Second Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  Then he had to wait for the sergeant’s hourly report.

  “We still got Mama Perez in sight,” Boone said cheerfully. “She tumbled to the stakeout and blew her cork. But one of the new men speaks Spanish, and we got her calmed down. Told her the cover was for her protection, and for Dolores’.”

  “Good,” Delaney said promptly. “That could be a plus. How’s Jason working out?”

  “Fine,” Boone said. “Very eager. Chief, he’s faster than he said he was. He and I were coming back to his car from breakfast, and there was a punk working on the front window with a bent coat hanger. He saw us and took off, Jason Two pounding along right behind him. Must have chased the kid two blocks, but he caught him. That Jason can run.”

  “What did he do to the punk?”

  “Frisked him, then kicked his ass and turned him loose.”

  “Sound judgment,” Delaney said. “Got good men on Mama Perez today?”

  “Oh sure. Old-timers. Not too fast, but they know the job.”

  “Then here’s what I want you and Jason to do …”

  He instructed Abner Boone to call Lieutenant Wolfe and arrange to meet him in court. To get a list of art dealers and to check them out on the finances of Geltman Galleries.

  “Competitors are usually happy to gossip about a rival,” he told Boone. “Take Jason with you, and the two of you divide up the list. Cover as many dealers as you can. Brief Jason on the case so he knows what’s going on. I’ll be out most of the day, but you’ll be able to get me here later this afternoon. If I’m not in, Monica probably will be, so you and Jason come over and wait for me.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “You think we’ll nail him, Chief?”

  “Sure we will,” Delaney said, with more confidence than he felt.

  Then, going down his list, he called the office of J. Julian Simon. Susan Hemley answered, and he forced himself to chat casually with her for a few minutes. Finally …

  “Think I could see the big man this morning, Susan?” he asked.

  “Oh no, Chief,” she said. “He didn’t come in. He’s due in court this morning.”

  “My God,” he groaned. “Is everyone going to court this morning?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “No, no. Nothing. Listen, do you think he’ll be in at all today?”

  She said Simon expected to be back by three or four in the afternoon at the latest. Delaney told her he’d take a chance and show up around that time in hopes the counselor could give him a few minutes. He was very respectful.

  Then yielding to circumstances, he resolved to revise his schedule and barge in on Belle Sarazen without notice. But first he made some peculiar preparations.

  He went to the odds-and-ends drawer in the kitchen cabinet and rummaged until he found what he sought: a small waxed-paper envelope containing a few faucet washers. It wasn’t an authentic glassine envelope, but he thought it would serve the purpose. He dumped the washers into the cluttered drawer, then filled the envelope with a tea-spoonful of confectioner’s sugar. He folded the tab over twice and secured it with a little square of Scotch tape.

  He slid the packet into the side pocket of his seersucker jacket. He wondered if he should carry a gun, but decided against it. He set his sailor squarely atop his head and sallied forth, lumbering over to First Avenue to get a cab, and resisting the desire for a morning cigar.

  Either the doorman recognized him from previous visits, or something in the Chief’s manner convinced him that stopping this big, vaguely menacing man would be unwise. In any event, Delaney went directly to the elevator bank without being questioned. As usual, the Filipino houseman, Ramon, answered his ring.

  “Yeth?”

  “Miss Sarazen in?”

  “Ith she expecting the gentlemens?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?” Delaney said.

  Ramon hesitated, then finally allowed Delaney to enter.

  “Pleath to wait,” he said, and disappeared.

  But Delaney didn’t stay in the hallway. He went immediately into the monochromatic living room, the one decorated in the blue-grey-violet shade he could not identify. He looked about swiftly, took the little envelope of sugar from his pocket, and slipped it under the plump seat cushion of a softly upholstered armchair. Then he took up his position at a caned straight chair facing it. He stood stolidly, hat in hand, and waited.

  She came sailing in, barefoot, a white robe billowing out behind her. It was closed from neck to hem with a wide industrial zipper. Suspended from the tab was an English bobby’s whistle.

