Fourth Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Try,” he urged. “I have a feeling you and my wife would hit it off.”

  She looked at her husband. If a signal passed between them, Delaney didn’t catch it.

  At the door, she put a hand on his arm. “Thank you for helping,” she said in a low voice. “You are a good man.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” he said.

  “I am,” she said softly.

  5

  THEY WERE HAVING A breakfast of eggs scrambled with onions and lox. Delaney was chomping a buttered bagel.

  “What are your plans for today?” he asked idly.

  “Shopping,” Monica said promptly. “With Rebecca. All day. We’ll have lunch somewhere. I’ll buy the Christmas cards and gifts for the children.”

  “Good.”

  “What would you like for Christmas?”

  “Me? I’m the man who’s got everything.”

  “That’s what you think, buster. How about a nice cigar case from Dunhill?”

  He considered that. “Not bad,” he admitted. “That old one I’ve got is falling apart. A dark morocco would be nice. What would you like?”

  “Please,” she said, “no more drugstore perfume. Surprise me. Are you going shopping?”

  “No, I’ll hang around awhile. Suarez said he’d call, and I want to be here.”

  “What would you like for dinner?”

  “You know what we haven’t had for a long time? Creamed chicken on buttermilk biscuits with—”

  “With mashed potatoes and peas,” she finished, laughing. “A real goyish meal. A good Jew wouldn’t be caught dead eating that stuff.”

  “Force yourself,” he told her. “I just suffered through a Jewish breakfast, didn’t I?”

  “Some suffering,” she jeered. “You gobbled that—”

  But then the phone rang, and he rose to answer it.

  “Edward X. Delaney here,” he said. “Yes, Chief … Good morning … You did? And what was his reaction? Fine. Fine. I thought he’d go for it. Yes, I’ll wait for them. Thank you, Chief. I’ll be in touch.”

  He hung up and turned to Monica.

  “Thorsen okayed everything. I’m getting the car, and Boone and Jason T. Jason will be delegated to me, through Suarez, on temporary assignment. They’re copying the files now and will probably be here before noon.”

  “Can I tell Rebecca about Abner?”

  “Sure. He’s probably told her already.”

  “Are you happy about this, Edward?”

  “Happy?” he said, surprised at the word. “Well, I’m satisfied. Yes, I guess I’m happy. It’s nice to be asked to do a job.”

  “They need you,” she said stoutly.

  “No guarantees. I warned Thorsen and I warned Suarez.”

  “But the challenge really excites you.”

  He shrugged.

  “You’ll crack it,” she assured him.

  “Crack it?” he said, smiling. “You’re showing your age, dear. Cops don’t crack cases anymore, and reporters don’t get scoops. That was all long ago.”

  “Goodbye then,” she said, “if I’m so dated. You clean up. I’m going shopping.”

  “Spend money,” he said. “Enjoy.”

  He did clean up, scraps and dishes and coffeemaker. He shouted a farewell to Monica when she departed, then went into the study to read the morning Times and smoke a cigar. But then he put the paper aside a moment to reflect.

  You just couldn’t call it a challenge—as Monica had; there was more to it than that.

  Every day hundreds—thousands—of people were dying in wars, revolutions, terrorist bombings, religious feuds; on highways, in their homes, walking down the street, in their beds. Unavoidable deaths, some of them—just accidents. But too many the result of deliberate violence.

  So why be so concerned with the killing of a single human being? Just another cipher in a long parade of ciphers. Not so. Edward X. Delaney could do little about wars; he could not end mass slaughter. His particular talent was individual homicide. Event and avenger were evenly matched.

  A life should not be stopped before its time by murder. That’s what it came down to.

  He took up his newspaper again, wondering if he was spinning fantastical reasons that had no relation to the truth. His motives might be as complex as those of Michael Ramon Suarez in seeking his help.

  Finally, common sense made him mistrust all these soft philosophical musings and he came back to essentials: A guy had been chilled, Delaney was a cop, his job was to find the killer. That defined his role as something of value: hard, simple, and understandable. He could be content with that.

