The third Deadly Sin exd-3

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Shh, shh," she whispered, putting a finger on his lips. "Let me catch my breath for a minute. It isn't every day a girl…"

  They sat immobile. She held his face between her palms and stared into his brimming eyes.

  "You love me that much, darling?" she said in a low voice.

  "I do, I do!" he declared. "I'd do anything for you, Zoe, I swear it. Except leave you. Don't ask me to do that."

  "No," she said, smiling sadly. "I won't ask you to do that."

  "There's no one else, is there?" he asked anxiously.

  "Oh no. There's no one else."

  "Zoe, I can understand that you might feel… Well, you know, having been married once and it didn't work out, you might feel, uh, very careful before you marry again. But I'd try very hard, darling, really I would. As hard as I can to be a good husband and make you happy."

  "I know you would, Ernie. You're a dear, sweet man, and I love you."

  "Then…?"

  "Oh, darling, I can't answer right now, this minute. I'm in a whirl. You'll have to give me time to think about-"

  "Of course," he said hastily, "I understand. I didn't expect to sweep you off your feet or anything like that. But you will think about it, won't you?"

  "Oh sweetheart, of course I will."

  "Well…" he said, giggling nervously, "just to keep reminding you, I bought you this…"

  He fumbled in the side pocket of his jacket, brought out a little velvet-covered ring box. He opened it.

  "World's smallest diamond," he said, laughing. "But it's pretty, isn't it, Zoe? Isn't it pretty?"

  "It's beautiful," she said, looking down at the twinkling stone set in a silver band. "Just beautiful."

  "Try it on," he urged. "I didn't know your size, so it may be too tight or too large. But the man said it can be adjusted or even exchanged for a different size."

  She slipped the ring onto her bony finger. It hung loosely.

  "Too large," she said regretfully. She took off the ring and placed it carefully back into the box.

  "It can be fixed," he assured her. "Zoe, your fingers are so thin. And what's this brown stain here?"

  "I burned myself," she said swiftly. "On a hot pan. It'll clear up."

  "Better see about it. Does it hurt?"

  "Oh no. It's nothing. It'll go away."

  She tried to return the ring box to him, but he wouldn't take it.

  "You keep it, dear," he said. "Put it someplace where you'll see it every day and think about what I asked you. Will you do that, Zoe?"

  "I don't need the ring to remind me," she said, smiling. "Oh, Ernie, it was so kind of you. And the ring is lovely. It truly is."

  "You like it? Really?"

  "It's the most beautiful ring in the world, and you're the most beautiful man."

  "Say Yes, darling. Think it over, remember how much I love you, and say Yes."

  That night, alone in her apartment, Zoe Kohler put the ring on her finger again, making a fist so it wouldn't slip off. Staring down at that shining circlet, she became aware of happiness as a conscious choice, hers for the taking.

  She would call Dr. Stark and agree to enter a hospital. She would do whatever was necessary, endure any mortification to regain her health. She would throw out all her unnecessary pills and capsules. She would stop drinking, eat only good, nutritious food.

  She would fill out, and her skin would become smooth and pure. She would make her body beautiful, slender and willowy.

  Her breath would be sweet and her monthly cramps would vanish as she grew content.

  She would end her adventures because there would no longer be a need for them. The police would grow tired of the search, and the Hotel Ripper would fade from the headlines. In a few weeks or months the whole thing would be forgotten.

  She would marry Ernest Mittle. Yes, and send an announcement to her ex-husband! Ernie would move in with her because her apartment was larger. She would keep her job at the Hotel Granger until Ernie was launched on a successful career in computers.

  They would take turns cooking, and hurry home each night just to be together and talk to each other. They would go on wonderful vacations together, walk deserted beaches and swim in an endless sea.

  They would make love gently, tenderly, and find bliss. Then they would sleep in each other's arms and wake to make love again, with smiles. They would find joy in each other's body, in their shared passion. They would not do anything ugly.

