Fourth Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “It’s not the same,” she said. “You know that. I mean a child who’s truly ours.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” she said sadly. “I’m just dreaming.”

  “Besides,” he added, “would you want the father of your child to be a man who eats sandwiches leaning over the kitchen sink?”

  “I apologize,” she said, laughing. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that in front of company, but I couldn’t resist it.”

  Before she released him, she put her face close to his, stared into his eyes, said, “Do you love me, Edward?”

  “I love you. I don’t want to think how empty and useless my life would be without you.”

  She kissed the tip of his nose, and he asked, “What brought that on?”

  “All the talk tonight about love and murder,” she said. “It bothered me. I just wanted to make sure the two don’t necessarily go together.”

  “They don’t,” he said slowly. “Not necessarily.”

  16

  NO ONE KNEW HOW or where the expression started, but that year everyone in the Department was using “rappaport.” Street cops would say, “I get good rappaport on my beat.” Detectives would say of a particular snitch, “I got a good rappaport with that guy.”

  Actually, when you analyzed it, it was a useful portmanteau word. Not only did you have rapport with someone, but you could rap with them. It fit the bill.

  Detective Robert Keisman figured to establish a rappaport with Harold Gerber, the Vietnam vet. The black cop, skinny as a pencil and graceful as a fencer, knew what it was like to feel anger eating at your gut like an ulcer; he thought he and Gerber would have a lot in common …

  … Until he met Gerber, and saw how he lived.

  “This guy is a real bonzo,” he told Jason.

  But still, intent on establishing a rappaport, Keisman costumed himself in a manner he thought wouldn’t offend the misanthropic vet: worn jeans, old combat boots, a scruffy leather jacket with greasy buckskin fringe, and a crazy cap with limp earflaps.

  He didn’t mislead Gerber; he told him he was an NYPD dick assigned to the Ellerbee case. And in their first face-to-face, he asked the vet the same questions Delaney and Boone had asked, and got the same answers. But the Spoiler acted like he didn’t give a shit whether Gerber was telling the truth or not.

  “I’m just putting in my time, man,” he told the vet. “They’re never going to find out who offed Ellerbee, so why should I bust my hump?”

  Still, every day or so Keisman would put away his elegant Giorgio Armani blazer and Ferragamo slacks. Then, dressed like a Greenwich Village floater, he’d go visit Gerber.

  “Come on, man,” he’d say, “let’s get out of this latrine and get us a couple of brews.”

  The two of them would slouch off to some saloon where they’d drink and talk the day away. Keisman never brought up the subject of Ellerbee’s murder, but if Gerber wanted to talk about it, the Spoiler listened sympathetically and kept it going with casual questions.

  “I’m nowhere yet,” he reported to Jason Two, “but the guy is beginning to open up. I may get something if my liver holds out.”

  One afternoon he and Gerber were in a real dump on Hudson Street when suddenly the vet said to Keisman, “You’re a cop—you ever ice a guy?”

  “Once,” the Spoiler said. “This junkie was coming at me with a shiv, and I put two in his lungs. I got a commendation for that.”

  Which was a lie, of course. Keisman had been on the Force for ten years and had never fired his service revolver off the range.

  “Once?” Harold Gerber jeered. “Amateur night. I wasted so many in Nam I lost count. After a while it didn’t mean a thing.”

  “Bullshit,” the Spoiler said. “I don’t care how many you kill, it still gets to you.”

  “Now that is bullshit,” the vet said. “I’m telling you, man, you never give it a second thought. See that guy over there—the fat slob at the bar trying to make out with the old whore? I never saw him in my life. But if I was carrying a piece and felt like it, I could walk up to him, plink his eyes out, and never lose a night’s sleep.”

  “You’re crapping me.”

  “I swear,” Gerber said, holding up a palm. “That’s the way I feel—or don’t feel.”

  “Shit, man, you’re a walking time bomb.”

  “That’s right. Doc Ellerbee was trying to grow me a conscience again, but it was heavy going.”

  “Too bad he was dusted,” Keisman said. “Maybe he could have helped you.”

