The 1st Deadly Sin (42 page)

“Oh God,” Delaney groaned. “That tears it.”

“You haven’t heard the,worst,” Thorsen went on, staring at him without expression. “About an hour ago Pauley filed for retirement. After what Broughton said, Pauley knows his career is finished, and he wants out.”

Delaney sat down heavily in an armchair, looked down at his drink, swirling the ice cubes.

“Son of a bitch,” he said bitterly. “Pauley was a good man. You have no idea how good. He was right behind me. Only because I had the breaks, and he didn’t. But he would have been on to this ice ax thing in another week or so. I know he would; I could tell it by the reports. God damn it! The Department can’t afford to lose men like Pauley. Jesus! A good brain and thirty years’ experience down the drain. It just makes me sick!”

None of them said anything, giving him time to calm down. Alinski rose from his chair to go over to the food tray again, take a few radishes and olives. Then he came over to stand before Delaney’s chair, popping food.

“You know, Captain,” he said gently, “this development really doesn’t affect your moral problem, does it? I mean, you can still take what you have to Broughton.”

“I suppose so,” Delaney said morosely. “Canning Pauley, for God’s sake. Broughton’s out of his mind. He just wanted a goat to protect his own reputation.”

“That’s what we think,” Inspector Johnson said.

Delaney looked up at Deputy Mayor Alinski, still standing over him.

“What’s it all about?” he demanded. “Will you please tell me what the hell this is all about?”

“Do you really want to know, Captain?”

“Yeah, I want to know,” Delaney grunted. “But I don’t want you to tell me. I’ll find out for myself.”

“I think you will,” Alinski nodded. “I think you are a very smart man.”

“Smart? Shit! I can’t even find one kill-crazy psychopath in my own precinct.”

“It’s important to you, isn’t it, Captain, to find the killer? It’s the most important thing.”

“Of course it’s the most important thing. This nut is going to keep killing, over and over and over. There will be shorter intervals between murders. Maybe he’ll hit in the daytime. Who the hell knows? But I can guarantee one thing: he won’t stop now. It’s a fever in his blood. He can’t stop. Wait’ll the newspapers get hold of this. And they will. Then the shit will hit the fan.”

“Going to take what you have to Broughton?” Thorsen asked, almost idly.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do. I have to think about it.”

“That’s wise,” Alinski said unexpectedly. “Think about it. There’s nothing like thought—long, deep thought.”

“I just want all of you to know one thing,” Delaney said angrily, not understanding why he was angry. “The decision is mine. Only mine. What I decide to do, I’ll do.”

They would have offered him something, but they knew better.

Johnson came over to put a heavy hand on Delaney’s shoulder. The big black was grinning. “We know that, Edward. We knew you were a hard-nose from the start. We’re not going to lean on you.”

Delaney drained his drink, rose, put the empty glass on the cocktail table. He repacked his paper shopping bag with hammers and the can of oil.

“Thank you,” he said to Thorsen. “Thank Karen for me for the food. I can find my own way out.”

“Will you call and tell me what you’ve decided, Edward?”

“Sure. If I decide to go to Broughton, I’ll call you first.”

“Thank you.”

“Gentlemen,” Delaney nodded around, and marched out. They watched him go, all of them standing.

He had to walk five blocks and lost two dimes before he found a public phone that worked. He finally got through to Thomas Handry.

“Yes?”

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here. Am I interrupting you?”

“Yes.”

“Working?”

“Trying to.”

“How’s it coming?”

“It’s never as good as you want it to be.”

“That’s true,” Delaney said, without irony and without malice. “True for poets and true for cops. I was hoping you could give me some help.”

“That photo of the ice ax that killed Trotsky? I haven’t been able to find it.”

“No, this is something else.”

“You’re something else too, Captain—you know that? All for you and none for me. When are you going to open up?”

“In a day or so.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“All right. What do you want?”

“What do you know about Broughton?”

“Who?”

“Broughton, Timothy A., Deputy Commissioner.”

“That prick? Did you see him on TV tonight?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“He fired Chief Pauley. For inefficiency and, he hinted, dereliction of duty. A sweet man.”