  Their closeness would keep the brutal city at bay, would defend against the world's cruelty. They would be the world, a world of two, and nothing would daunt or defeat them.

  Then they would have a child. Perhaps two. They would create a family of their own. With their clean, bright children, they would defy the darkness.

  She replaced the ring in its box and hid it far back in the bureau drawer, next to the why not? bracelet. She went to sleep smiling, still living her dream.

  It all seemed possible.

  July 15-18; Tuesday to Friday…

  Detective Daniel ("Dapper Dan") Bentley was given responsibility for the physical surveillance of Zoe Kohler. He used three crews, each on duty for eight hours. Each team consisted of two male and one female police officers.

  Most of their time was spent in an unmarked police vehicle parked outside the subject's apartment house on East 39th Street or the Hotel Granger on Madison Avenue. The car was changed every day in an effort to prevent easy recognition by the suspect.

  When Zoe Kohler walked to work, went to lunch, or just went shopping or on an innocent errand, one of the surveillance team tailed her on foot, keeping in touch with the stakeout car by walkie-talkie.

  In addition to this close physical watch, a court order for a wiretap was obtained. With the cooperation of the owner of Zoe's apartment house, a tap and tape recorder were installed in the basement, hooked up to her telephone terminal. Two-man crews were on duty around the clock.

  Gradually, a description of the subject and a time-habit pattern were assembled in the command post at Midtown Precinct North. The existence of Ernest Mittle and Madeline Kurnitz was established by phone call traces, and investigation begun of their relationship with the suspect.

  Also, by means of a collect call made by the subject, the names and address of her parents were obtained. Following Zoe when she visited her bank resulted in an examination of her bank account and credit rating.

  Slowly, the profile of the subject was filled in, with a complete physical description, personal history, her present job, employment record, friends, habits, etc. None of this, of course, added to or subtracted from her validity as a suspect, but it did give substance to the woman. In Midtown North, they began to speak familiarly of her as "Zoe." A friend of the family.

  Photographs were taken from the surveillance car by a police photographer using a telephoto lens. Blowups of the best pictures were flown to the Coast by a New York detective and shown to Anne Rogovich, the former cocktail waitress. The result was negative; she could not identify the suspect as the woman she had seen with the late Jerome Ashley.

  The same disappointment resulted when the photos were shown to Anthony Pizzi, the waiter at the Tribunal Motor Inn. So Mr. Pizzi was installed in the surveillance car and given an actual look at the subject. He still could not provide positive identification.

  But not all inquiries were fruitless…

  A long, involved discussion was held on how best to determine the disposition of tear gas purchased by Everett Pinckney, security chief of the Hotel Granger.

  "The problem here," Delaney said, "is that if he gave her a can of the stuff, or she pinched it, then questions about it are sure to spook her. If she still has the can-maybe it's half-full-she's sure to dump it. And if she's already gotten rid of it, the questions will give her a chance to frame a story."

  "Maybe we can tell this Pinckney to keep his trap shut," Sergeant Boone said.

  "You can tell him," the Chief said, "but don't take it to the bank." He thought a
moment, then: "Look, let's handle this in a conventional way. Just go in, verify the purchase with Pinckney, and say we'll be back in a week or so for a physical count of the containers he bought. Treat it very casually. If he mentions it to her, it may scare her into doing something foolish. Johnson, can you handle it?"

  "I'll do it personally," the detective said. "No sweat. I want to get a look at the lady anyway."

  So Detective Aaron Johnson visited Security Chief Everett Pinckney at the Hotel Granger. His cover story was that he was investigating a wholesale burglary of Chemical Mace and was tracing the serial numbers of every can sold in the New York area.

  "The good news," he reported later, "is that this Pinckney admits the purchase, and says he handed out the spray dispensers to his assistants, including Zoe. He's got the grenades right there in his office and says he'll collect the spray cans from the others for examination. The bad news is that I didn't get to see her; she was out to lunch or some such."

  That, at least, proved Zoe's access to a can of tear gas. It was a plus but, as Sergeant Boone said, "a little bitty plus."

