They sat in Jason’s car, the heater on, trying to get warm.
“He’s full of crap,” Keisman said. “A complete whacko.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jason agreed. “Doesn’t even know how Ellerbee died.”
“Why do you figure he wants to get busted?”
“I don’t know for sure. Something to do with guilt, I suppose. What happened in Vietnam … It’s too deep for me.”
“What’s with the Bible?” the Spoiler asked, jerking a thumb at the book. “Why did you glom on to that?”
“Look at it,” Jason Two said, ruffling the pages. “It’s full of dog-ears. Someone’s been doing some heavy reading. And I don’t believe he found it in a garbage can. Nobody throws out a Bible.”
“Jase, that’s the Baptist in you talking.”
“Maybe. But he says he used to be a Catholic, and this is a Catholic edition. Funny a backslid Catholic should find a Catholic Bible in a garbage can.”
“ ‘God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.’ ”
“Hey,” Jason said admiringly, “there’s more to you than Gucci after all, isn’t there?”
“I was brought up right,” Keisman said. “Didn’t go bad until—oh, maybe the age of six or so.”
“Well …” Jason T. Jason said, staring down at the book in his hands, “it may be nothing, but what say we give it the old college try?”
The Spoiler groaned. “You mean check every Catholic church in the city?”
“I don’t think we’ll have to do that. Just the ones in Greenwich Village. I’m hoping that poor son of a bitch was praying in some church on that Friday night.”
“Man, you really dig the long shots, don’t you?”
Because of previous arrests, there was a photo of Harold Gerber in his NYPD file, and Jason cajoled a police photographer into making two copies, one for himself, one for Keisman.
At the same time, Detective Calazo was having more serious photo problems. Apparently there was no shot of Ronald Bellsey in the files. Calazo could have requested that a police photographer take a telephoto of Bellsey without the subject’s knowledge—but that meant making out a requisition and then waiting.
The old, white-haired gumshoe had been around a long time, and knew a lot of ways to skin a cat in what he sometimes called the “Dick Biz.” He looked up the name and address of a trade magazine, The Wholesale Butcher, and visited their editorial offices on West 14th Street.
Sure enough, they had a photograph of Ronald J. Bellsey in their files. Calazo flashed his potsy and borrowed the shot, promising to return it. He didn’t bother asking them not to tell Bellsey about his visit. Let them tell the fink; it would do him good to sweat a little.
Then Benny, with the aid of Sergeant Boone, when he could spare the time, tailed the subject for almost a week. He discovered that Bellsey had three bars he favored: the Tail of the Whale on Eleventh Avenue, a tavern on Seventh Avenue near Madison Square Garden, and another on 52nd Street, just east of Broadway.
He also discovered that Bellsey got his ashes hauled two afternoons a week by a Chinese hooker working out of a flea-bag hotel on West 23rd Street. She had a sheet a yard long, all arrests for loitering, solicitation, and prostitution. She was getting a little frazzled around the edges now, and Calazo figured she’d be lucky to get twenty bucks a pop.
He didn’t move on her—just made sure he put her name (Betty Lee), address, room, and phone number in his report to Boone. Then he turned his attention to those three hangouts Bellsey frequented.
All three were patronized by boxers, trainers, managers, agents, bookies, and hangers-on in the fight racket. And all three had walls covered with photos and paintings of dead and living pugs, along with such memorabilia as bloodied gloves, trunks, shoes, and robes.
Calazo then checked the records at Midtown North and Midtown South to see how many times the cops had been called to the three joints, and for what reasons. This would have been an endless task, but Benny had friends in every precinct in Manhattan, so, with a little help, the job took only two days.
After winnowing out incidents of public drunkenness, free-for-all donnybrooks, robberies, attempted rape, and one case of indecent exposure, Calazo was left with four unsolved cases of assault that pretty much followed the pattern of the attack on Detective Timothy Hogan.
In all four episodes, a badly beaten man had been found on the sidewalk, in an alley, or in the gutter near one of the three bars. None of the victims could positively identify his assailant, but all four had been drinking in one of Bellsey’s favorite hangouts.
