Second Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “A nice piece of flank steak.”

  “Good. That’s the best flavor. Want me to pick up anything on our way back?”

  “No—well, we’re low on beer. Or will you have wine?”

  “Either. But I’ll pick up some beer—just in case.”

  “He doesn’t object if other people drink, does he?”

  “I asked him, and he said he didn’t.”

  “All right, dear. Have a good trip. And a very light lunch.”

  “I promise,” he said. “I know a good inn near Dobbs Ferry. They serve excellent London broil and new potatoes.”

  She laughed and poured them their second cups of breakfast coffee.

  Sergeant Abner Boone was waiting for him outside. All the car windows were rolled down; Boone was fanning himself with a folded newspaper.

  “Going to be a hot one, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Seventy-three already.”

  Delaney nodded, tossed his homburg onto the back seat. Both men took out their notebooks and went through the morning ritual of comparing notes.

  “I checked Dukker’s garage,” Boone said. “No record of him taking his car out before the evening. So then, just for the hell of it, I talked to the doorman of Belle Sarazen’s apartment house. She doesn’t own a car—or if she does, she doesn’t garage it there. I don’t think she does; I ran a vehicle check, and she’s got no license. The doorman said that sometimes she rents from a chauffeured-limousine service. He remembered the name, and I checked them out. No record of her hiring a car on that Friday. I suppose she could have used another service. Want me to run down the list, Chief?”

  “No,” Delaney said. “Hold off. It’s a long shot.”

  “Well, they still might have used the subway,” Boone said stubbornly. “I’ll run a time trial tomorrow.”

  “You still think they’re it?”

  “A possible,” Boone nodded. “Either one, or both together. Give them two hours, and they could have made it down to Mott Street and back.”

  “All right,” Delaney said. “Keep hacking away at it until you’re satisfied. I’m not saying you’re wrong. Thorsen called last night. The Sarazen woman beefed to her important friends.”

  “Was Thorsen sore?”

  “Not very. He’ll schmaltz it over for us. He’s good at that.”

  “One more thing,” Boone said, consulting his notes. “I talked to a few more guys who worked the case. One of them had gone up to Nyack to check out the mother and sister. They said they were both home that Friday from ten to three. They couldn’t prove it, and he couldn’t disprove it. They’ve got a housekeeper, but it was her day off. No one saw them there; no one saw them leave.”

  “They own a car?”

  “Yeah. A big, old Mercedes-Benz. Both mother and sister drive. But what this dick remembered, what wasn’t in his report, was when he was leaving, the mother grabbed him by the arm and said something like, ‘Find the killer of my son. It’s very important to me.’ This guy thought that was kind of funny. ‘Very important to me,” she said. It stuck in his mind.”

  “Yes,” Delaney nodded. “An odd way of putting it. Of course, she may have meant it to mean avenging the Maitland family name, or some such shit. Well, let’s talk to the lady. How do you figure on going?”

  “I thought we’d take the FDR, across the George Washington to Palisades Parkway, and then 9W into Nyack. Okay, sir?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “I’m going to take off my jacket and get comfortable,” the sergeant said. “You, Chief?”

  “I’m comfortable,” Delaney said.

  When Boone removed his lightweight plaid sports jacket and leaned over to put it on the back seat, Delaney saw he was carrying a .38 Colt Detective Special in a black short-shank holster high on his hip. The two cops talked guns while Boone was maneuvering through city streets over to the FDR.

  As they crossed the George Washington Bridge, traffic thinned, they could relax and enjoy the trip. It was warming up, but a cool river breeze was coming through the open windows and the air was mercifully free of pollution. They could see the new apartment houses on the Jersey side rising sharply into a clear, blue sky. There was some slow barge traffic on the river. A few jetliners droned overhead. Nice day …

  “Chief, was your father a cop?” Abner Boone asked.

  “No,” Delaney said, “he was a saloon-keeper. Had a place on Third near Sixty-eighth, then opened another place on Eighty-fourth, also on Third. I used to work behind the stick in the afternoons when I was going to night school.”

  “My father was a cop,” Boone said.