  More important was the result of a search of Zoe Kohler's apartment, a completely illegal enterprise. It was planned at a meeting attended only by Delaney, Boone, and Detective Bentley. Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen was deliberately not informed of the plan; the Chief wanted to shield him from guilty knowledge.

  "We can get a man in there easy," Abner Boone explained to Bentley. "The owner will go along. Our guy will be a maintenance man, porter, repairman, or whatever-in case any of the tenants spot him and ask questions. He'll go in when she's at work; we'll verify that with the tails."

  "The problem," Delaney said, "is that he'll have to pick the lock. We don't want to ask the owner for a passkey. The fewer people who know about this, the better. Also, we need a fast guy, someone who'll get in, toss the place, and be out in, say, an hour or less."

  "Got just the guy," Bentley said promptly. "Ramon Gonzales, a PR. Naturally, we call him 'Speedy.' He's a fast man on locks and he'll be in and out of there so quick and so slick no one will notice a thing. What does he look for?"

  "A spray dispenser of tear gas," Boone said. "A pocket knife, or jackknife, switchblade-anything like that. Also, a gold link bracelet with the words why not? on it. And clothes, flashy clothes. A dark green dress with skinny straps. High-heeled shoes. She wore those to the Ashley kill. And a white turtleneck sweater and a denim thing with shoulder straps. The stuff she was wearing when she wasted the LaBranche boy. Anything else, Chief?"

  "Yes," Delaney said. "Tell him to look for nylon wigs. Black and strawberry blond. Tell this Speedy Gonzales to wear gloves and to touch as little as possible, move things as little as possible. And don't, for God's sake, bring anything out with him. Leave everything exactly where it is."

  "She'll never know she had a visitor," Bentley assured them.

  Two days later, he was back with a report. He consulted a notebook, flipping the pages as he talked…

  "No problems," he said. "Speedy didn't see anyone except the guy on the lobby desk who talked a minute or two but didn't ask any questions. The owner had told him to expect a guy who was going to make an estimate on cleaning the hallway rugs. Speedy got into Zoe's apartment with no trouble. He says the locks were a joke. He was inside less than an hour, gave the place a complete toss. He found that why not? bracelet and the dark green dress with thin shoulder straps. Her clothes are mostly plain and dull, but the fancy stuff is hidden in the back of a closet. A lot of hooker's dresses there, Speedy says. He didn't find any knife or can of tear gas."

  "The wigs?" Delaney asked.

  "Oh yeah. Black and blond. Both nylon. In the same closet with the whore's duds. High-heeled shoes in there, too. And in a dresser drawer, way in the back, black lace underwear and fancy shit like that."

  "Did he say anything about what the apartment was like?" the Chief said.

  "Very neat," Bentley reported. "Very clean. Spotless."

  "That figures," Delaney said.

  Late on Friday afternoon, July 18th, the Chief met with Deputy Commissioner Thorsen at a back table in a seedy tavern on Eighth Avenue. There were only a few solitary drinkers at the bar. The waitress, wearing a leotard and black net hose, brought their Scotch-and-waters and left them alone.

  "How's it going, Edward?" Thorsen asked.

  Delaney flipped a palm back and forth. "Some good, some bad," he said.

  "But is it her?" the Deputy said.

  "No doubt about that. It's her, all right."

  "But you still don't want to pick her up?"

  "Not yet."

  "We've got about a week, Edward. Then she's due to hit again."

  "I'm aware of that, Ivar."

  The Admiral sat back, sighing. He lifted his glass around on the Formica tabletop, making damp interlocking circles.

  "You're a hard man, Edward."

  "Not so hard," Delaney said. "I'm just trying to make a case for you."

  "Since when has any case been airtight?"

  "I didn't say an airtight case. Just a strong case that has a chance in the courts."

  Thorsen stared at him reflectively.

  "Sometimes I think you and I are-well, maybe not on opposing sides, but we see this thing from different viewpoints. All I want to do is stop these killings. And you-"

  "That's all I want," Delaney said stolidly.