Showing the borrowed photo to owners, waiters, bartenders, and regular customers, Calazo learned a lot about Bellsey—none of it good. The detective was convinced the subject had been responsible for the four unsolved assaults, plus the attack on Tim Hogan. But he doubted if there would ever be enough evidence to arrest, let alone indict and convict.
His main problem, he knew, was to determine if Bellsey was really at home on the night Ellerbee was killed. Mrs. Lorna Bellsey had told Hogan that she hadn’t actually seen her husband from eight-thirty to eleven o’clock. But that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t there.
In addition to solving that puzzle, Calazo was determined to do something about Hogan’s beating. Big Tim was estupido, but still he was a cop, and that meant something to Benjamin Calazo.
Also, he hated guys like Ronald J. Bellsey who thought they could muscle their way through life and never pay any dues. So, in his direct way, Calazo began to plot how he might solve his problems and, at the same time, cut Bellsey off at the knees.
The fact that he would be retired, an ex-cop, in another three weeks, was also a factor. He would end his career gloriously by teaching a crud a lesson, avenging a fellow officer and, with luck, discovering who hammered in Dr. Ellerbee’s skull.
That would be something to remember when he was playing shuffleboard in Florida.
If Edward Delaney had known what Calazo was planning, he’d have understood how the detective felt and sympathized. But that wouldn’t have prevented him from yanking Calazo off the case. Personal hatreds had a way of fogging a man’s judgment, and the downfall of Ronald Bellsey was small potatoes compared to finding Ellerbee’s killer.
At the moment, Delaney had concerns of his own. Chief Suarez called and, in almost despairing tones, asked if there had been any progress. Delaney told him there had been a few minor developments, no breakthroughs, and suggested the two of them get together and review the entire investigation. They agreed to meet at Delaney’s home at nine o’clock on Wednesday night.
“I wish Mrs. Suarez could come with you,” Delaney said. “I know my wife would like to meet her.”
“That is most kind of you, sir,” Suarez said. “I shall certainly ask her, and if we are able to arrange for the children, I am sure she will be delighted to visit your charming home.”
Delaney repeated this conversation to Monica. “The guy talks like a grandee,” he said. “He must drive those micks at headquarters right up the wall.”
“Well, we got an invitation, too,” Monica said. “Diane Ellerbee called and asked if we’d like to come up to her Brewster place with the Boones this Saturday. I told her I’d check with you first, then call her back. I spoke to Rebecca and she said she and Abner would love to go. Shall I tell Diane it’s okay for Saturday?”
“Oh-ho,” he said. “Now it’s ‘Diane,’ is it? What happened to ‘Doctor Ellerbee’?”
“I have a lot in common with her,” Monica said loftily, “and it’s silly not to be on a first-name basis.”
“Oh? What do you have in common with her?”
“She’s a very intelligent woman.”
“You win,” he said, laughing. “Sure, call and tell her we’ll be there on Saturday. Is she going to feed us?”
“Of course. She said she’s thinking about a buffet dinner for early evening.”
“A buffet,” he said grumpily. “That’s as bad as a cafeteria.”
Promptly at nine o’clock on Wednesday evening, Michael and Rosa Suarez arrived at the brownstone, both wearing what Delaney later described as Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Introductions were made and the two couples settled down in the big living room, close to the fireplace, where a modest blaze warmed and mesmerized.
They talked of the current cold snap, of the problems of raising children, of the high cost of ground beef. Mrs. Suarez spoke little, at first, but Delaney had prepared hot rum toddies (with lemon and nutmeg), and after two small cups of that, Rosa’s shyness thawed and she began to sparkle.
Monica brought out a plate of her special Christmas treats: pitted dates stuffed with almond paste, covered with a flaky pastry crust and then rolled in shredded coconut before baking. Rosa tried one, rolled her eyes ecstatically.
“Please,” she begged, “the recipe!”
