Every dick had a different way of working, and Konigsbacher liked to circle his prey, learn all he could about him, study his lifestyle. Then, when he felt he knew his target from A to Z, he’d go for the face-to-face and shatter the guy with what he had learned about him.
The Kraut talked to Symington’s neighbors, the super of his townhouse, owners of stores where he shopped. Konigsbacher even got in to interview the personnel manager of the investment counseling firm where Symington worked.
Using a phony business card, Konigsbacher said he was running a credit check on Symington in connection with a loan application for a cooperative apartment. The manager gave Symington a glowing reference, but the Kraut discounted that because he thought the personnel guy was a fruitcake, too.
Outside of business hours, L. Vincent Symington liked to prowl. He dined at a different restaurant almost every night, sometimes alone, sometimes with another man, never with a broad.
After dinner, he’d go bar-hopping. But invariably, around midnight, he’d end up in a place on Lexington Avenue near 40th Street, the Dorian Gray. From the outside it didn’t have much flash; the façade was distressed pine paneling with one small window that revealed a dim interior with lighted candles on the tables and a piano at the rear. It was usually crowded.
On the third night Konigsbacher tailed Symington to the Dorian Gray, waited about five minutes, then went inside. It turned out to be the most elegant gay bar the Kraut had ever seen—and he had seen a lot of them, from the Village to Harlem.
This joint was as hushed as a church, with everyone speaking in whispers and even the laughter muted. The black woman at the piano played low-keyed Cole Porter, and the bartender—who looked like a young Tyrone Power—seemed never to clink a bottle or glass.
The Kraut stood a moment at the entrance until his eyes became accustomed to the dimness. There were maybe two or three women in the place, but all the other patrons were men in their thirties and forties. Practically all of them wore conservative, vested suits. They looked like bankers or stockbrokers, maybe even morticians.
Most of the guys at the small tables were in pairs; the singles were at the bar. Konigsbacher spotted his victim sitting alone near the far end. There was an empty barstool next to him. The Kraut sauntered down and swung aboard. The bartender was there immediately.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “What may I bring you?”
The Kraut would have liked a belt of Jack Daniel’s with a beer chaser, but when he looked around he saw all the other customers at the bar were having stemmed drinks or sipping little glasses of liqueur.
“Vodka martini straight up with a twist, please,” he said, surprised to find himself whispering.
“Very good, sir.”
While he waited for his drink, he glanced at the tinted mirror behind the bar and locked stares with L. Vincent Symington. They both looked away.
He drank half his martini, slowly, then pulled a pack of Kents and a disposable lighter from his jacket pocket. The beautiful bartender was there immediately with a small crystal ashtray. The Kraut lighted his cigarette, then left the pack and lighter on the bar in front of him.
A few moments later Symington took a silver case from his inside pocket, snapped it open, selected a long, cork-tipped cigarette.
“I beg your pardon,” he said to Konigsbacher in a fluty voice. “I seem to have forgotten my lighter. May I borrow yours?”
It was like a dance, and the Kraut knew the steps.
“Of course,” he said, flicked the lighter, and held it for the other man. Symington grasped his hand lightly as if to steady the flame. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and seemed to swallow the smoke.
“Thank you,” he said. “Dreadful habit, isn’t it?”
“Sex, you mean?” Konigsbacher said, and they both laughed.
Ten minutes later they were seated at a small table against the wall, talking earnestly. They leaned forward, their heads almost touching. Beneath the table, their knees pressed.
“I can tell, Ross,” Symington said, “that you take very good care of yourself.”
“I try to, Vince,” the Kraut said. “I work out with weights every morning.”
“I really should do that.”
He hesitated, then asked, “Are you married, Ross?”
“My wife is; I’m not.”
Symington leaned back and clasped his hands together. “Love it,” he said. “Just love it! My wife is; I’m not. I’ll have to remember that.”
“How about you, Vince?”
“No. Not now. I was once. But she walked out on me. Taking, I might add, our joint bank account, our poodle, and my personal collection of ancient Roman coins.”
“So you’re divorced?”
“Not legally, as far as I know.”
“You really should be, Vince. You might want to remarry someday.”
“I doubt that,” Symington said. “I doubt that very much.”
“It’s a sad, sad, sad, sad world,” the Kraut said mournfully, “and we must grab every pleasure we can.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” the other man agreed, snapped his fingers at the pretty waiter, and ordered another round of drinks.
“Vince,” Konigsbacher said, “I have a feeling we can be good friends. I hope so, because I don’t have many.”
“Oh, my God,” Symington said, running his palm over his bald pate. “You, too? I can’t tell you how lonely I am.”
“But there’s something you should know about me,” the Kraut went on, figuring it was time to get down to business. “I’m under analysis.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, that’s no crime. I was in analysis for years.”
“Was? You’re not now?”
“No,” Symington said sorrowfully. “My shrink was killed.”
“Killed? That’s dreadful. An accident?”
The other man leaned forward again and lowered his voice. “He was murdered.”
“Murdered? My God!”
“Maybe you read about it. Doctor Simon Ellerbee, on the Upper East Side.”
“Who did it—do they know?”
