Second Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Got one,” he breathed.

  He slid the paddle-tipped pick into the keyhole alongside the hook. Now he was working with both hands, the paddle searching for clearance as the hook turned a tumbler.

  It took almost half an hour, and they stopped to rest and listen three times. But finally the paddle pick slid firmly in; they both heard the satisfying click. Boone slowly turned his wrists until both elbows were pointing upward as Delaney pressed a knee softly but firmly against the door. The final click was louder as the tang pulled back. They stopped, sweating, listened again. Then Delaney nudged the door open.

  The light was switched off. Both sat on the floor for a few minutes. Delaney kept his hand carefully on the sill of the opened door, to prevent it from swinging shut. They felt a waft of cool air pouring from the interior.

  “Let’s go,” Boone said.

  They got to their feet, picked up their burlap bags. The sergeant pushed the door open slowly.

  “Wait,” Delaney said.

  He wedged a wrapped screwdriver and pliers into place across the lower inside hinge so the door was immobilized. They moved cautiously: a slow-motion film.

  The first thing they did was to check the inside of the door. There was a knob, and when Boone satisfied himself that it worked the long tang, he withdrew his picks, and slid them back into his kit. Delaney removed the hinge obstruction, and closed the door softly behind them. They were in.

  “A felony,” the Chief said.

  “The door fits tightly,” Boone said. “Okay for the lantern?”

  “Sure,” Delaney said. “Here, I’ve got it.”

  He unwrapped the black cloth, stuffed it back into the burlap bag. He straightened up, held the lantern waist-high, snapped it on. A powerful beam probed straight ahead, so bright that their eyes squinted. Then widened. They saw it all.

  The interior of the old barn had been insulated, and rough wooden racks built almost to the roof. A sturdy ladder leaned against a wall. A heavy air conditioner was emplaced in a corner. There was a wooden kitchen table, a single wooden chair. And nothing more. Except the paintings.

  They were everywhere. On the racks. On the floor. Leaning against the walls. Not in stacks, canvas against canvas, but singly, apart, to dry and gleam. In the glare of the lantern, burning faces stared at them, eyes blazed, mouths mocked.

  Delaney and Boone stood frozen, awed by the liquid fire of color that poured over them. They had a sense of shame, of having invaded a church, violated a holy place. There were a few still lifes, landscapes, portraits. But most of the paintings were nudes, bursting Victor Maitland nudes, strangling with their ripeness, gorgeous tints of cream and crimson. Shadows of violet. Hidden parts, secret nooks. Arms reaching, eager legs grasping.

  “Jesus Christ,” Boone whispered.

  They stood and stared, stared, stared. The Chief moved the lantern beam slowly about. In the shifting illumination, now bright, now gloom, they saw swollen limbs quiver, move languorously. They choked in a sea of flesh, drowning. Bodies came writhing off canvas to embrace, entwine, suffocate with breath of steam and hair of flame.

  Delaney flicked off the lantern, and they heard themselves breathing heavily.

  “Too much,” the Chief said in the darkness. “All together like this. Too strong. Too much to take.”

  “What do you figure?” Abner Boone said hoarsely. “About two hundred of them?”

  “Say two hundred,” Delaney said. “Say a minimum of a hundred grand a painting.”

  “Say twenty million,” Boone said. “In a wooden barn. I can’t believe it. Let’s lift ten or so, Chief, and take off for Rio.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,” Delaney said. “Except I know I could never bring myself to fence them. Let’s take another look. Use the penlight this time.”

  The weak light was a relief; they were no longer dazzled, befuddled. They moved to the nearest painting, a dark, rope-bodied nude, torso twisted, hip sprung, legs and arms like serpents, and a wicked smile that challenged. Boone moved the circle of light to the lower righthand corner. They saw that neat bookkeeper’s signature, Victor Maitland, followed by the date: 1958.

  “Son of a bitch,” Delaney said. “Try another.”

  They went from painting to painting. All were dated 1957, 1958, 1959, a few 1960. None more recent.

  “Beautiful,” Boone said. “Not only a fake record in Geltman’s safe, but a fake date right there on the painting. The IRS will have a sweet job proving they were done a year ago.”