“What does he want?”

“Broughton? He wants to be commissioner, then mayor, then governor, then President of these here You-nited States. He’s got ambition and drive you wouldn’t believe.”

“I gather you don’t approve of him.”

“You gather right. I’ve had one personal interview with him. You know how most men carry pictures of their wives and children in their wallets? Broughton carries pictures of himself.”

“Nice. Does he have any clout? Political clout?”

“Very heavy indeed. Queens and Staten Island for starters. The talk is that he’s aiming for the primary next year. On a ‘law and order’ platform. You know, ‘We must clamp down on crime in the streets, no matter what it costs.”’

“You think he’ll make it?”

“He might. If he can bring off his Operation Lombard thing, it’s bound to help. And if Lombard’s killer turns out to be a black heroin addict on welfare who’s living with a white fifteen-year-old hippie with long blonde hair, there’ll be no stopping Broughton.”

“You think the mayor’s worried?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I guess. Thank you, Handry. You’ve made a lot of things a lot clearer.”

“Not for me. What the hell is going on?”

“Will you give me a day—or two?”

“No more. Gilbert died, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He did.”

“There’s a connection, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Two days,” Handry said. “No more. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll have to start guessing. In print.”

“Good enough.”

He walked home, the shopping bag bumping against his knee. Now he could understand something of what was going on—the tension of Thorsen, Johnson’s grimness, Alinski’s presence. He really didn’t want to get involved in all that political shit. He was a cop, a professional. Right now, all he wanted to do was catch a killer, but he seemed bound and strangled by this maze of other men’s ambitions, feuds, obligations.

What had happened, he realized, was that his search for the killer of Lombard and Gilbert had become a very personal thing to him, a private thing, and he resented the intrusion of other men, other circumstances, other motives. He needed help, of course—he couldn’t do everything himself—but essentially it was a duel, a two-man combat, and outside advice, pressures, influence were to be shunned. You knew what you could do, and you respected your opponent’s ability and didn’t take him lightly. Whether it was a fencing exhibition or a duel to the death, you put your cock on the line.

But all that was egotism he admitted, groaning aloud. Stupid male
machismo
, believing that nothing mattered unless you risked your balls. It should not, it
could
not affect his decision which, as Barbara and Deputy Mayor Alinski had recognized, was essentially a moral choice.

Thinking this way, brooding, his brain in a whirl, he turned into his own block, head down,
schlepping
along with his heavy shopping bag, when a harsh voice called, “Delaney!”

He stopped slowly. Like most detectives in New York—in the world!—he had helped send men up. To execution, or to long or short prison terms, or to mental institutions. Most of them vowed revenge—in the courtroom, in threats phoned by their friends, in letters. Very few of them, thankfully, ever carried out their threats. But there were a few…

Now, hearing his name called from a dark sedan parked on a poorly lighted street, realizing he was unarmed, he turned slowly toward the car. He let the shopping bag drop to the sidewalk. He raised his arms slightly, palms turned forward.

But then he saw the uniformed driver in the front seat. And in the back, leaning toward the cranked-down window, the bulk and angry face of Deputy Commissioner Broughton. The cigar, clenched in his teeth, was burning furiously.

“Delaney!” Broughton said again, more of a command than a greeting. The Captain stepped closer to the car. Broughton made no effort to open the door, so Delaney was forced to bow forward from the waist to speak to him. He was certain this was deliberate on Broughton’s part, to keep him in a supplicant’s position.

“Sir?” he asked.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“We sent a man to Florida. It turns out that Lombard’s driver’s license is missing. The widow says you spoke to her about it. You were seen entering her house. You knew the license was missing. I could rack you up for withholding evidence.”

“But I reported it, sir.”

“You reported it? To Pauley?”

“No, I didn’t think it was that important. I reported it to Dorfman, Acting Commander of the Two-five-one Precinct. I’m sure he sent a report to the Traffic Department. Check the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles, sir. I’m certain you’ll find a missing license report was filed with them.” There was silence for a moment. A cloud of rank cigar smoke came billowing out the window, into Delaney’s face. Still he stooped.