  He finished his newspaper and cigar at about the same time, and put both aside. The Times carried a one-column story on the Ellerbee homicide in the Metropolitan Section. It was mostly indignant tirades from Henry Ellerbee and Dr. Diane Ellerbee, denouncing the NYPD for lack of progress in solving the murder.

  Acting Chief of Detectives Suarez was quoted as saying that the Department was investigating several “promising leads,” and “significant developments” were expected shortly. Which was, as Delaney well knew, police horseshit for “We ain’t got a thing and don’t know where to turn next.”

  The two officers arrived a little after noon, lugging four cartons tied with twine. Delaney led them directly into the study, where they piled the boxes in a high stack. Then they all had a chance to shake hands, grinning at each other. The two cops were wearing mufti, and Delaney took their anoraks and caps to the hall closet. They were still standing when he returned to the study.

  “Sit down, for God’s sake,” he said. “Sergeant, I saw you ten days ago, so I know how you are. Monica’s out with Rebecca today, by the way, spending our money. Jason, I haven’t seen you in—what’s it been?—almost two years. Don’t tell me you’ve lost some weight?”

  “Maybe a few pounds, sir. I didn’t think it showed.”

  “Well, you’re looking great. Family okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better, thank you. My two boys are sprouting up like weeds. All they talk about is basketball.”

  “Don’t knock it,” Delaney advised. “Good bucks there.”

  The two officers didn’t ask any questions about what the deal was and what they were doing there—and Delaney knew they wouldn’t. But he felt he owed them a reason for their presence.

  Briefly, he told them that Acting Chief of Detectives Suarez had more on his plate than he could handle, and Deputy Commissioner Thorsen had asked Delaney to help out on the Ellerbee homicide because the Department was getting so much flak from the victim’s widow and father—both people of influence.

  Delaney said nothing about the cutthroat ethnic and political wars being waged in the top ranks of the NYPD. Boone and Jason seemed to accept his censored explanation readily enough.

  “Sergeant,” Delaney said, “you’ll assist in my investigation and liaise with Suarez’s crew. Remember, he’s in command; I’m just a civilian consultant. Jason, you’ll be here, there, everywhere you’re needed. These are temporary assignments. If the case is cleared, or I get bounced, the two of you go back to your regular duties. Okay?”

  “Suits me just fine,” Jason Two said.

  “It’ll be a vacation,” Sergeant Boone said. “Working just one case.”

  “Vacation, hell!” Delaney said. “I’m going to run your ass off. Now the first thing the three of us are going to do is go through all the paper on the Ellerbee kill. We’ll read every scrap, look at every photo. We’ll take a break in an hour or so. I’ve got some sandwiches and drinks. Then we’ll get back to it until we’ve emptied the cartons. Then we’ll sit around and gas and decide what we do first.”

  They set to work, opening the cartons, piling the photocopied documents on Delaney’s desk. He read each statement first, then handed it to Boone, who scanned it and passed it along to Officer Jason. Most of the stuff was short memos, and those went swiftly. But the Medical Examiner’s postmortem and the reports of the Crime Scene Uni
t were longer and took time to digest.

  Delaney smoked another cigar, and the two cops chain-smoked cigarettes. The study fogged up, and Delaney rose to switch on an exhaust fan set in the back window. But there was no conversation; they worked steadily for more than an hour. Then they broke for lunch. Delaney brought in a platter of sandwiches he’d prepared earlier and cans of Heineken for Jason and himself. Abner Boone had a bottle of club soda.

  Delaney parked his feet up on his desk.

  “Jason,” he said, “you did a hell of a job keeping clear of those wet tracks on the carpet.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I think your report covered just about everything. Nothing you left out, was there?”

  “Nooo,” the officer said slowly, “not to my remembrance.”

  “When you went up the stairs,” Delaney persisted, “and into the receptionist’s office, did you smell anything?”

  “Smell? Well, that was a damned wet night. The inside of that house smelled damp. Almost moldy.”

  “But nothing unusual? Perfume, incense, cooking odors—something like that?”

  The big black frowned. “Can’t recall anything unusual. Just the wet.”