  “They thought of everything,” Delaney marveled. “It had to be J. Julian Simon. Had to be. It smells of the legal mind at work. Let’s get some shots. Just to prove this harem exists.”

  Boone held the lantern, turned on for added illumination while Delaney shot a pack of color Polaroid with flash. The colors of the prints weren’t as rich as the oils of the paintings, but the overall shots were impressive: a crowded mint of art.

  They gathered up all their equipment, stowed it into the burlap bags. They inspected the floor carefully to make certain they were leaving no track of their presence.

  They went out slowly, cautiously, guided by the beam of a penlight, now weak and flickering. Boone wiped the inside knob before he stepped through to the shed. He closed the door by inserting a hooked pick into the keyhole, then pulling the door to him until the tang snicked into place. They quickly hung the greasy tarp back in its original position. They waited a few moments in darkness, listening. Then they moved silently outside.

  They both glanced toward the Maitland house. Even as they did, a light came on in an upstairs window. They didn’t rush, but they didn’t dawdle either. Around the corner, down the side, into the trees. Twenty minutes later they were headed back to New York, both of them smoking furiously.

  “What do we do now?” Boone asked. “Brace Geltman?”

  “What for?” Delaney asked. “It’s just a tax rap. He won’t scare. J. Julian Simon maybe. He’s the key to Geltman’s alibi. But why should he talk? Shit, shit, and shit. Maybe Belle Sarazen.”

  “Why her?”

  “Possible motive. Oh God, I don’t know, sergeant. Just fishing.”

  “Maybe the wife found out about the tax scam and got sore. Because those paintings wouldn’t be included in the estate, in her inheritance.”

  “Another possibility,” Delaney sighed. “We’ve got plenty of those. Want me to drive awhile?”

  “No. Thank you, sir. I’m fine. Steadying down now. How the B-and-E guys get the balls to do that, I’ll never know.”

  “I suppose it gets easier with experience.”

  “I don’t want to find out,” Boone said. “Stop for coffee-and, if we can find a place that’s open?”

  “Let’s go straight in. You stop by; Monica left a fresh pot and some cinnamon buns for us in the kitchen.”

  “Sounds good,” the sergeant said, and began driving faster.

  It was past three A.M.; the Chief expected Monica had been asleep for hours. But when they pulled up in front of the Delaney brownstone, the living-room lights were on; he saw the figure of his wife standing at the curtains peering out.

  “Now what the hell?” he growled.

  They went up the stairs with some trepidation, hands hovering near gun butts. But Monica unlocked the door for them, safe, eager to tell her story.

  Jason T. Jason had called several times. He had also tried calling Abner Boone’s apartment. He told Mrs. Delaney he would call every fifteen minutes, on the quarter-hour, until the Chief returned home, and Jason could talk to him.

  “Did he say what it was?”

  “No, he just said it was important, and he had to report to you or Abner as soon as possible. He’s very polite.”

  The two cops looked at each other.

  “In trouble?” Delaney suggested.

  “Or he’s found Mama Perez,” Boone said. “One or the other.”

  “Well …” Delaney looked at his watch. “About ten minutes befor
e he calls again.”

  “The coffee’s warm,” Monica said. “I’ll just turn up the light. The two of you wash up. You look like you’ve been digging.”

  They sat around the kitchen table, sipping their coffee, munching their cinnamon buns. Monica refused to go to bed; she wanted to hear what had happened.

  Delaney was telling her about that incredible cache of paintings when the phone rang. He picked up the kitchen extension. He had already set out paper and pencil, ready to take notes.

  “Edward X. Delaney here,” he said. “Yes, Jason … So I understand … We’ve both been out … Yes … Good. Excellent. Where? … Right … Between what streets? … You’re sure she’s in for the night? … All right, hang on a moment …”

  He covered the receiver with his palm, turned to the others, smiling coldly.

  “Got her,” he said. “Orchard Street, just south of Grand. Top floor of a tenement. Apparently she’s a hooker, but Jason says she’s in for the night. If not, he’ll tail her.”