  "No, that's not all you want. You want to squash the woman."

  "And what do you want-to let her walk away whistling? That's exactly what will happen if we pull her in now."

  "Look," Thorsen said, "let's get our priorities straight. You're convinced she's the killer?"

  "Yes."

  "All right, now suppose we pull her in, even charge her, and eventually she walks. But she's not going to kill again, is she? She's going to behave, knowing we'll keep an eye on her. So the killings will end, won't they? Even if she walks?"

  "And what about George Puller, Frederick Wolheim, Jerome Ashley, and all the rest? Just tough titty for them-right?"

  "Edward, our main job is crime prevention. And if pulling her in now can prevent a crime, then I say let's do it."

  "Prevention is only part of the job. Another part is crime detection and punishment."

  "Let's have another drink," Ivar Thorsen said, signaling the waitress and pointing at their empty glasses.

  They were silent while they were being served. Then Thorsen tried again…

  "On the basis of what we know now," he said, "we can probably get search warrants for her apartment and office. Agreed?"

  "Probably. But unless you find the weapon used, with her prints on it and stains of blood from her last kill, what have you got?"

  "Maybe we'll find that why not? bracelet."

  "Hundreds of them were sold. Probably thousands. It would mean nothing."

  "The tear gas container?"

  "Even if we find it, there's no proof it was the one used on Bergdorfer. Ditto the clothes she wore. And the wigs. Ivar, that's all the sleaziest kind of circumstantial evidence. A good defense attorney would make mincemeat of a prosecution based on that."

  "She's got Addison's disease."

  "So have fifteen other women living in Manhattan. I know you think we've got a lot on her. We have. Enough to convince me that she's the Hotel Ripper. But it's been a long time since you've testified in court. You've forgotten that there's a fucking big gap between knowing and proving. We have enough to know we have the right perp, but we have shit-all when it comes to proving. I tell you frankly that I don't think the DA will go for an indictment on the basis of what we've got. He's looking for good arrests and convictions. Like everyone else, he's not particularly enamored of lost causes."

  "I still say we have enough to bring her in for questioning. Even if we don't find anything new in her apartment or office, we can throw the fear of God into her. She won't slit any more throats."

  "You're sure of that? Positive? That she won't leave th
e city, move somewhere else, change her name, and take up her hobby again?"

  "That's some other city's problem."

  Delaney grunted. "Ivar, you're all heart."

  "You know what I mean. I volunteered for this job because I figured if anyone could find the Hotel Ripper, you could. All right, you've done it, and I want you to know how much I appreciate what you've done. But the whole point of the thing was to bring this series of homicides to an end. It seems to me that we can do that now by picking her up and telling her what we know. Trial and conviction are secondary to stopping her."

  "Then it's bye-bye, birdie," Delaney said. "That's not right."

  Ivar Thorsen slapped his palms on the table.

  "No wonder they called you 'Iron Balls,'" he said. "You've got to be the most stubborn, opinionated man I've ever met. You just won't give."

  "I know what's right," Delaney said woodenly.

  The Admiral took a deep breath.

  "I'll give you another week," he said. "That's, uh, Friday the twenty-fifth. If we have nothing more on her by then, I'm bringing her in anyhow. I just can't take the risk of letting her try another slashing."

  "Shit," Delaney said.

  He strode home through the sultry twilight. He went through Central Park, trying to walk off his anger. Intellectually, he could understand the reasoning behind Ivar Thorsen's decision. But that didn't make it any better. It was all political.

  "Political." What a shifty word! Political was everything weak, sly, expedient, and unctuous. Political was doing the right things for the wrong reasons, and the wrong things for the right reasons.

  Ivar had his career and the Department's reputation to think about. In that connotation, he was doing the "right" thing, the political thing. But he was also letting a murderess stroll away from her crimes; that was what it amounted to.

  Delaney planned how they could smash her. It would be an audacious scheme, but with foresight and a bit of luck, they could pull it off.