First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  There was silence in the radio room after the tape was stopped. Then someone laughed. “That Stryker,” someone said softly, “all he thinks about is pussy.”

  “Maybe,” Captain Delaney said coldly, speaking to no one man, speaking to them all, “but he’s doing a good job.” He turned to Blankenship. “Call Stryker. Tell him to cozy up to the Cleek woman and keep us informed—of anything.”

  “Will do, Captain.”

  Delaney walked slowly back into his study, heavy head bowed, hands shoved into his hip pockets. The altered Time-Habit Pattern and Danny Boy’s strange behavior in his office: the best news he’d had all day. It might be working. It just might be working.

  He searched for the sheet of yellow paper on which he had jotted his nine-point plan. It wasn’t in his locked top desk drawer. It wasn’t in the file. Where was it? His memory was really getting bad. He finally found the plan under his desk blotter, alongside the plus-minus list he used to evaluate the performance of men under his command. Before looking at the plan, he added the name of Stryker to the plus column of the performance list.

  Peering at the plan closely through his reading glasses, he checked off the first six items: Garage attendant, Parrot bartender, Lipsky, the Mortons at Erotica, Visit to Factory, Lombard Christmas Eve call to Blank. The seventh item was: “Monica’s call to Blank.” He sat back in his swivel chair, stared at the ceiling, tried to think out the best way to handle that.

  He was still pondering his options—what he would say and what she would say—when the outside guard knocked on his study door and didn’t enter until he heard Delaney’s shouted, “Come in!” The officer said a reporter named Thomas Handry was on the sidewalk and claimed he had an appointment with the Captain.

  “Sure,” Delaney nodded. “Let him in. Tell the man at the desk to make certain he’s logged in and out.”

  He went into the kitchen for some ice cubes. When he came back Handry was standing in front of the desk.

  “Thanks for coming,” Delaney smiled genially. “I had it marked down: ‘Day after Christmas, Handry interviews Blank.’ ”

  Handry sat in the leather club chair, then rose immediately, took two folded sheets from his inside breast pocket, tossed them onto Delaney’s desk.

  “Background stuff on this guy,” he said, slumping back into his soft chair. “His job, views on the importance of the computer in industry, biography, personal life. But I imagine you’ve got all this by now.”

  The Captain took a quick look at the two typed pages. “Got most of it,” he acknowledged. “But you’ve got a few things here we’ll follow up on—a few leads.”

  “So my interview was just wasted time?”

  “Oh Handry,” Delaney sighed. “At the time I asked you to do this, I was on my own. I had no idea I’d be back on active duty with enough dicks to run all this down. Besides, all this background shit isn’t so important. I told you that at the restaurant. I wanted your personal impressions of the man. You’re sensitive, intelligent. Since I couldn’t interview him myself, I wanted you to meet him and tell me what your reactions were. That is important. Now give me the whole thing, how it went, what you said and what he said.”

  Thomas Handry took a deep breath, blew it out. Then he began talking. Delaney never interrupted once, but leaned forward, cupping one ear, the better to hear Handry’s low-voiced recital.

  The newspaperman’s report was fluid and concise. He had arrived precisely at 1:30 p.m., the time previously arranged for the interview by Javis-Bircham’s Director of Public Relations. But Blank had kept him waiting almost a half-hour. It was only after two requests to Blank’s secretary that Handry had been allowed into the inner office.

  Daniel G. Blank had been polite, but cold and withdrawn. Also, somewhat suspicious. He had asked to inspect Handry’s press card—an odd act for a business executive giving an interview arranged by his own PR man. But Blank had spoken lucidly and at length about the role played by AMROK II in the activities of Javis-Bircham. About his personal background, he had been cautious, uncommunicative, and frequently asked Handry what his questions had to do with the interview in progress. As far as the reporter could determine, Blank was divorced, had no children, had no plans to marry again. He lived a bachelor’s life, found it enjoyable, had no ambitions other than to serve J-B as best he might.