  “I better get down there,” Abner Boone worried. “He won’t know what to do.”

  “Yes,” Delaney nodded, “you better go. Send Jason home. If he wants to go. But he sounds excited. I’ll join you in the morning, and we’ll brace her then. Call here every hour on the hour.”

  He got back on the phone and asked Jason Two his exact location. He jotted down a few notes.

  “Stay right there,” he ordered. “Sergeant Boone is on his way. If she leaves the house, you follow and try to keep in touch with me here. Have you eaten tonight? … All right, we’ll take care of it. Good work, Jason.”

  He hung up, looked at his notes with grim satisfaction.

  “You’ll find him on the corner of Orchard and Grand,” he told Boone. “He’ll be watching for you. For God’s sake, don’t lose her. If you need more men, call me here.”

  “We won’t lose her, sir,” Boone promised.

  “Has he eaten?” Monica asked. “Jason?”

  “No. Not since yesterday afternoon.”

  “I’ll make some sandwiches,” she said.

  “Good,” the Chief said gratefully. “Big, thick sandwiches. He’s a big man. And we have that quart thermos. Sergeant, take that with coffee. You’ll never find any place open at this hour.”

  They equipped Boone with coffee, sandwiches, extra cigarettes, all the dimes they had in the house, for phone calls, and sent him on his way.

  “Mrs. Delaney,” he muttered, before he left, blushing, head lowered, “could you call Rebecca for me and explain? Why I can’t—uh—see her?”

  “I’ll call, Abner,” she promised.

  “Call her where?” Delaney asked after Boone had departed.

  “His apartment,” Monica said shortly. “They’re living together now.”

  “Oh?” the Chief said, and they took their coffee mugs into the study. He showed her the Polaroid color shots he had taken in the Maitland barn.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I saw it, and I can’t believe it,” he told her. “Overwhelming. All that color. All those nudes. What a thing. It shook me.”

  “What will you do now, Edward?”

  “Get photographs together of everyone connected with the case. I think I have most of them in the file. J. Julian Simon I don’t have. And maybe Ted Maitland. I’m not sure; I’ll have to check. Then tomorrow we’ll show them to Mama Perez and ask her who she saw at Maitland’s studio that Friday morning.”

  “You think she’ll tell you?”

  “Oh, she’ll tell us,” he said. “One way or another.”

  18

  LIKE MOST COPS, HE was superstitious, and so he considered it a good omen that he was able to find photographs of all the principals in the folders of the Maitland file. The photos of J. Julian Simon and Ted Maitland had been taken with a telephoto lens by a police photographer at Victor Maitland’s funeral. They were grainy enlargements, but clear enough for identification.

  He put all the photos in a manila envelope, and added a set of photostats of the three sketches found in Maitland’s studio. At the last minute he also added the clippings of the New York Times article describing the Maitland gala at the Geltman Galleries. The article included photos of Belle Sarazen and Saul Geltman.

  The Chief had everything prepared by the time Abner Boone called at nine A.M. on Saturday morning. The sergeant and Jason T. Jason had the Perez tenement under surveillance. Mama was still up in her sixth-floor apartment. They had investigated a paved rear courtyard, but the only exit from that was by a narrow walkway alongside the building. It emerged on Orchard Street, so Boone didn’t think there was any way for Mama to leave the building without their seeing her.

  “Unless she goes across the roofs,” the Chief said.

  Delaney told the sergeant to stay right where he was, that he’d join them within an hour. He figured he’d take the subway down, then thought the hell with it, and stopped the first empty cab he saw. He was keeping a careful account of his expenses and, even with cabs and gas for Boone’s car, they seemed modest enough to the Chief. In any event, the expenses were Thorsen’s problem, not his.

  He sat in the back of Boone’s car, the two active-duty cops in the front seat, while they told him what they had turned up—which wasn’t much. Mama’s real first name was Rosa, though everyone on the street called her Mama. Apparently she was a hooker—Jason Two confirmed that—but Boone guessed she was drawing some kind of public assistance; even in that neighborhood the successful prosties were younger and flashier.

