First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  10:15, nothing, 10:30, nothing. No report of Danny Boy at 10:45, 11:00, 11:15, 11:30. Shortly before 12:00, Delaney went into his study and called Blank’s apartment. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. He hung up; he was worried.

  He took a cab over to the hospital. Barbara seemed in a semi-comatose state and refused to eat her meal. So he sat helplessly alongside her bed, holding her limp hand, pondering his options if Blank didn’t appear for the rest of the day.

  It might be that he was up there, just not answering his phone. It might be that he had slipped through their net, was long gone. And it might be that he had slit his throat after receiving the Kope photo, and was up there all right, leaking blood all over his polished floor. Delaney had told Sergeant MacDonald that Danny Boy wouldn’t suicide, but he was going by patterns, by percentages. No one knew better than he that percentages weren’t certainties.

  He got back to his brownstone a little after 1:00 p.m. Ten-0 and Bulldog One had just reported in. No sign of Danny Boy. Delaney had Stryker called at the Factory. Blank hadn’t arrived at the office. The Captain went back into his study and called Blank’s apartment again. Again the phone rang and rang. No answer.

  By this time, without intending to, he had communicated his mood to his men; now he wasn’t the only one pacing through the rooms, hands in pockets, head lowered. The men, he noticed, were keeping their faces deliberately expressionless, but he knew they feared what he feared: the pigeon had flown.

  By two o’clock he had worked out a contingency plan. If Danny Boy didn’t show within another hour, at 3:00 p.m., he’d send a uniformed officer over to the White House with a trumped-up story that the Department had received an anonymous threat against Daniel Blank. The patrolman would go up to Blank’s apartment with the doorman, and listen. If they heard Blank moving about, or if he answered his bell, they would say it was a mistake and come away. If they heard nothing, and if Blank didn’t answer his bell, then the officer would request the doorman or manager to open Blank’s apartment with the pass-keys “just to make certain everything is all right.”

  It was a sleazy plan, the Captain acknowledged. There were a hundred holes in it; it might endanger the whole operation. But it was the best he could come up with; it had to be done. If Danny Boy was long gone, or dead, they couldn’t sit around watching an empty hole. He’d order it at exactly 3:00 p.m.

  He was in the radio room, and at 2:48 p.m. there was a burst of static from one of the radio speakers, then it cleared.

  “Barbara from Bulldog One.”

  “Got you, Bulldog One.”

  “Fernandez,” the voice said triumphantly. “Danny Boy just came out.”

  There was a sigh in the radio room; Captain Delaney realized part of it was his.

  “What’s he wearing?” he asked the radioman.

  The operator started to repeat the question into his mike, but Fernandez had heard the Captain’s loud voice.

  “Black topcoat,” he reported. “No hat. Hands in pockets. He’s not waiting for a cab. Walking west. Looks like he’s out for a stroll. I’ll put Bulldog Three on him, far back, and two sneaks on foot. Officer LeMolle, designated Bulldog Twenty. Officer Sanchez, designated Bulldog Forty. Got that?”

  “LeMolle is Bulldog Twenty, Sanchez is Forty.”

  “Right. You’ll get radio checks from them as soon as possible. Danny Boy is nearing Second Avenue now, still heading west. I’m out.”

  Delaney stood next to the radio table. The other men in the room closed in, heads turned, ears to the loudspeaker.

  Silence for almost five minutes. One man coughed, looked apologetically at the others.

  Then, almost a whisper: “Barbara from Bulldog Twenty. Read me?”

  “Soft but good, Twenty.”

  “Danny Boy between Second and Third on Eighty-third, heading west. Out.” It was a woman’s voice.

  “Who’s Lemolle?” Delaney asked Blankenship.

  “Policewoman Martha LeMolle. Her cover is a housewife—shopping bag, the whole bit.”

  Delaney opened his mouth to speak, but the radio crackled again.

  “Barbara from Bulldog Forty. Make me?”

  “Yes, Forty. Good. Where is he?”

  “Turning south on Third. Out.”

  Blankenship turned to Delaney without waiting for his question. “Forty is Detective second grade Ramon Sanchez. Dressed like an orthodox Jewish rabbi.”