  “Very pretty,” Delaney nodded. “You said he was ‘withdrawn.’ Your word. What did you mean by that?”

  “Were you in the military, Captain?”

  “Yes. Five years U.S. Army.”

  “I did four with the Marines. You know the expression ‘a thousand-yard stare’?”

  “Oh yes. On the range. For an unfocused vision.”

  “Right. That’s what Blank has. Or had a few hours ago during the interview. He was looking at me, in me, through me, and somewhere beyond. I don’t know what the hell he was focussing on. Most of these high-pressure business executives are all teeth, hearty handshake, sincere smile, focussing between your eyes, over the bridge of your nose, so it looks like they’re returning your stare frankly, without blinking. But this guy was gone somewhere, off somewhere. I don’t know where the hell he was.”

  “Good, good,” Delaney muttered, taking quick notes. “Anything else? Physical peculiarities? Habits? Bite his nails?”

  “No … But he wears a wig. Did you know that?”

  “No,” the Captain said in apparent astonishment. “A wig? He’s only in his middle-thirties. Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” Handry said, enjoying the surprise. “It wasn’t even on straight. And he didn’t give a goddamn if I knew. He kept poking a finger up under the edge of the rug and scratching his scalp. Anything?”

  “Mmm. Maybe. How was he dressed?”

  “ ‘Conservative elegance’ is the phrase. Black suit well-cut. White shirt, starched collar. Striped tie. Black shoes with a dull gloss, not shiny.”

  “You’d make a hell of a detective.”

  “You told me that before.”

  “Smell any booze on his breath?”

  “No. But a high-powered cologne or after-shave lotion.”

  “That figures. Scratch his balls?”

  “What?”

  “Did he play with himself?”

  “Jesus, no! Captain, you’re wild.”

  “Yes. Did he look drawn, thin, emaciated? Like he hasn’t been eating well lately?”

  “Not that I could see. Well …”

  “What?” Delaney demanded quickly.

  “Shadows under his eyes. Puffy bags. Like he hasn’t been sleeping so well lately. But all the rest of his face was tight. He’s really a good-looking guy. And his handshake was firm and dry. He looked to be in good physical shape. Just before I left, when we were both standing, he handed me a promotion booklet Javis-Bircham got out on AMROK II. It slipped out of my hand. It was my fault; I dropped it. But Blank stooped and caught it before it hit the floor. The guy’s quick.”

  “Oh yes,” Delaney nodded grimly, “he’s quick. All right, this is all interesting and valuable. Now tell me what you think about him, what you feel about him.”

  “A drink?”

  “Of course. Help yourself.”

  “Well …” Thomas Handry said, pouring Scotch over ice cubes, “he’s a puzzle. He’s not one thing and he’s not another. He’s a between-man, going from A to B. Or maybe from A to Z. I guess that doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Go on.”

  “He’s just not with it. He’s not there. The impression I got was of a guy floating. He’s out there somewhere. Who the hell knows where? That thousand-yard stare. And it was obvious he couldn’t care less about Javis-Bircham and AMROK II. He was just going through the motions; a published interview couldn’t interest him less. I don’t know what’s on his mind. He’s lost and floating, like I said. Captain, the guy’s a balloon! He’s got no anchor. He puzzles me and he interests me. I can’t solve him.” A long pause. “Can you?”

  “Getting ther
e,” Captain Delaney said slowly. “Just beginning to get there.”

  There was a lengthy silence, while Handry sipped his drink and Delaney stared at a damp spot on the opposing wall.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Handry said finally. “No doubt about it.”

  Delaney sighed. “That’s right. It’s him. No doubt about it.”

  “Okay,” the reporter said, surprisingly chipper. He drained his glass, rose, walked toward the hallway door. Then, knob in hand, he turned to stare at the Captain. “I want to be in on the kill,” he stated flatly.

  “All right.”

  Handry nodded, turned away, then turned back again. “Oh,” he said nonchalantly, “one more thing … I got a sample of his handwriting.”