  “I know,” Delaney said. “I went to his funeral.”

  “You did?” Boone said. He seemed pleased. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I was a sergeant then and brought over a squad from the Two-three.”

  “I was sure impressed,” Boone said. “They even had cops from Boston and Philadelphia. The Mayor was there. He gave my mother a plaque.”

  “Yes,” Delaney said. “Your mother living?”

  “No, she’s gone. I’ve got some cousins down in Tennessee, but I haven’t seen them for years.”

  “You and your wife didn’t have any children?”

  “No,” Boone said, “we didn’t. I’m glad. Now.”

  They rode awhile in silence. Then Delaney said, “I want you to do something on this Maitland thing, but I don’t want you to get sore.”

  “I won’t get sore,” Boone said. “What is it, Chief?”

  “Well, first of all I want to question Maitland’s son—what’s his name? Theodore. They call him Ted. I want to question him myself. Alone.”

  “Well, sure, Chief,” Boone said. He kept his eyes on the road. “That’s okay.”

  But Delaney knew he was hurt.

  “The way I figure is this,” he explained. “From the files, and from what his mother said, I think the kid is a wise-guy. The kind of snotnose who calls cops ‘pigs’ or ‘fuzz.’ I figure if we both go up against him, he’ll feel we’re leaning on him. Pushing him around. But if I go up against him alone, all sweetness and light, playing the understanding older man, the father he never had, maybe he’ll crack a little.”

  Boone glanced at him briefly, with wonderment.

  “Makes sense,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have thought of it.”

  “In return,” Delaney said, “I want you to brace that Susan Hemley alone. How did she sound on the phone? Young? Old?”

  “Youngish,” Boone said. “But very sure of herself. Deep voice. Good laugh.”

  “Well, here’s what you do,” Delaney said. “I’ll meet the Maitland kid tomorrow. Alone. You do the time trials on the subway from Dukker’s place to the Mott Street studio. Either before or after, go up to the office of Simon and Brewster and see this Susan Hemley. Your scam is that you dropped by to set up an appointment for you and me to talk to her boss, J. Julian Simon. Any day next week, morning or afternoon, at his convenience.”

  “I get it,” Boone said, feeling better. “You want me to romance her—right?”

  “If you can,” Delaney nodded. “See what she’s like. If she gives a little, ask her to have lunch. I think it’s a one-on-one situation, and we’ll get more if you go in alone. If you can make lunch, don’t push it. You know—just idle talk. Did she know Maitland, and wasn’t it awful what happened to him, and so forth. You know the drill. You can listen, can’t you?”

  “I’m a good listener,” Boone said.

  “Fine. That’s all I want you to do. Don’t drag anything out of her. Just make friends.”

  “What is she asks about the case?”

  “Play it cozy. Tell her nothing, but make it sound like something. Tell her Maitland wasn’t wearing any underwear. That’ll make her think she’s getting the inside poop that wasn’t in the newspapers. Also, later we’ll try to find out if she told Mrs. Maitland about the underwear. That’ll be a tip-off on how intimate the two women are, just what that relationship is. But keep it h
ush-hush with the Hemley woman. Very confidential. You lean on her and say, ‘I want you to promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone, but—’ She’ll get all excited, and maybe she’ll start trading you secret for secret. Think you can handle it?”

  Boone took a deep breath, blew it out heavily.

  “Oh, I can handle it,” he said. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Chief: if I ever waste someone, I hope you don’t catch the squeal.”

  They stopped in Nyack to ask directions, and shortly after noon they cruised slowly by the Maitland home and grounds, taking a good gander.

  The grounds were an impressive size: a wide expanse of lawn leading up from the road, bordered by a thick stand of oaks, maples, a few firs. The driveway from the road was graveled, led under a side portico, and then to the wide doors of a smaller building that looked as if it had been built as a barn, then converted to a garage. An old black Mercedes-Benz was parked under the side portico.

  The house itself was a rambling structure, two stories high, with a widow’s walk facing the river. The building was sited atop a small hill with good drainage; trees at the rear had been cut away to provide a splendid river view.