  So when Daniel G. Blank deposited the brown paper bag in the litter basket, the housewife was less than twenty feet behind him and saw him do it, and the rabbi was across the avenue and saw him do it. They both shadowed Danny Boy back to his apartment house, but by the time he arrived they had both reported he had discarded something in a litter basket, they had given the exact location (northeast corner, Third and 82nd; and, at Delaney’s command, Blankenship had an unmarked car on the way with orders to pick up the entire basket and bring it back to the brownstone. Delaney thought it might be the ice ax.

  At least twenty men crowded into the kitchen when the two plainclothesmen carried in the garbage basket and set it on the linoleum.

  “I always knew you’d end up in Sanitation, Tommy,” someone called. There were a few nervous laughs.

  “Empty it,” Delaney ordered. “Slowly. Put the crap on the floor. Shake out every newspaper. Look into every bag.”

  The two detectives pulled on their gloves. They began to snake out the sodden packages, the neatly wrapped bags, the dead rat (handled by the tip of its tail), loose garbage, a blood-soaked towel. The stench filled the room, but no one left; they had all smelled worse odors than that.

  It went slowly, for almost ten minutes, as bags were pulled out, emptied onto the floor, and tied packages were cut open and unrolled. Then one of the dicks reached in, came out with a small brown paper bag, opened it, looked inside.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  The waiting men said nothing, but there was a tightening of the circle; Captain Delaney felt himself pressed closer until his thighs were tight against the kitchen table. Holding the bag by the bottom, the detective slowly slid the contents out onto the tabletop. Cop’s shield.

  There was something: a collective moan, a gasp, something of anguish and fear. The men peered closer.

  “That’s Kope’s tin,” someone cried, voice crackling with fury. “I worked with him. That’s Kope’s number. I know it.”

  Someone said: “Oh, that dirty cocksucker.”

  Someone said, over and over: “Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker …”

  Someone said: “Let’s get him right now. Let’s waste him.”

  Delaney had been bending over, staring at the buzzer. It wasn’t hard to imagine what had happened: Daniel G. Blank had destroyed the evidence, the ID cards and rose petals flushed down the toilet or thrown into the incinerator. But this was good metal, so he figured he better ditch it. Not smart, Danny Boy.

  “Let’s waste him,” someone repeated, in a louder voice.

  And here was another problem, one he had hoped to avoid by keeping his knowledge of Daniel Blank’s definite guilt to himself. He knew that when a cop was killed, all cops became Sicilians. He had seen it happen: a patrolman shot down, and immediately his precinct house was flooded with cops from all over the city, wearing plaid windbreakers and business suits, shields pinned to lapels, offering to work on their own time. Was there anything they could do? Anything?

  It was a mixture of fear, fury, anguish, sorrow. You couldn’t possibly understand it unless you belonged. Because it was a brotherhood, and corrupt cops, stupid cops, cowardly cops had nothing to do with it. If you were a cop, then any cop’s murder diminished you. You could not endure that.

  The trouble was, Captain Edward X. Delaney acknowledged to himself, the trouble was that he could understand all this on an intellectual level without feeling the emotional involvement these men were feeling now, staring at a murdered cop’s tin. It wasn’t so much a lack in him, he assured himself, as that he
looked at things differently from these furious men. To him all murders, in sanity and without conscience, demanded judgment, whether assassinated President, child thrown from rooftop, drunk knifed to death in a tavern brawl, whatever, wherever, whomever. His brotherhood was wider, larger, broader, and encompassed all, all, all …

  But meanwhile, he was surrounded by a ring of blood-charged men. He knew he had only to say, “All right, let’s take him,” and they would be with him, surging, breaking down doors. Daniel G. Blank would dissolve in a million plucking bullets, torn and falling into darkness.

  Captain Delaney raised his head slowly, looked around at those faces: stony, twisted, blazing.

  “We’ll do it my way,” he said, keeping his voice as toneless as he could. “Blankenship, have the shield dusted. Get this mess cleaned up. Return the basket to the street corner. The rest of you men get back to your posts.”