  He marched back to Delaney’s desk, tossed a photo onto the blotter. Delaney picked it up slowly, stared. Daniel G. Blank: a copy of the photo taken from the “Fink File,” the same photo that was now copied in the hundreds and in the hands of every man assigned to Operation Lombard. Delaney turned it over. On the back, written with a felt-tipped pen, was: “With all best wishes. Daniel G. Blank.”

  “How did you get this?”

  “The ego-trip. I told him I kept a scrapbook of photos and autographs of famous people I interviewed. He went for it.”

  “Beautiful. Thank you for your help.”

  After Handry left, Delaney kept staring at that inscription: “With all best wishes. Daniel G. Blank.” He rubbed his fingers lightly over the signature. It seemed to bring him closer to the man.

  He was still, staring at the handwriting, trying to see beyond it, when Detective sergeant Thomas MacDonald came in sideways, slipping his bulk neatly through the hallway door, left partly open by Handry.

  The black moved a step into the study, then stopped.

  “Interrupting you, Captain?”

  “No, no. Come on in. What’s up?”

  The short, squat detective came over to Delaney’s desk.

  “You wanted a photo of Roger Kope, the cop who got wasted. Will this do?”

  He handed Delaney a crisp white cardboard folder, opening sideways. On the front it said, in gold script, “Holiday Greetings.” Inside, on the left, in the same gold script, it read: “From the Kope family.” On the right side was pasted a color photo of Roger Kope, his wife, three little children. They were posed, grinning self-consciously, before a decorated Christmas tree. The dead detective had his arm about his wife’s shoulders. It wasn’t a good photo: obviously an amateur job taken a year ago and poorly copied. The colors were washed out, the face of one of the children was blurred. But they were all there.

  “It was all we could get,” MacDonald said tonelessly. “They had about a hundred made up a month ago, but I guess Mrs. Kope won’t send them this year. Will it do?”

  “Yes,” Delaney nodded. “Just fine.” Then, as MacDonald turned to go, he said, “Sergeant, a couple of other things … Who’s the best handwriting man in the Department?”

  MacDonald thought a moment, his sculpted features calm, carved: a Congo mask or a Picasso sketch. “Handwriting,” he repeated. “That would be Willow, William T., Detective lieutenant. He works out of a broom-closet office downtown.”

  “Ever have any dealings with him?”

  “About two years ago. It was a forged lottery ticket ring. He’s a nice guy. Prickly, but okay. He sure knows his stuff.”

  “Could you get him up here? No rush. Whenever he can make it.”

  “I’ll give him a call.”

  “Good. The next day or so will be fine.”

  “All right, Captain. What’s the other thing?”

  “What?”

  “You said you had a couple of things.”

  “Oh. Yes. Who’s controlling the men on the tap on Danny Boy’s home phone?”

  “I am, Captain. Fernandez set it up: technically they’re his boys. But he asked me to take over. He’s got enough on his plate. Besides, these guys are just sitting on their ass. They’ve come up with zilch. Danny Boy makes one or two calls a week, usually to the Princess in the Castle. Maybe to the Mortons. And he gets fewer calls. So far it’s nothing.”

  “Uh-huh,” Delaney nodded. “Listen, sergeant, would it be possible to make some clicks or buzzes the next time Danny Boy makes or gets a call?”

  MacDonald picked up on it instantly. “So he thinks or knows his phone is tapped?”

  “Right.”

  “Sure. No sweat; we could do that. Clicks, buzzes, hisses, an echo—something. He’ll get the idea.”

  “Fine.”

  MacDonald stared at him a long time, putting things together. Finally: “Spooking him, Captain?” he asked softly.

  Captain Delaney put out his hands, palms down on his desk blotter, lowered his massive head to stare at them.

  “Not spooking,” he said in a gentle voice. “I mean to split him. To crack him open. Wide. Until he’s in pieces and bleeding. And it’s working. I know it is. Sergeant, how do you know when you’re close?”

  “My mouth goes dry.”