  The main entrance had four wooden pillars going up the entire height of the house to support a peaked portico. There were dormers, small minarets, plenty of gingerbread around porticos, windows, doors, and a screened-in porch overhanging a bank that sloped steeply to the river. At one side, close to the trees, was a gazebo that looked unused.

  “I’d guess seventy-five years old,” Delaney said. “Maybe a hundred. It looks like it started with that main house in the center, and the wings were added later. But the barn is original.”

  “She’s supposed to have money,” Boone said, “but it sure doesn’t look like it. At least she’s not spending much on upkeep.”

  The lawn badly needed mowing, the trees should have been trimmed, and the undergrowth cut away. Several windows of the gazebo were broken. The graveled driveway had bald patches. The flower beds close to the house grew in wild, untended profusion, choked with weeds. The house itself, and the barn, were peeling, a weather-beaten grey, almost silver in spots.

  “Seedy,” Delaney said. “The house looks sound, but it would take a crew a month to get this place in shape. But nothing could spoil that view. Well, let’s go …”

  They drove slowly up the driveway and parked in front of the three-step entrance. Sergeant Boone put on his jacket before they walked up to the front door. The paint was cracked, the brass knocker tarnished. Chief Delaney rapped sharply, twice.

  The door was opened immediately. The tall woman who glowered at them was gaunt, almost emaciated. Rawboned and sunburned. A big-featured farm face. There were stained carpet slippers on her feet, the heelbacks bent under so the slippers were actually scuffs. The shiny black dress had soiled ruching at throat and cuffs. The woman was wearing a cameo brooch on her flat bosom and, unexpectedly, a man’s gold digital wristwatch.

  “Yes?” she said. Her voice was harsh, peremptory.

  “Mrs. Maitland?” Chief Delaney asked.

  “No,” the woman said. “You the po-leece?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Delaney said softly, trying to smile. “Mrs. Maitland is expecting us.”

  “This way,” the woman commanded. “They on the poach.”

  Delaney couldn’t place the accent. Possibly tidewater Virginia, he thought.

  She held the door open just wide enough for Delaney and Boone to slip through, one at a time. They waited while she locked and bolted the door. Then they followed her as she flap-flapped across the uncarpeted parquet floor, down a long, narrow hallway to the river side of the house. The officers, looking around, caught a quick glance of dark, heavy furniture, dried flowers under glass bells, dusty velvet drapes, antimacassars, ragged footstools, gloomy walls of dull mahogany paneling and stained wallpaper. A fusty smell, with vagrant scents of cats, a heavy perfume, furniture polish.

  The hallway debouched into a screened porch overlooking the river. Hinged windows had been opened inward and secured with cheap hooks and eyebolts. The porch, which had the appearance of having been added after the main house was built, was approximately twenty feet long and eight feet deep. It was furnished with a ratty collection of wicker furniture, once white, with faded chintz cushions. There was a frazzled rag rug on the planked floor. A small portable TV set was on one of the chairs, a fat, sleepy calico cat on another.

  The two women on the porch had their armchairs drawn up near a sagging wicker table. On it was a black japanned tray with a pitcher of what appeared to be lemonade, surrounded by four tall, gracefully tapered glasses decorated with raised designs of enamel flowers, each glass different. Delaney guessed the lemonade set to be authentic Victoriana.

  Neither woman rose to greet the visitors.

  “Mrs. Maitland?” Delaney asked pleasantly.

  “I,” the older woman said, “am Dora Maitland.”

  She held out her hand in a kiss-my-ring gesture. Delaney came forward to clasp the firm hand briefly.

  “Chief Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department,” he said. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

  “And this,” Mrs. Maitland said, a lepidopterologist pointing out a rare specimen, “is my daughter, Emily.”

  The younger woman held out her hand obediently. This time, Delaney found the hand plump, soft, moist.

  “Miss Maitland,” he said. “My pleasure. May I present my associate, Detective Sergeant Abner Boone.”

  Boone went through the handshaking ceremony, murmuring something unintelligible. Then the two officers stood awkwardly.