Monica laughed and held out her hand. “Come into the kitchen with me, Rosa. We’ll trade secrets and let these two grouches talk business.”
Delaney took Suarez into the study and provided cigars.
“First of all,” the Chief said, “I must tell you that I have been forced to cut the number of men assigned to the Ellerbee homicide. We were getting no results, nada, and the murder was a month ago. More than a month. Since then there have been many, many things that demand attention. What I wish to say is that you and the people assigned to you are now our only hope. You understand why it was necessary to pull men off this case?”
“Sure,” Delaney said genially. “What are you averaging—four or five homicides a day? I know you have a full plate and can’t give any one case the coverage it needs. Believe me, Chief, it’s always been that way. The problem comes with the territory.”
“On the phone you spoke of some developments. But nothing important?”
“No,” Delaney said, “not yet.”
He then told Suarez how Isaac Kane and Sylvia Mae Otherton had been eliminated as suspects.
“That leaves us with four possibly violent patients, one of whom has confessed. I don’t think that confession is worth a tinker’s dam—but still, it’s got to be checked out. The alibis of the other three are being investigated. At the moment, I’d say that Joan Yesell is the most interesting. It seems likely her mother lied when she told us Joan was home at the time of the killing. I’ve got two people working on that.”
“So you are making progress.”
“I don’t know if you can call it progress,” Delaney said cautiously. “But we are eliminating the possibles and getting down to the probables. Yes, I guess that’s progress.”
Suarez was silent, puffing on a cigar. Then he said, “But what if—”
Delaney held up a palm to stop him. “What if! Chief, the what-ifs can kill you if you let them. I think we’ve cleared Kane and Otherton. I believe it on the basis of good detective work and a little bit of luck. But what if Kane offed Ellerbee, and then cabbed back to the Beeles’ apartment on West Eighty-third Street? They might remember him being there on the murder night, but couldn’t swear to the time he arrived. And what if Otherton called the lobby clerk from outside on the night of the murder? What if she clubbed Ellerbee and then used his office phone to call the clerk just to set up an alibi? All I’m saying is that you can drown yourself in what-ifs. A detective has got to be imaginative, but if you let yourself get too imaginative, you’re lost.”
Michael Ramon Suarez gave him a wan smile. “That is very true—and a lesson I am still learning. It is a danger to assume that all criminals are possessed of super intelligence. Most of them are quite stupid.”
“Exactly,” Delaney agreed. “But some of them are also quite shrewd. After all, it’s their ass that’s on the line. What I believe is that all detectives have to walk a very thin line between the cold, hard facts and the what-ifs. Sometimes you have to go on a wing and a prayer.”
“But in spite of all this, Edward, you are still confident the Ellerbee case can be cleared?”
“If I didn’t believe that, I’d have told you and Thorsen and cleared out. I have a sense the pace is quickening. We’ve already eliminated two possible suspects. I think we’re going to eliminate more.”
Suarez sighed. “And what if you eliminate all six suspects? Where do you go from there?”
Delaney smiled grimly. “There you go with a what-if again. If all six are cleared, I can’t tell you what I’ll do next. Someone killed Ellerbee; we know that. If all six patients are eliminated, then we’ll look around for other directions to take.”
The other man looked at him curiously. “You do not give up easily, do you?”
“No, I do not. From all accounts, Doctor Ellerbee was a decent man living a good, worthwhile life. I don’t like the idea of someone chilling him and walking away scot-free.”
“Time,” the Chief said, groaning. “How much time can we give this thing?”
“As long as it takes,” Delaney said stonily. “I worked a murder-rape for almost two years and finally got the perp. I know your career depends on this being cleared up as soon as possible. But I’ve got to tell you now that if it isn’t, and the detectives you’ve given me are withdrawn, I’ll keep working it myself.”
“Forever?”
“No, not forever. I may be an obstinate son of a bitch, but I’m not a romantic. At least I don’t think I am. The time may come when I’ll have to admit defeat. I’ve done that before; it won’t kill me. Shall we see what the ladies are up to?”