  “That art gallery on the first floor—the door was locked?”

  “Yes, sir. And so was the door to Dr. Diane Ellerbee’s office on the second floor. And so was that private apartment on the fourth. The victim’s office was the only one open.”

  “He was lying on his back?”

  “Yes, sir. Not a pretty sight.”

  “Sergeant,” Delaney said, swinging his swivel chair to face Boone, “how do you figure those two hammer blows to the eyes? After the poor guy was dead.”

  “That seems plain enough. Symbolic stuff. The killer wanted to blind him.”

  “Sure,” Delaney agreed. “But after he was dead? That’s heavy.”

  “Well, Ellerbee was a psychiatrist dealing with a lot of crazies. It could have been a patient who thought the doctor was seeing too much.”

  Delaney stared at him. “That’s interesting—and plausible. Listen, there are three sandwiches left, and I’ve got more beer and soda. Why don’t we finish eating and work at the same time?”

  They were done a little after 3:00 P.M., and stuffed everything back in the cartons. Then they all sat back and stared at each other.

  “Well?” Delaney demanded. “What do you think of the investigation so far?”

  Boone drew a deep breath. “I don’t like to put the knock on anyone,” he said hesitantly, “but it appears to me that Chief Suarez hasn’t been riding herd on his guys. For instance, in her statement Dr. Diane Ellerbee says she called Dr. Julius Samuelson about one-fifteen in the morning. The guy who’s supposed to check it out goes to Samuelson and asks, ‘Did Dr. Diane call you at one-fifteen?’ And Samuelson says, ‘Yes, she did.’ Now what kind of garbage is that? Maybe the two of them were in it together and protecting each other’s ass. She says she called from their Brewster home. That’s a toll call to Manhattan. So why didn’t someone check phone company records to make sure the call was actually made?”

  “Right!” Jason T. Jason said loudly. “Ditto her call to the Ellerbees’ garage. The night attendant says, ‘Yeah, she called,’ but no one checked to make sure the call was made from Brewster. Sloppy, sloppy work.”

  “I concur,” Delaney said approvingly. “And Samuelson said he was at a concert in Carnegie Hall when Ellerbee was offed. But I didn’t see a damned thing in those four cartons that shows anyone checked that out. Was he at the concert with someone or was he alone? And if he was alone, did anyone see him there? Does he have a ticket stub? Can the Carnegie Hall people place him there that night? Chief Suarez said he had more or less eliminated the widow and Samuelson as suspects. Bullshit! We’ve got a way to go before I’ll clear them. Don’t blame Suarez; he’s got a zillion other things on his mind besides this Ellerbee kill. But I agree; so far it’s been a half-ass investigation.”

  “So?” Boone said. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Jason,” Delaney said, pointing a thick forefinger at him, “you take the widow. Check out those two calls she says she made from Brewster. And while you’re at it, talk to the Brewster cop she says she phoned to ask if there was a highway accident. Make sure she did call, and ask the cop how she sounded. Was she hysterical, cool, angry—whatever. Boone, you take Samuelson and his alibi. See if you can find out if anyone can actually place him at Carnegie Hall at the time Ellerbee was killed.”

  “You think the widow and Samuelson might be lying?” Jason said.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Delaney said. “I lie, you lie, Boone lies, everyone lies. It’s part of the human condition. Mostly it’s innocent stuff—just to help us all get through life a little easier. But in this case we’ve got a stiff on our hands. Yes, the widow and Samuelson might be lying—even if they’re not the perps. Maybe they have other reasons. Let’s find out.”

  “What do you plan on doing, sir?” Sergeant Boone asked curiously.

  “Me? I want to study those statements about the hassle Dr. Samuelson had with the Department’s legal eagles. The argument was about the doctor-patient relationship, which is supposed to be sacred under the law. Ha-ha. But here we have a case where a doctor has been knocked off and the Crime Scene Unit guys grabbed his appointment book. So now we know the names of his patients, but Samuelson claimed the files were confidential. The Department’s attorneys said not so; a murder was committed and the public good required that patients be questioned. As I understand it, they came to a compromise. The patients can be investigated, but they cannot be questioned unless they agree to it, because the questioning might involve their illness—the reason they were consulting Ellerbee in the first place. It’s a nice legal point, and could keep a platoon of lawyers busy for a year. But as things stand now, we can check the whereabouts of every patient at the time of Ellerbee’s death, but we can’t question the patients or examine their files unless they agree to it. Now isn’t that as fucked up as a Chinese fire drill?”