“No, but I keep getting visits from the police. They have to talk to all his patients, you know.”
“What a drag. You don’t know anything about it—do you?”
“Well, I have my ideas, but I’m not telling the cops, of course. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.”
“That’s smart, Vince. Just try to stay out of it.”
“Oh, I will. I have my own problems.”
“What kind of a man was he—your shrink?”
“Well, you know what they’re like; they can be just nasty at times.”
“How true. Do you think he was killed by one of his patients?”
Symington swiveled his head to look carefully over both shoulders, as if suspecting someone might be listening. Then he leaned even closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.
“About six months ago—it was on a Friday night—I was crossing First Avenue. I had just had dinner at Lucky Pierre’s. That’s a marvelous restaurant—really the yummiest escargots in New York. Anyway, it was about nine o’clock, and I was crossing First Avenue, and there, stopped for a light, was Doctor Ellerbee. I saw him plain as day, but he didn’t see me. He was driving his new green Jaguar. Then the light changed and he headed uptown. Now I ask you, what does that suggest?”
Konigsbacher was bewildered. “That he had been somewhere?”
“Somewhere with someone. And obviously not his wife; she was nowhere to be seen; he was alone in the car.”
“I don’t know, Vince,” the Kraut said doubtfully. “He could have been anywhere. Seeing a patient, for instance, or at a hospital. Anything.”
“Well,” Symington said, sitting back and smirking with satisfaction, “that’s not the only thing. I could tell the cops but won’t. Let them do their own dirty work.”
“Very wise. You keep out of it.”
“Oh, I intend t
o. I don’t want to get involved.”
Konigsbacher peered at his watch. “Oh dear,” he said, “it’s later than I thought. I’ll have to split.”
“Must you, Ross?”
“I’m afraid so, Vince,” the Kraut said, having decided to play this fish slowly. “Thank you for a lovely evening. I really enjoyed it.”
“It was fun, wasn’t it? Do you think you might drop in here again?”
“I think I might. Like tomorrow night.”
They both laughed, beamed at each other, shook hands lingeringly. Konigsbacher departed, leaving the other man to pick up the tab. Fuck him.
Driving home to Riverdale, the Kraut went over the night’s conversation. Not much, but a hint of goodies to come. He’d put it all in his report and let Delaney sort it out.
Edward X. Delaney read the report with something less than admiration. He knew what the Kraut was doing and didn’t like it. But after thinking it over, he decided to let the detective run and see what he turned up. Delaney wasn’t about to indulge in a soggy philosophical debate over whether or not the end justified the means. He had more immediate concerns.
The techs reported on the ball peen hammer lifted from the trunk of Ronald Bellsey’s Cadillac. Negative. Not only no bloodstains, but no indications, even, that the damned thing had been recently used. Sergeant Boone did another lock-picking job and slipped it back into the trunk.
The problem of the late patient continued to nag Delaney. He kept thinking he had solved it, only to find he had uncovered a bigger mystery.
Going through Simon Ellerbee’s appointment book for the umpteenth time, he noted that occasionally late patients were scheduled—6:00, 7:00, 8:00, and even 9:00 P.M. He attempted to see if there was any pattern, if certain patients habitually made late appointments.
He then reasoned that late patients who were not scheduled in the appointment book—the ones who made panicky phone calls—would certainly be noted in Dr. Ellerbee’s billing ledger. Hadn’t Carol Judd said that the doctor would leave a note on her desk the next morning, telling her to bill so-and-so for an evening session?
It made sense, but he could find no billing ledger, or anything that resembled it, among the records sent over by Suarez’s investigative team. He and Boone spent a frustrating afternoon on the phone, trying to locate it.
Dr. Diane Ellerbee said yes, her husband had kept such a financial journal, with each session noted: name of patient, date, and time. She assumed the police had taken it when they gathered up the rest of Simon’s records.
Carol Judd also said yes, there had been such a billing ledger. She kept it in the top drawer of her desk in the outer office, and used it to send out invoices and statements to patients.
Dr. Diane, when he called back, agreed to make a search for the journal, and then phoned to say she could not find it in the receptionist’s desk, her husband’s office, or anywhere else.
Boone talked to the Crime Scene Unit men and the detective who had taken all the files from the victim’s office. None of them could recall seeing anything resembling a billing ledger.
“All right,” Delaney said, “so it is missing. Did the killer grab it? Probably. Why? Because it would show how often he or she had been a late patient.”
“I don’t get it,” Boone said.
“Sure you do. We add up the number of sessions for one particular patient in one month, as noted in the appointment book. Then we compare that to the patient’s total billing for the month. If the bill is higher than it should be by, say, a hundred bucks, we can figure that the patient had one unscheduled session.”
“Now I get it,” Boone said. “But it’s all smoke if we can’t find the damned ledger.”
Delaney learned more about the business practices of psychiatrists from Monica, who, as promised, had talked to her friends who were in analysis.
“They said their doctors generally sent monthly bills,” she reported. “Sometimes if gets complicated when the patient has medical insurance that includes psychotherapy. And some companies have health plans for their employees that pay all or part of psychological counseling fees.”