  He strode into his study, closed all the doors. He sat stolidly at his desk and listened. He heard the mutterings, shufflings of feet. He figured he had another 24 hours, no more. Then some hothead would get to Blank and gun him down. Exactly what he told Monica Gilbert he would do. But for different reasons.

  About 7:30 p.m., he dressed warmly and left the house, telling the log-man he was going to the hospital. But instead, he went on his daily unannounced inspection. He knew the men on duty were aware of these unscheduled tours; he wanted them to know. He decided to walk—he had been inside, sitting, for too many hours—and he marched vigorously over to East End Avenue. He made certain Tiger One—the man watching the Castle—was in position and not goofing off. It was a game with him to spot Tiger One without being spotted. This night he won, bowing his shoulders, staring at the sidewalk, limping by Tiger One with no sign of recognition. Well, at least the kid was on duty, walking a beat across from the Castle and, Delaney hoped, not spending too much time grabbing a hot coffee somewhere or a shot of something stronger.

  He walked briskly back to the White House and stood across the street, staring up at Blank’s apartment house. Hopefully, Danny Boy was tucked in for the night. Captain Delaney stared and stared. Once again he had the irrational urge to go up there and ring the bell.

  “My name is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department. I’d like to talk to you.”

  Crazy. Blank wouldn’t let him in. But that’s all Delaney really wanted—just to talk. He didn’t want to collar Blank or injure him. Just talk, and maybe understand. But it was hopeless; he’d have to imagine.

  He knocked on the door of the Con Ed van; it was unlocked and opened cautiously. The man at the door recognized him and swung the door wide, throwing a half-assed salute. Delaney stepped inside; the door was locked behind him. There was one man with binoculars at the concealed flap, another man at the radio desk. Three men, three shifts; counting the guy in the hole and extras, there were about 20 men assigned to Bulldog One.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  They assured him it was going fine. He looked around at the hot plate they had rigged up, the coffee percolator, a miniature refrigerator they had scrounged from somewhere.

  “All the comforts of home,” he nodded.

  They nodded in return, and he wished them a Happy New Year. Outside again, he paused at the hole they had dug through the pavement of East 83rd Street, exposing steam pipes, sewer lines, telephone conduits. There was one man down there, dressed like a Con Ed repairman, holding a transistor radio to his ear under his hardhat. He took it away when he recognized Delaney.

  “Get to China yet?” the Captain asked, gesturing toward the shovel leaning against the side of the excavation.

  The officer was black.

  “Getting there, Captain,” he said solemnly, “Getting there. Slowly.”

  “Many complaints from residents?”

  “Oh, we got plenty of those, Captain. No shortage.”

  Delaney smiled. “Keep at it. Happy New Year.”

  “Same to you, sir. Many of them.”

  He walked away westward, disgusted with himself. He did this sort of thing badly, he knew: talking informally with men under his command. He tried to be easy, relaxed, jovial. It just didn’t work.

  One of his problems was his reputation. “Iron Balls.” But it wasn’t only his record; they sensed something in him. Every cop had to draw his own boundaries of heroism, reality, stupidity, cowardice. In a dicey situation, you could go strictly by the book and get an inspector’s funeral. Captain Edward X. Delaney would be there, wearing his Number Ones and white gloves. But all situations didn’t call for sacrifice. Some called for a reasoned response. Some called for surrender. Each man had his own limits, set his own boundaries.

  But what the men sensed was that Delaney’s boundaries were narrower, stricter than theirs. Too bad there wasn’t a word for it: coppishness, copicity, copanity—something like that. “Soldiership” came close, but didn’t tell the whole story. What was needed was a special word for the special quality of being a cop.

  What his men sensed, why he could never communicate with them on equal terms, was that he had this quality to a frightening degree. He was the quintessential cop, and they didn’t need any new words to know it. They understood that he would throw them into the grinder as fast as he would throw himself.

  He got to the florist’s shop just as it was closing. They didn’t want to let him in, but he assured them it was an order for the following day. He described exactly what he wanted: a single longstem rose to be placed, no greenery, in a long, white florists’ box and delivered at 9:00 a.m. the next morning.

  “Deliver one rose?” the clerk asked in astonishment. “Oh, sir, we’ll have to charge extra for that.”