  “Maybe,” Gerber said. “Maybe not.”

  He went over to the bar and brought back another pitcher of beer. “You pack a gun?”

  “Sure,” Keisman said. “Regulations.”

  “Lend it to me for a minute,” Harold Gerber said. “I’ll put that shithead out of his misery.”

  “You crazy, man?” the Spoiler said, definitely nervous. “I don’t give a fuck what you do, but I lend you my iron and it’s my ass.”

  “Slob,” Gerber muttered, glaring at the man at the bar. “If you won’t lend me, maybe I’ll just go over and kick the shit out of him.”

  “Come on,” Keisman said. “I’m on duty; I’m not even supposed to be drinking, especially with a pistol like you.”

  “Well …” the vet said grudgingly, “if it wasn’t for that, I’d put the bastard away. It wouldn’t mean a thing to me. If I was alone, I’d just ace him, come back to the table, work on my beer, and wait for the blues to come get me.”

  “I believe you would.”

  “You bet your ass I would. It wouldn’t be the first time. What if I told you I put Doc Ellerbee down—would you believe me?”

  “Did you?”

  “If I told you I did, would you believe me?”

  “Sure, I’d believe you. Did you do it?”

  “I did it,” Harold Gerber said. “He was a nosy fucker.”

  Detective Robert Keisman reported this conversation to Jason, and the two of them decided they better bring it to Delaney in person.

  It hadn’t been a good day for Delaney. Too many phone calls; too many people leaning on him.

  It started right after breakfast when he went into the study to read the morning Times. There was a front-page article, with runover, about the declining solution rate for homicides in the New York area. It wasn’t cheerful reading.

  The lead-in was about the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee, and how, after weeks of intensive investigation, the police were no closer to a solution than they had been the day the body was found. Delaney was halfway through the article when the phone rang. “Thorsen,” he said aloud and picked up.

  “Edward X. Delaney here,” he said.

  “Edward, this is Ivar. Did you see that thing in the Times?”

  “Reading it now.”

  “Son of a bitch!” the Deputy said bitterly. “That’s all we need. Did you come to that paragraph about Suarez?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, it said that he’s Acting Chief of Detectives, and implied that the outcome of the Ellerbee case will probably have a crucial effect on his permanent appointment.”

  “That’s true enough, isn’t it? Ivar, what’s all the foofaraw about the Ellerbee case? Suarez must have at least a dozen other recent unsolved homicides in his caseload.”

  “Come on, Edward, you know the answer to that: Ellerbee was someone. The moneyed East Side people couldn’t care less if some hophead gets knocked off in the South Bronx. But Ellerbee was one of their own kind: an educated professional, wealthy, with a good address. So the powers that be figure if it could happen to him, it could happen to them, and they’re running scared. I’ve already had four phone calls on that Times article this morning. That kind of publicity the Department doesn’t need.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Any progress, Edward?”

  “No,” Delaney said shortly. “A lot of bits and pieces, but nothin
g earthshaking.”

  “I don’t want to pressure you, but—”

  “But you are.”

  “I just want to make certain you’re aware of the time element involved. If this thing isn’t cleared up by the first of the year, we might as well forget about it.”

  “Forget about trying to find Ellerbee’s killer?”

  “Now you really are acting like Iron Balls. You know what I mean. The Ellerbee file will remain open, of course, but we’ll have to pull manpower. And Suarez goes back to his precincts—if he’s lucky.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Oh, by the way,” the Admiral said breezily, “you may be getting calls from the Ellerbees—the widow and the father. To get them off my back, I suggested that you represent our best chance of solving the case.”

  “Thank you very much, Ivar. I really appreciate your kind cooperation.”

  “I thought you would,” the Deputy said, laughing. “I’ll keep in touch, Edward.”

  “Please,” Delaney said, “don’t bother.”

  The two Ellerbees called all right. Both were in a surly mood to start with, and even surlier when they hung up.

  Delaney would give them no comfort whatsoever. He said several leads were being followed, but no one had been identified as a definite suspect, and a great deal of work remained to be done.