  It was evident; she had come directly from bath or shower. The fine, silvered hair was wet and plastered flat. The skin of her face shone; her body exuded a damp, sweetly soapy scent. But he had little time to admire her; she was not pleased to see him, and her attack began immediately.

  “Now look,” she said angrily. “I’m getting sick and tired of this crap. I want—”

  “What crap?” he asked.

  “This hassling,” she said hotly. “I want—”

  “What hassling?” he said. “I’m not hassling you.”

  “Well, what the hell are you doing here, then?”

  “Look, Miss Sarazen,” he said, as calmly as he could, “I just have a question or two I’d like to ask. Is that hassling?”

  “I’ve been talking to some smart lawyer friends of mine,” she told him. “Very important people. And they tell me I don’t have to answer another goddamn question. If you want to arrest me, then go ahead, and I’ll stand on my rights. But I’m not going to answer any more questions.”

  “Sure you are,” he said gently. “You really are, Miss Sarazen. Because you’re an intelligent woman and know what’s best for you. Couldn’t we sit down—just for a moment? It won’t take long, I promise you.”

  She stared at him. He saw her indecision, and knew she was teetering; it could go either way.

  “You help me,” he said, “and I’ll help you.”

  “How could you help me?” she scoffed.

  “Sit down,” he urged. “Let me tell you about it.”

  She made a sound of disgust, but fell back into the plump armchair where he had hoped she would sit. She hooked one knee over the arm; a bare foot jerked up and down irritably.

  He sat on the edge of the caned chair, leaning forward, his straw hat clasped between his knees. His manner was solemn, intent—a solicitor advising a client of the grave consequences of her foolish acts.

  “These smart friends of yours …” he said. “I suppose they’re important men. In business and politics and society. But when they tell you not to cooperate with cops, they’re giving you bad advice, Belle. You don’t mind if I call you Belle, do you?”

  She made an impatient gesture.

  “You see, Belle, they know the law all right. And they assume that cops have to follow it. That’s true—up to a point. Most cops do follow the law and police regulations. Your smart friends know this and take advantage of it.”

  “You bet your ass they do,” she nodded. “That’s why I listen to what they tell me.”

  He sat back, relaxed, crossed his knees. He held his skimmer on his lap, his hands clasped across it.

  “Well, Belle,” he said, almost dreamily, “there are laws without end, and police regulations without end. Books and books of them. But now I’m going to let you in on a secret. Most cops—those who have been around for awhile—go by another book. Although you can’t really call it a book because it’s never been written down. What it is is a large collection of tips, tricks, hints, procedures, techniques, and so forth. Stuff that one cop tells another cop. Listen, we’re all on the front line, and the only way we can survive is to exchange information, trade secrets, learn from each other. And some of the stuff was bought with blood. Not necessarily how to break the law, but how to get around it. You follow?”

  She didn’t answer, but he thought he saw interest; he was getting to her.

  “Some of the stuff cops talk abo
ut when they get together are little things,” he continued. “Like how a pusher delivered horse in a metal capsule stuck up his ass. Or how to check inside the boot of a guy you’re frisking; some of these dudes carry a blade in there. Or how to puncture the taillight of a car you’re following, so the rear end shows one red light and one white and is easier to spot. Or how an undercover cop should wear mirrored sunglasses, so he can stop to polish them and use the glasses like a rearview mirror to make sure no one’s on his tail. Little tricks like that. Cop talk. Nothing illegal about that, is there?”

  Almost against her will, she was listening to him, fascinated. The bare foot stopped jerking up and down. She straightened in her chair, leaning back comfortably, but watching him and listening.