  “Please to pull up chairs, gentlemen,” Mrs. Maitland said sonorously. “I suggest those two chairs in the corner. I pray you, do not disturb the cat. I fear she is in heat and somewhat ill-tempered. I have had this pitcher of lemonade prepared. I imagine you are thirsty after your long drive.”

  “Very welcome, ma’am,” Delaney said, as the two cops carried the unexpectedly heavy wicker chairs to the table. “A close day.”

  “Martha,” Mrs. Maitland said imperiously, “will you serve, please.”

  “I got the sheets to do,” the gaunt woman whined. She had been standing in the doorway; now she turned abruptly and flap-flapped away.

  “So hard to get good help these days,” Mrs. Maitland said imperturbably. He hadn’t, Delaney reflected, heard that line in twenty years. “Emily,” she commanded her daughter, “pour.”

  The younger woman heaved immediately to her feet.

  “Yes, Mama,” she said.

  She was wearing a sleeveless caftan with a mandarin collar. But even this paisley-printed tent could not hide the obesity, the billows of breast and hip. Her bare arms belonged on a butcher’s block, and three chin rolls bulged above the high collar. Even her fingers were fat; puffy toes swelled through strap sandals.

  But she had the flawless skin of many fat women, and if her face at first glance seemed girlish and vacant, it was also pleasant and without malice. As she poured the lemonade, she spilled a few drops and said, “My land!” and colored with almost pretty confusion. Delaney guessed her age at about thirty-two, and wondered what her life might be like, with that balloon body, stuck out here ten miles from nowhere.

  When she handed him his glass of lemonade, he looked closely at her brown eyes and saw, he fancied, a shrewd intelligence, which startled him. And for all her excessive weight her movements were sure and graceful. Almost dainty. Her voice too was light, younger than her years, with a warm, flirty undertone. When she handed a glass to Boone, she smiled nicely and said, “There you are, sergeant!” and Delaney noted she contrived to have their fingers briefly touch.

  The lemonade had been freshly squeezed, lightly sugared, and well chilled. It was delicious, and Chief Delaney told Mrs. Maitland so. She inclined her head regally.

  He then admired the view, watching a cruise boat move slowly upriver from New York to Bear Mountain between wooded shores. “Magnificent,” Delaney comm
ented, and Mrs. Maitland said, “Thank you,” as if she had designed it.

  Then, amenities at an end, she said crisply, “Chief Delaney, what exactly is being done to find the murderer of my son?”

  “Ma’am,” Delaney said, leaning forward to deliver what he later described to Boone as “the bullshit speech,” and looking directly in the woman’s eyes, “I assure you the full and complete resources of the New York Police Department are presently engaged in the search for your son’s killer. Nothing is being left undone to find the person or persons responsible. Sergeant Boone and I have been relieved of all other duties to concentrate wholly on this case, and the enormous man-power and technical know-how of the Department are available to us. Believe me, speaking for Sergeant Boone and myself, the search for your son’s murderer has Number One priority. The case is open and very active indeed.”

  His eagerness seemed to impress Mrs. Maitland. It took her a few moments to realize Chief Delaney had really said nothing at all.

  “But what is being done?” she demanded. “Is anyone suspected?”

  “We have several promising leads,” Delaney said. “Very promising. I wish I could tell you more, Mrs. Maitland, but I cannot without slandering possibly innocent people. But I assure you, we are getting close.”

  “And you think you will find the killer?”

  “I believe we have an excellent chance.”

  “And when will an arrest be made?”

  “Soon,” he said softly. “It is a very difficult case, Mrs. Maitland. I cannot recall working on a more difficult or more important case. Can you, sergeant?”

  “Never,” Boone said promptly. “A very tough case. Very complex.”

  “Complex,” Delaney cried. “Exactly! Which is why we have come up from New York to see you and your daughter, Mrs. Maitland. In hopes that you may provide information that will help resolve those complexities.”

  “We have already been questioned,” she said edgily. “And we signed statements. We told all we knew.”

  “Of course you did,” he soothed. “But that was soon after the death of your son. When you were both, quite understandably, numb with grief and shock and horror. But now, with the passage of time, perhaps you can recollect some important information you didn’t recall at that time.”