“Why did you go see Gilbert’s wife?” Broughton demanded.

“For the same reason I went to see Mrs. Lombard,” Delaney said promptly. “To present my condolences. As commander and ex-commander of the precinct in which the crimes occurred. Good public relations for the Department.”

Again there was a moment’s silence.

“You got an answer for everything, you wise bastard,” Broughton said angrily. He was in semi-darkness. Delaney, bending down, could barely make out his features. “You been seeing Thorsen? And Inspector Johnson?”

“Of course I’ve been seeing Deputy Inspector Thorsen, sir. He’s been a friend of mine for many years.”

“He’s your ‘rabbi’—right?”

“Yes. And he introduced me to Johnson. Just because I’m on leave of absence doesn’t mean I have to stop seeing old friends in the Department.”

“Delaney, I don’t trust you. I got a nose for snots like you, and I got a feeling you’re up to something. Just listen to this: you’re still on the list, and I can stomp on you any time I want to. You know that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t fuck me, Delaney. I can do more to you than you can do to me. You
coppish
?”

“Yes. I understand.”

So far he had held his temper under control and now, in a split-second, he made his decision. His anger wasn’t important, and neither was Broughton’s obnoxious personality. He brought the shopping bag closer to the car window.

“Sir,” he said, “I have something here I’d like to show you. I think it may possibly help—”

“Go fuck yourself,” Broughton interrupted roughly, and Delaney heard the belch. “I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. The only way you can help me is to crawl in a hole and pull it in over your head. Is that clear?”

“Sir, I’ve been—”

“Jesus Christ, how can I get through to you? Fuck off, Delaney. That’s all I want from you. Just fuck off, you shit-head.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said, almost delirious with pleasure. “I heard. I understand.”

He stood and watched the black sedan pull away. See? You worry, brood, wrestle with “moral problems” and such crap and then suddenly a foul-mouthed moron solves the whole thing for you. He went into his own home happily, called Deputy Inspector Thorsen and, after reporting his meeting with Broughton, told Thorsen he wanted to continue the investigation on his own.

“Hang on a minute, Edward,” Thorsen said. Delaney guessed Inspector Johnson and Deputy Mayor Alinski were still there, and Ivar was repeating the conversation to them. Thorsen was back again in about two minutes.

“Fine,” he said. “Go ahead. Good luck.”

7

H
E SEEMED TO
be spending a lot of time doodling, staring off into space, jotting down almost incomprehensible notes, outlining programs he tore up and discarded as soon as they were completed. But he was, he knew, gradually evolving a sensible campaign in the two weeks following the meeting in Thorsen’s home.

He sat down with Christopher Langley in the Widow Zimmerman’s apartment and, while she fussed about, urging them to more tea and crumbcake, they went over Langley’s firm schedule for his investigation. The little man had already discovered two more stores in Manhattan that sold ice axes, neither of which had mailing lists or kept a record of customers’ purchases.

“That’s all right,” Delaney said grimly. “We can’t be lucky all the time. We’ll do what we can with what we have.” Langley would continue to look for stores in Manhattan where the ice ax was sold, then broadening his search to the other boroughs. Then he would check tool and outdoor equipment jobbers and wholesalers. Then he would try to assemble a list of American manufacturers of ice axes. Then he would assemble a list of names and addresses of foreign manufacturers of mountaineering gear who exported their products to the U.S., starting with West Germany, then Austria, then Switzerland.

“It’s a tremendous job,” Delaney told him.

Langley smiled, seemingly not at all daunted by the dimensions of his task.

“More crumbcake?” the Widow Zimmerman asked brightly. “It’s homemade.”

Langley had told the truth; she was a lousy cook.

Delaney had another meeting with Calvin Case, who announced proudly that he was now refraining from taking his first drink of the day until his bedside radio began the noon news broadcast.

“I have it prepared,” Case said, “but I don’t touch it until I hear that chime. Then…”

Delaney congratulated him, and when Case repeated his offer of help, they began to figure out how to handle the Outside Life sales checks.