  “And we talk cases, too, of course,” he went on. “Unsolved cases, and cases that were broken, and how they were broken. Shop talk. That’s all it is, Belle: shop talk. Whenever cops get together. In a bar, in a restaurant, at law school, in their homes. It always gets around to shop talk. And police conventions? You wouldn’t believe! For instance, I remember I went to a police convention once in Atlantic City. After the formal program during the day was finished, we all got together at night and exchanged cases. Ways to beat the bad guys. Well, there was this one fellow there from a town in Texas. Not a small town, I guess, but not so big either. This guy—let’s call him Mike—told us about a cute one he was involved in down there. There was this bentnose in their town, a crud with a long drug sheet pushing a lot of shit to school kids. A couple of the kids OD’d, and Mike knew the source was this bad guy. Knew it, but couldn’t prove it. So he decided to take him. He got himself a glassine envelope of horse. You know cops can usually lay their hands on some smack, stuff taken in a raid and never turned in.”

  “And then I suppose he planted it and arrested the pusher for possession,” she said, really intrigued now.

  “No,” Delaney said. “The cop, this Mike, had a better idea. He waited for the pusher to come home. Then he unloaded his revolver and set it loosely in his holster, the strap unsnapped. He had a backup squad of two other cops. They were in the hall and on the stairs, outside. So Mike broke into the pusher’s apartment. ‘Where’s your warrant?’ the crud screams. ‘Right here,’ Mike says, waving a folded sheet of paper at him. You’d be surprised how even these so-called smart guys can be conned. So Mike shoves him around a little and then tosses the place. Naturally he finds the envelope with the shit in it. While all this is going on, Mike keeps walking around in front of the bad guy, the unloaded gun practically falling out of his holster. You should have heard him tell the story; it was hilarious. He said he kept throwing his hip at the pusher, but the guy wouldn’t take the bait. Then, when Mike found the horse and laughed and told the pusher he was going to take him in, and the crud would get twenty years at least, then he went for Mike’s gun, grabbed it from the holster, said Mike wasn’t taking him anywhere, and ducked out the door. And of course the backup guys saw him come running out waving a gun, and they blew him away. They reloaded Mike’s gun before they called the brass. So it all ended happily.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” she asked.

  “Well,” the Chief said thoughtfully, “I was trying to convince you that your smart, important friends don’t have all the answers. You see, Belle, if you ever get into trouble, serious trouble, these pals of yours will drop away like the leaves of October. Most of them are married men—right? With responsible jobs and good reputations. You don’t really think they’re going to put their cocks on the line for you if you get into serious trouble, do you? You’ll call, and they’ll be in conference, or out of town, or in Mexico on vacation. Believe me, Belle, don’t count on them if you get in serious trouble.”

  “Serious trouble,” she repeated. “You keep saying, ‘Serious trouble.’ What serious trouble could I get in?”

  “Oh …” he said, gesturing loosely, “like if I said goodbye to you, walked out of here, called the narcotic guys and told them a gabber had informed me that you had a stash of horse up here. The narcs would come galloping and tear this place apart.”

  “What do I care?” she laughed. “I wouldn’t touch heroin. They’d find nothing.”

  “Sure they would,” he said softly. “Under the cushion you’re sitting on.”

  She stared at him, not understanding at first. Then her face whitened; she grew old. She jerked to her feet, flung the seat cushion aside, grabbed up the little envelope. She looked down at it in her hand, raised her head, looked at him.

  “You bastard,” she breathed. “You bastard!”

  “Belle,” he laughed. “Oh Belle!”

  He stood up, placed his hat carefully on his chair. He walked to her, plucked the envelope from her shaking fingers. He ripped off the top, dumped the white powder into his other palm, licked it clean.

  “Powdered sugar,” he told her. “Just a demonstration. That you and your important friends don’t know all the tricks, Belle. Not all of them. Cops have their little ways, too.”

  “Powdered sugar?” she said dully.

  “That’s right,” he smiled. “But of course you don’t know if I’ve planted other envelopes of the real stuff in other places, do you?”

  He had locked her eyes with his, and she could not look away.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked hoarsely.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Now sit down and relax, and let’s not have any more crap about your smart lawyer friends.”

  He replaced her seat cushion. He took her by the elbows and helped her sit down. Then he went back to his caned chair.

  “Feeling all right?” he inquired solicitously.

  She nodded jerkily.

  “Good,” he said briskly. “This won’t take long now. What kind of business dealings were you having with Victor Maitland?”