  They had also collected a few facts about Dolores. The young girl wasn’t related to Mama Perez. Her full name was Dolores Ruiz, and she was the daughter of Maria Ruiz, who lived on the sixth floor, right next to Rosa Perez. Maria Ruiz apparently didn’t have any man. She worked long hours, cleaning office buildings, and Mama Perez befriended Dolores during the day: took her shopping, to the movies, etc. Dolores, the neighbors said, wasn’t right in the head.

  “Does the Perez woman peddle the girl’s ass?” Delaney asked them.

  Jason said he didn’t think so. During his chat with Mama in the Ludlow Street alley, he had politely rejected her proposition but hinted broadly that he might be interested in a younger girl. She hadn’t taken the bait.

  The three sat there, aware of the noisy, bustling street but staring at the entrance of Mama Perez’ tenement. It was an ugly grey building, the front stones chipped and covered with graffiti, most of it in Spanish. Overflowing garbage cans almost blocked the sidewalk. There was a pack of scrofulous cats darting up and down the stoop, into and out of the narrow alley, and even prowling across the rusty fire escape bolted to the front of the tenement. As they watched, sidewalk vendors began setting up their folding tables and arranging their stocks of plastic sunglasses and sleazy T-shirts.

  “Well,” the Chief said finally, “let’s go have a talk with Mama.”

  “How do you want us to handle it, sir?” Boone asked. “Come on strong?”

  “No,” Delaney said. “I don’t think we’ll have to do that. Nothing physical anyway. Jason, did she make you as a cop?”

  “No way, Chief.”

  “Well … come up with us just the same. It’ll blow your cover, but she’ll realize we’ve got her on soliciting, at least, and that’ll give us an edge.”

  The three got out, and Boone locked the car carefully.

  “I hope I’ll still have wheels when we get back,” he said mournfully.

  The entrance and hallways of the walk-up tenement were about what they expected: scummed tile floors, walls with the rough, puckered look of fifty years’ painting, the outside coats chipped away in places to show multicolored pits—green, pink, blue, brown, green, blue—like archeological digs revealing the layers of ages. Electric bulbs were broken, landing windows cracked, the wooden banisters carved with dozens of initials or just whittled carelessly. And the smell. It hung in the air like a mist, as if someone had sprayed this place and the
fog would never disappear or even diminish.

  There had been no names in the slots of the broken bells, but the bank of mailboxes—some of them with jimmied lids—showed R. Perez in apartment 6-D. It also showed M. Ruiz in 6-C. On the second floor, Delaney checked the tin letters nailed to apartment doors and found that D was the farthest to the rear. They continued their slow climb upward, stepping aside to let children clatter down, laughing and screaming, and once to allow the slow descent of a painfully pregnant woman dragging along two smeary-faced tots.

  They paused in the sixth-floor hallway to catch their breath, then moved back to stand alongside the door marked D. The tin letter was missing; the D had been scrawled on the green paint with a black Magic Marker. Boone put his ear close, listened a moment, then looked at the others and nodded. Delaney motioned them clear, so no one was standing directly in front of the door. Then he reached out and rapped sharply.

  No answer. He knocked again, louder. They heard movement, the scuff of dragged steps.

  “Who?” a woman’s voice called.

  “Board of Education,” Delaney said loudly. “About Dolores Ruiz.”

  They heard the sound of locks being opened, a chain unhooked. The door opened. Jason T. Jason immediately planted one of his enormous feet on the sill.

  The woman looked down at that protruding foot, then up to the face of Jason Two. Then she looked slowly at Delaney and Boone.

  “Sonnenbitch,” she said bitterly. “You got badges?”

  Boone and Jason flashed their ID. She didn’t seem to notice that Delaney showed her nothing.

  “Can we come in, Mama?” the Chief asked pleasantly.

  “You got a warrant?” she demanded.

  “A warrant?” Delaney said. He looked at the other two men, then back to Rosa Perez. “Why should we have a warrant? This isn’t a bust, Mama. We don’t want to toss your place. Just talk, that’s all. A few questions.”

  “About what?” she said suspiciously.

  Delaney dug the photostats of the Maitland sketches from his envelope. He held them up for the woman to see.