  “Of course,” Delaney nodded. “I understand. I’ll pay whatever’s necessary. Just make certain it gets there first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Would you like to enclose a card, sir?”

  “I would.”

  He wrote out the small white card: “Dear Dan, here’s a fresh rose for the one you destroyed.” He signed the card “Albert Feinberg,” then slid the card in the little envelope, sealed the flap, addressed the envelope to Daniel G. Blank, including his street address and apartment number.

  “You’re certain it will get there by nine tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll take care of it. That’s a lot of money to spend on one flower, sir. A sentimental occasion?”

  “Yes,” Captain Edward X. Delaney smiled. “Something like that.”

  5

  THE NEXT MORNING DELANEY awoke, lay staring somberly at the ceiling. Then, for the first time in a long time, he got out of bed, kneeled, and thought a prayer for Barbara, for his own dead parents, for all the dead, the weak, the afflicted. He did not ask that he be allowed to kill Daniel Blank. It was not the sort of thing you asked of God.

  Then he showered, shaved, donned an old uniform, so aged it was shiny enough to reflect light. He also loaded his .38 revolver, strapped on his gunbelt and holster. It was not with the certainty that this would be the day he’d need it, but it was another of his odd superstitions: if you prepared carefully for an event, it helped hasten it.

  Then he went downstairs for coffee. The men on duty noted his uniform, the bulge of his gun. Of course, no one commented on it, but a few men did check their own weapons, and one pulled on an elaborate shoulder holster that buckled across his chest.

  Fernandez was in the kitchen, having a coffee and Danish. Delaney drew him aside.

  “Lieutenant, when you’re finished here, I want you to go to Bulldog One and stay there until relieved. Got that?”

  “Sure, Captain.”

  “Tell your lookout to watch for a delivery by a florist. Let me know the minute he arrives.”

  “Okay,” Fernandez nodded cheerfully. “You’ll know as soon as we spot him. Something cooking, Captain?”

  Delaney didn’t answer, but carried his coffee back into the radio room. He set it down on the long table, then went back into hi
s study and wheeled in his swivel chair. He positioned it to the right of the radio table, facing the operators.

  He sat there all morning, sipping three black coffees, munching on the dry, stale heel of a loaf of Italian bread. Calls came in at fifteen-minute intervals from Bulldog One and Ten-0. No sign of Danny Boy. At 9:20, Stryker called from the Factory to report that Blank hadn’t shown up for work. A few minutes later, Bulldog One was back on the radio.

  Fernandez: “Tell Captain Delaney a boy carrying a long, white florist’s box just went into the White House lobby.”

  Delaney heard it. Leaving as little as possible to chance, he went into his study, looked up the florist’s number called, and asked if his single red rose had been delivered. He was assured the messenger had been sent and was probably there right now. Satisfied, the Captain went back to his chair at the radio table. The waiting men had heard Fernandez’ report but what it meant, they did not know.

  Sergeant MacDonald leaned over Delaney’s chair.

  “He’s freaking, Captain?” he whispered.

  “We’ll see. We’ll see. Pull up a chair, sergeant. Stay close to me for a few hours.”

  “Sure, Captain.”

  The black sergeant pulled over a wooden, straight-backed chair, sat at Delaney’s right, slightly behind him. He sat as solidly as the Captain, wearing steel-rimmed spectacles, carved face immobile.

  So they sat and waited. So everyone sat and waited. Quiet enough to hear a Sanitation truck grinding by, an airliner overhead, a far-off siren, hoot of tugboat, the bored fifteen-minute calls from Ten-0 and Bulldog One. Still no sign of Danny Boy. Delaney wondered if he could risk a quick trip to the hospital.

  Then, shortly before noon, a click loud enough to galvanize them, and Bulldog One was on:

  “He’s coming out! He’s carrying stuff. A doorman behind him carrying stuff. What? A jacket, knapsack. What? What else? A coil of rope. Boots. What?”

  Delaney: “Jesus Christ. Get Fernandez on.”

  Fernandez: “Fernandez here. Wearing black topcoat, no hat, left hand in coat pocket, right hand free. No glove. Knapsack, coil of rope, some steel things with spikes, jacket, heavy boots, knitted cap.”