  She started hesitantly, but he spurred her with sharp, stern questions, and her story didn’t take long. About six months before he was killed, Victor Maitland had come to her and asked if she could sell his paintings in the U.S. and abroad. She said sure, and wanted 35 percent. He said screw that; he was paying Saul Geltman that commission, and if that was her price, what did he need her for? So they finally settled for 20 percent on sales under $100,000, and 15 percent on those over.

  “Maitland was to okay the price before the sale?” Delaney asked.

  “Of course,” Belle Sarazen said.

  “So the only one you were shafting was Saul Geltman?”

  “Vic said he didn’t have a contract with him,” she said defensively.

  “Apparently he didn’t,” Delaney nodded. “Go on …”

  So she had put the word out among her important friends in this country and Europe, and she sold everything Maitland brought her.

  “Don’t worry,” she told the Chief. “I declared my take on my income-tax return.”

  “I’m sure you did,” he said gravely. “How many paintings did you sell?”

  “About ten before he was killed,” she said. “We were cleaning up.”

  “Wasn’t Maitland worried that Saul Geltman would find out?”

  “Worried?” she laughed. “Vic? No way, darling. That guy didn’t worry about anything—except getting enough loot to live the way he wanted to. He did say the buyers should agree to keep their purchases secret and not lend the paintings for shows for at least five years.”

  “And they agreed?”

  “Of course. Listen, Vic was selling at bargain-basement rates. Much less than they’d have to pay if they went through Geltman.”

  “Oh-ho,” Delaney said. “I’m beginning to see why your business was so good. You were his discount operation.”

  “Right,” she agreed.

  “You said the only thing Maitland worried about was getting the money to live the way he wanted to. Belle, what did he do with his money? Where did it all go?”

  “Taxes took like half.”

&n
bsp; “I know, but still …”

  “Liquor,” she said. “Parties.”

  He looked at her, not believing.

  “How much liquor can you buy?” he said. “How many parties? You said you sold ten paintings. Say the average price was fifty G’s. That’s half a cool mil. Say your commish was twenty percent. That leaves him four hundred thousand. Say he paid his legitimate tax on that—which I doubt—and it ran as high as fifty percent. That still leaves him two hundred thousand, just through you, not counting his take from Geltman Galleries. Are you trying to tell me he spent two hundred thousand dollars on booze and parties?”

  She was silent for a few moments. Then the bare foot began jerking nervously again. She started smoothing her damp hair with her palm.

  “You won’t believe this,” she said.

  “At this stage,” he said, “I’ll believe anything.”

  “Well, he didn’t want anyone to know,” she said. “About the money, I mean. He was giving most of it away.”

  “Giving it away? To whom?”

  “Young artists. In the Village, SoHo, downtown, Brooklyn. Here, there, everywhere. He wandered all over the city. Going to little galleries. To guys’ lofts. Studios. When he found someone he thought had talent, he’d stake them. Put them on salary. That’s where all his money was going.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Delaney said. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You better believe it,” she nodded. “It’s the truth. I know some of the artists he bankrolled. Want to meet them?”

  “No,” he said slowly, “I’ll take your word for it. Did Geltman know about this?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it.”

  “His wife?”

  “No way. He didn’t tell her anything.”

  “Let’s get back to the paintings you were selling for him. Did Geltman find out?”

  “Oh sure,” she said. “He’d have to—eventually. The art scene’s a tight little world. Everyone knows everyone else. People talk. There are no secrets for long.”

  She said that Saul Geltman had gone to London to attend an art auction at Sotheby’s. At a party, he had heard a man bragging about a Maitland he had just bought at a bargain price. Geltman got himself invited to the guy’s apartment to see it. He took one look and knew it hadn’t come through his gallery. He came back to New York, and he and Maitland had a knock-down-drag-out fight. Geltman said not only was Maitland depriving him of his rightful commission, but he was depressing the price of Maitland paintings all over the world. The artist had told Belle Sarazen of his bitter argument with Saul Geltman.