  “When do you think you’ll have some good news?” Henry Ellerbee demanded.

  “I have no idea,” Delaney said.

  “When do you think you’ll find the killer?” Dr. Diane Ellerbee said sharply.

  “I have no idea,” Delaney said.

  The three phone calls irritated him so much that he was tempted to seek the solace of a good sandwich—but he resisted. Instead, he went to his files, driving himself to read through the records one more time.

  The purpose here was to immerse himself in the minutiae of the case. At this stage he could not allow himself to judge some details significant and some meaningless. All had value: from the hammer blows to Ellerbee’s eyes to Sylvia Mae Otherton’s use of a Ouija board.

  Now there was a curious coincidence, he suddenly realized. The victim had been deliberately blinded, and the Ouija planchette had spelled out “blind.” What did that mean—if anything? He began to feel that he was sinking deeper into the irrational world of Ellerbee’s patients.

  Hundreds of facts, rumors, and guesses had been accumulated, with more coming in every day. What detection came down to, in a case of this nature, was a matter of choice. Selection: that was the detective’s secret—and the poet’s.

  He was bleary-eyed when Jason and Keisman arrived, providing a welcome break.

  Delaney listened carefully as the Spoiler gave a complete accounting of his most recent conversation with Harold Gerber.

  When the black detective finished, Delaney stared at him thoughtfully.

  “What’s your take?” Delaney finally asked. “You think he was telling the truth or was it just drunken bragging?”

  “Sir, I can’t give you a definite answer, but I think it’s a big possible. That guy is bonkers.”

  “So far we’ve had at least ten fake confessions on the Ellerbee homicide. Suarez’s men have checked them all out. Zero, zip, zilch. Just crazies and people wanting publicity. But we’ve got to take this one seriously.”

  “Pull him in?” Jason suggested.

  “No,” Delaney said. “If he turns out to be clean, that will be the end of Keisman’s contact with him. He’ll know who spilled the confession.”

  “You can say that again,” the Spoiler agreed. “And I really don’t enjoy the idea of that whacko being sore at me.”

  “Then you’ll have to check out his confession yourself. Find out what time he got there. Did he have an appointment? Was he the late patient? How did he get up to Ellerbee’s office: subway, bus, taxi? He knows the victim was killed with a ball peen hammer because Boone and I asked him if he owned one and he said no. So ask him where he got the hammer, and check it out. Then ask him what he did with the hammer after he killed Ellerbee, and check that out. Ask him how many times he hit the victim and how Ellerbee fell. Facedown or up? Finally, ask him if he did anything else to the corpse. That business of the two hammer blows to the eyes was never released to the media; only the killer would know about it. I could be wrong, but I think Gerber is just blowing smoke. He may have thought about chilling Ellerbee, maybe dreamed about it, but I don’t think he did it. He’s so fucked-up that he’d admit kidnapping Judge Crater if it occurred to him.”

  “I feel sorry for the guy,” Jason said.

  “Sure,” Delaney said, “but don’t feel too sorry. Remember, he could be our pigeon. But what interests me even more than the confession was what he wanted to do to the fat guy at the bar. Keisman, you think he meant it?”

  “Absolutely,” the Spoiler said immediately. “I’m convinced of that. If I hadn’t calmed him down and got him talking about other things, he’d have jumped the guy.”

  “Well, he’s done it before,” Delaney said. “The man is a walking disaster. Jason, I think you better work on this, too. Check out that confession both ways from the middle. Keisman, were you able to find out where Gerber was drinking the night of the murder?”

  “Negative, sir. I talked to three or four bartenders who know him—they all say he’s strictly bad news—but none of them can remember whether or not he came in that Friday night. After all, it was weeks ago.”

  Delaney nodded, looking down at his clasped hands. He was quiet a long moment, then he spoke in a low voice without raising his eyes.

  “Do me a favor, Jason. There’s got to be a counseling service for Vietnam veterans somewhere in town. A therapy clinic maybe, or just a place where he can go and talk with other vets. See if you can get some help for him, will you? I hate to see that guy go down the drain. Even if he didn’t zap Ellerbee, he’s heading for bad trouble.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jason Two said. “I’ll try.”