  Delaney nodded. “My armpits begin to sweat something awful. Right now they’re dripping like old faucets. I’m going to push this guy right over the edge, right off, and watch him fall.”

  MacDonald’s smooth expression didn’t change. “You figure he’ll suicide, Captain?”

  “Will he suicide …” Delaney said thoughtfully. Suddenly, that moment, something began that he had been hoping for. He was Daniel G. Blank, penetrating deep into the man, smoothing his body with perfumed oils, dribbling on scented powders, wearing silk bikini underwear and a fashionable wig, living in sterile loneliness, fucking a boy-shaped woman, buggering a real boy, and venturing out at night to find loves who would help him to break out, to feel, to discover what he was, and meaning.

  “Suicide?” Delaney repeated, so quietly that MacDonald could hardly hear him. “No. Not by gunshot, pills, or defenestration.” He smiled slightly when he pronounced the last word, knowing the sergeant would pick up the mild humor. Defenestration: throwing yourself out a window to smash to jelly on the concrete below. “No, he won’t suicide, no matter how hard the pressure. Not his style. He likes risk. He climbs mountains. He’s at his best when he’s in danger. It’s like champagne.”

  “Then what will he do, Captain?”

  “I’m going to run,” Delaney said in a strange, pleading voice. “I’ve got to run.”

  3

  THE SECOND DAY AFTER Christmas, Daniel Blank decided the worst thing—the worst thing—was committing these irrational acts, and knowing they were irrational, and not being able to stop.

  For instance, this morning, completely unable to get to work at his usual hour, he sat stiffly in his living room, dressed for a normal day at Javis-Bircham. And between 9:00 and 11:00 a.m., he rose from his chair at least three times to check the locks and bolts on the front door. They were fastened—he knew they were fastened—but he had to check. Three times.

  Then suddenly he darted through the apartment, flinging open closet doors, thrusting an arm between hanging clothes. No one there. He knew it was wrong to be acting the way he was.

  He mixed a drink, a morning drink, thinking it might help. He picked up a knife to slice a wedge of lime, looked at the blade, let it clatter into the sink. No temptation there, none, but he didn’t want the thing in his hand. He might reach up to wipe his eyes and …

  What about the sandals? That was odd. He owned a pair of leather strap-sandals, custom-made. He still remembered the shop in Greenwich Village, the cool hands of the young Chinese girl tracing his bare feet on a sheet of white paper. He frequently wore the sandals at night, when he was home alone. The straps were loose enough so that he could slip the sandals onto his feet without unbuckling and buckling. He had been doing it for years. But this morning the straps had been unbuckled, the sandals there beside his bed with straps flapping wide. Who had done that?

  And time—what was happening to his sense of time? He thought ten minutes had elapsed, bu
t it turned out to be an hour. He guessed an hour, and it was 20 minutes. What was happening?

  And what was happening to his penis? It was his imagination, of course, but it seemed to be shrinking, withdrawing into his scrotum. Ridiculous. And he no longer had his regular bowel movement a half-hour after he awoke. He felt stuffed and blocked.

  Other things … Little things …

  Going from one room to another and, when he got there, forgetting why he had made the trip.

  Hearing a phone ring on a television program and leaping up to answer his own phone.

  Finally, when he got to the office, things didn’t go well at all. Not that he couldn’t have handled it; he was thinking logically, he was lucid. But what was the point?

  Near noon, Mrs. Cleek came in and found him weeping at his desk, head bent forward, palms gripping his temples. Her eyes blurred immediately with sympathy.

  “Mr. Blank,” she said, “what is it?”

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped, and then, saying the first thing that came into his mind: “A death in the family.”

  What caused his tears was this: do mad people know they are mad? That is, do they know they are acting abnormally but cannot help it? That was why he wept.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Cleek mourned, “I’m so sorry.”

  He got home, finally. He was as proud as a drunk who walks out of a bar without upsetting anything, steadfast, steps slowly through the doorway without brushing the frame, follows a sidewalk seam slowly and carefully homeward, never wavering.