The ladies were back in the living room, sitting close together on the couch and obviously enjoying each other’s company.
“We must do this again,” Monica said. “Our children will be home for Christmas, but perhaps after the holidays …”
“Then you must visit our home,” Chief Suarez said. “For dinner. Rosa makes a paella that is a hint of what heaven must be like.”
“I have a feeling,” Delaney said, “that this friendship is going to prove fattening. Tell me, how did you two meet?”
“Rosa’s parents owned a bodega in East Harlem,” Suarez said. “It was ripped off, and I was a detective third at the time and sent to investigate. The first thing I said to her was, ‘I shall marry you.’ Is that not so, Rosa?”
She nodded happily. “And you?” she asked Monica.
“My first husband was murdered. Edward had charge of the case, and that’s how we met.”
Rosa was shocked. “And did”—she faltered—“was the killer caught?”
“Oh, yes,” Monica said. “Edward never gives up. He is a very stubborn man.”
“That is what I believe also,” Suarez said. “It is very encouraging.”
“Chief,” Delaney said, “if the Ellerbee killing isn’t cleared, and you don’t get permanent appointment, I suppose you’ll be returned to precinct duty. Can you take that?”
Suarez shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly. “It would be a disappointment. I would not be honest if I said I did not care. I could endure it, but still it would be a defeat. I think I would be more sorry for Thorsen than for myself. He has worked very hard to bring minorities into appointive ranks. My failure would be his failure as well.”
“Don’t worry too much about Ivar,” Delaney advised. “He’ll land on his feet. He’s learned how to survive in the political jungle. Something I never did. But you’re a young man with your career ahead of you. Do you have any contacts with the Hispanic political structure in the city?”
“I know some of the people, of course,” Suarez said cautiously. “But I am not close to them, no.”
“Get close to them,” Delaney urged. “They have a lot of clout now, and are going to have more as voting patterns change. Let them know you’re around. Invite them to your home for dinner. All politicians like the personal touch. That’s their business. If Rosa’s paella is as good as you say, you may have a secret weapon there.”
Her hands flew to her face to hide her blush, and she giggled.
“I’m serious about this,” Del
aney continued. “You’re getting up in ranks where you’ll have to pay as much attention to politics as you do to police work. Think of it as another part of your job. I wasn’t able to hack it, but don’t make my mistakes. This is a big, brawling, confused city, and politics is the glue that holds it together. I admit that sometimes the glue smells like something the cat dragged in—but can you think of a better, more human system? I can’t. I’m willing to see us go blundering along, making horrendous mistakes. It can be discouraging, but it’s a hell of a lot better than a storm trooper shouting, ‘You vill obey orders!’ So get into politics, Chief. Or at least touch bases with the heavies. It could do you a lot of good.”
“Yes,” Suarez said thoughtfully, “I think you are correct. I have been so busy with the nuts and bolts of my job that I have neglected the personal relations that might have made my job easier. Thank you for your advice, Edward.”
“Don’t just thank me—do it!”
Later that night, preparing for bed, Delaney said, “Nice, nice people.”
“Aren’t they,” Monica agreed. “That Rosa is a doll. Were you really serious about him cultivating the politicos?”
“Absolutely. If he wants to protect his ass. Thorsen can do just so much. But Suarez would be wise to build up some political muscle with the power brokers.”
“Well, if he’s going to do that, I better take Rosa in hand. She dresses like a frump. She’s really a very attractive woman and could do a lot more with herself than she does.”
“You mean,” he said solemnly, “you want to convert her into a sex object?”
“And you can go to hell,” his wife said, but Delaney was still pursuing Suarez’s career.
“I don’t know the man too well,” Delaney said. “A couple of meetings, a couple of phone calls … But I have the feeling his strong suit is administration. I really don’t think he’s got the basic drive to be a good detective. He’s a little too cool, too detached. There’s no obsession there.”
“Is that what a good detective needs—an obsession?”
Fourth Deadly Sin Page 25