“What does the shrink do if the patient can’t or won’t pay?”
“Gets rid of them,” Monica said. “The theory is that if you pay for therapy, it’ll seem more valuable to you. If you get it for nothing, that’s what you’ll think it’s worth. Some shrinks will carry patients for a while if they’re having temporary money problems. And some shrinks will adjust their fees or accept stretched-out payments. But no psychiatrist is going to work for free, except for charity. Which reminds me, buster—how much are you getting for all the hours you’re putting in on the Ellerbee case?”
“Bupkes is what I’m getting,” Delaney said.
Thanksgiving Day arrived at just the right time to provide a much needed respite from records, reports, and unanswered questions.
The roast goose, with wild rice and brandied apples, was pronounced a success. Rebecca Boone had brought a rum cake for dessert, soaked with liquor. She had even prepared a little one, without rum, for her husband.
They carried dessert and coffee into the living room, and lounged in soft chairs with plates of cake on their laps and didn’t even mention the Ellerbee case—for at least three minutes.
“You’ll laugh at me,” Rebecca said, “but I think a total stranger did it.”
“Brilliant,” her husband said. “The doctor wouldn’t buzz the downstairs door for a stranger, and there were no signs of forced entry. So how did the stranger get in?”
“That’s easy. He waited in the shadows, maybe behind a parked car, and when the late patient arrived, the killer rushed right in after him, threatening him with the hammer or a gun or knife. And that’s why,” she finished triumphantly, “there were two sets of footprints on the carpeting.”
“It’s possible,” Delaney admitted. “Anything’s possible. But why would a stranger want to kill Doctor Ellerbee? There were no drugs on the premises, and nothing was missing—except that damned billing ledger. I can’t believe Ellerbee was murdered for that.”
“The killer was in love with Diane Ellerbee,” Monica said flatly, “and wanted the husband out of the way so he could marry the widow.”
“That’s sufficient motive,” Delaney acknowledged, “if we could find the tiniest scrap of evidence that Doctor Diane had been playing around—which we can’t.”
“Maybe she wasn’t playing around,” Monica said. “Maybe the killer had a crazy passion for her that she wasn’t even aware of.”
“Why do people murder?” Rebecca asked.
Delaney shrugged. “A lot of reasons. Greed, fear, anger, jealousy—the list goes on and on. Sometimes the motive is so trivial that you can’t believe anyone would kill because of it.”
“I had a case once,” Sergeant Boone said, “where a guy stabbed his neighbor to death because the man’s dog barked too much. And another where a guy shot his wife because she burned a steak while she was broiling it.”
“Did you ever have a case,” Monica asked, “where a wife killed her husband because he ate sandwiches while leaning over the kitchen sink?”
The Boones laughed. Even Delaney managed a weak grin.
“What do you think the motive was in the Ellerbee case?” Rebecca asked.
“Nothing trivial,” Delaney said, “that’s for sure. Something deep and complex. What do you think it was, Sergeant?”
“I don’t know,” Boone said. “But I doubt if it was money.”
“Then it must have been love,” his wife said promptly. “I’m sure it had something to do with love.”
She was a short, plump, jolly woman with a fine complexion and long black hair falling loosely about her shoulders. Her eyes were soft, and there was a cherub’s innocence in her expression. She was wearing a tailored flannel suit, but nothing could conceal her robust grace.
Delaney was aware that she treated him with a deferential awe, and it embarrassed him. Monica addressed
Boone familiarly as Abner or Ab, but Rebecca wouldn’t dare address Delaney as Edward. And since Mr. Delaney was absurdly formal, she simply used no name or title at all.
“Why do you think love was the motive, Rebecca?” he asked her.
“I just feel it.”
The Sergeant burst out laughing. “There’s hard evidence for you, sir,” he said. “Let’s take that to the DA tomorrow.”
Later that night, when they were preparing for bed, he said to Monica, “Do you agree with Rebecca—that love was the motive for Ellerbee’s murder?”
“I certainly think it was involved,” she said. “If it wasn’t money, it had to be love.”
“I wish I could be as sure of anything,” he said grouchily, “as you are of everything.”
“You asked me, so I told you.”
“If you women are right,” he said, “maybe we should forget about checking out violence-prone patients and concentrate on love-prone patients.”
“Are there such animals?” she asked. “Love-prone people?”
“Of course there are. Men who go from woman to woman, needing love to give their life meaning. And women who fall in love at the drop of a hat—or a pair of pants.”
“You’re a very vulgar man,” she said.
“That’s true,” he agreed. “Has Rebecca put on weight?”
“Maybe a pound or two.”
“She’s not pregnant, is she?”
“Of course not. Why do you ask that?”
“I don’t know … there was a kind of glow about her tonight. I just thought …”
“If she were pregnant, she’d have told me.”
“I guess. If they are going to have children, they better get cracking—if you’ll excuse another vulgarism. Neither of them is getting any younger.”
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, dangling one of his shoes. Monica came over, plumped down on his lap, put a warm arm about his neck.
“I wish you and I had children, Edward.”
“We do. I think of your girls as mine. And I know you think of my kids as yours.”
Fourth Deadly Sin Page 18