  “You think the patients will agree to answer questions?” Boone said.

  “I think if one of his patients chilled Ellerbee, he or she will agree to be questioned, figuring that if they refuse, they’ll be automatically suspected by the cops.”

  “Oh, wow,” Jason Two said, laughing. “You figure crazies can reason like that?”

  “First of all we don’t know yet just how nutty his patients are. Second, you can be a complete whacko and still be able to think as rationally as any so-called normal man or woman. I remember a guy we racked up who was a computer whiz. I mean a genius. All his work involved mathematical logic. But he had one quirk: He liked to rape little girls. Except for that, he was an intellectual giant. So don’t get the idea that all of Ellerbee’s patients are dummies.”

  “When are we going to get started on the patient list, sir?” Jason asked.

  “Another thing,” Delaney said, ignoring Jason’s question. “I saw nothing in those cartons to indicate that anyone had thought to run the victim, his widow, his father, and Dr. Samuelson through Records.”

  “My God,” Boone said, “you don’t think people like that have jackets, do you?”

  “No, I don’t—but you never know, do you, and it’s got to be done. Ditto the Ellerbees’ two receptionists, the old ladies who own the art gallery, and the guy who leases the apartment on the top floor. Sergeant, you do that. Run them all through Records. For the time being let’s concentrate on the people who live and work in that townhouse. Plus Samuelson and Ellerbee’s father. After we’ve cleared them, we’ll spread out to friends, acquaintances, and Ellerbee’s patients.”

  They talked awhile longer, discussing how they’d divide up use of the Department car and how they’d keep in touch with each other. Delaney urged both men to call him any hour of the day or night if they had any problems or anything to report.

  Then the two officers left, and Delaney returned to his study. He called Dep
uty Commissioner Thorsen and was put through immediately.

  “All right, Ivar,” Delaney said. “We’ve started.”

  “Thank God,” the Admiral said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

  “There is something,” Delaney said. “The Department has a house shrink, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure,” Thorsen said. “Dr. Murray Walden. He set up alcohol and drug rehabilitation programs. And he’s got a family counseling service. A very active, innovative man.”

  “Dr. Murray Walden,” Delaney repeated, jotting the name on his desk calendar. “Would you phone him and tell him to expect a call from me?”

  “Of course.”

  “He’ll cooperate?”

  “Absolutely. Did you go through the files, Edward?”

  “I did. Once.”

  “See anything?”

  “A lot of holes.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. You’ll plug them, won’t you?”

  “That’s what I’m getting paid for. By the way, Ivar, what am I getting paid?”

  “A case of Glenfiddich,” Thorsen said. “And maybe a medal from the Mayor.”

  “Screw the medal,” Delaney said. “I’ll take the scotch.”

  He hung up after promising the Deputy he’d keep him informed of any developments. Then he tidied up, returning the emptied sandwich platter, beer cans, and soda bottles to the kitchen.

  Back in the study, he eyed the cartons of Ellerbee records with some distaste. He knew that eventually all that bumf would have to be divided logically and neatly into separate file folders. He could have told Boone or Jason to do it, but it was donkey labor, and he didn’t want their enthusiasm dulled by paperwork.

  It took him five minutes to find the two documents he was looking for: the exchange of correspondence and memos between Dr. Julius K. Samuelson and the Department’s attorneys regarding the issue of doctor-patient confidentiality, and the photocopies of Dr. Simon Ellerbee’s appointment book.

  After rereading the papers, Delaney was definitely convinced that their so-called compromise was ridiculous and unworkable. No way could a detective investigate a possible suspect without direct questioning. He decided to ignore the whole muddle, and if he stepped on toes and someone screamed, he’d face that problem when it arose.