Lombard’s murder in view of the man’s public criticism of the Department, and how the current reorganization of the Detective Division hampered efficient handling of the case. Then he described his private talk with Deputy Commissioner Broughton.

  “He sounds like a horrible man!” she interrupted.

  “Yes … Anyway, the next day I filed for retirement.”