  After they left, Delaney went back to the study and added a report on Harold Gerber’s confession to his file. Another fact or fantasy to be considered. He thought it was fantasy, not because Gerber wasn’t capable of murder but because Delaney just couldn’t believe the Ellerbee case would break that easily and that simply.

  Maybe, he admitted ruefully, he didn’t want it to. It would be as disappointing as a game called off because of rain. If he was absolutely honest, he’d concede he was enjoying the investigation. Which proved there was life in the old dog yet.

  Another person who was enjoying the search for Simon Ellerbee’s killer was Detective Helen K. Venable. For the first time in her career she was on her own, not saddled with a male partner who insisted on giving her unwanted and unneeded advice or asked her raunchy questions about her sex life.

  Also, she felt a strong affinity for Joan Yesell. Venable was younger than the Yesell woman, but she too had a bitch of a mother, lacked a special man in her life, and sometimes felt so lonely she could cry—but not try to slash her wrists; things never got that bad.

  She had talked to Joan twice, and thought they hit it off well, even though that bulldog mother was present at both meetings and kept interrupting. Venable asked the same questions that Delaney and Boone had asked, and got the same answers. She also asked a few extras.

  “Joan,” she said, “did you ever meet Simon Ellerbee’s wife, Diane?”

  “I met her once,” Yesell said nervously. “While I was waiting for my appointment.”

  “I hear she’s stunning. Is she?”

  “Oh, yes! She’s beautiful.”

  “In a hard sort of way,” Mrs. Blanche Yesell said.

  “Oh?” the detective said, turning to the mother. “Then you’ve met her, too?”

  “Well … no,” Mrs. Yesell said, flustered. “But from what my Joan says …”

  “I’ve never seen Diane,” Venable said to the daughter. “Can you describe her?”

  “Tall,” Joan Yesell said, “slende
r and very elegant. A natural blonde. She was wearing her hair up when I met her. She looked like a queen—just lovely.”

  “Humph,” Mrs. Yesell said. “She’s not so much.”

  Following orders, Venable included this little byplay in her report to Boone, although she didn’t think it meant a thing. Neither did the Sergeant, who initialed the report and forwarded it to Delaney, who made no judgment but filed the report away.

  On the Friday night following Thanksgiving, restless in her Flatbush apartment and bored with her mother’s cluttering about the latest scandal in the National Enquirer, Helen decided to drive over to Chelsea and have another talk with Joan Yesell.

  She phoned first, but the line was busy and she didn’t bother calling again. She got into her little Honda and headed for New York—which was what most Brooklynites called Manhattan. She had nothing special in mind to ask Joan Yesell; it was just a fishing expedition. And also, she was lonely.

  Helen was happy to find Mrs. Yesell out. Joan seemed delighted to see the detective. She made them a pot of tea and brought out a plate of powdered doughnuts. They were comfortable with each other and chatted easily about what they had eaten for Thanksgiving dinner. Then Helen asked, “How’s the wrist coming along?”

  “Better, thank you,” Joan said. “I’m getting strength back in my fingers. I exercise by squeezing a rubber ball. The doctor said he’ll take the bandage off next week, but he wants me to wear an elastic strap for a while.”

  “The next time you feel like doing something like that, will you call me first?”

  “All right,” Joan said faintly.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Then the talk got around to tyrannical mothers, and they traded anecdotes, each trying to outdo the other with tales of outrageous maternal despotism.

  “I’ve got to get my own place,” Helen said, “or I’m going to go right up the wall. The only trouble is, I can’t afford it. You know what rents are like today.”

  “I’d love to get out, too,” Joan said forlornly. Then she suddenly brightened. “Listen, I make a good salary. Do you think we might take a place together?”

  “That’s an idea …” the detective said cautiously. She liked Joan and thought they would get along, but even if she were ruled out as a suspect it was possible her problems would be too severe for Helen to live with.