The 1st Deadly Sin (76 page)

By noon he had a rough timetable worked out; he was shocked at the number of men it required. The City of New York was spending a great deal of money to monitor the activities of Daniel G. Blank. That didn’t bother Delaney; the City spent more money for more frivolous projects. But the Captain was concerned about how long Thorsen, Johnson,
et al.
would give him a free hand and a limitless budget before screaming for results. Not too long, he thought grimly; perhaps another week.

He pulled on jacket, civilian overcoat and hat, and checked out with the uniformed patrolman keeping an entrance-exit log at a card table set up just inside the outer door. Delaney gave him destination and phone number where he could be reached. Then he had one of the unmarked cars parked outside drive him over to the hospital. Another breach of regulations, but at least it gave the two dicks in the car a few minutes’ relief from the boredom of their job: sitting and waiting.

Barbara seemed in a subdued mood, and answered his conversational offerings with a few words, a wan smile. He helped her with her noon meal and, that finished, just sat with her for another hour. He asked if she’d like him to read to her, but when she shook her head, he just sat stolidly, in silence, hoping his presence might be of some comfort, not daring to think of how long her illness would endure, or how it might end.

He returned home by cab, dutifully showed his Operation Lombard pass for entrance, even though the uniformed outside guard recognized him immediately and saluted. He was hungry for a sandwich and a cold beer, but the kitchen was crowded with at least a dozen noisy men taking a lunch-hour break for coffee, beer, or some of the cheese and cold cuts for which they all contributed, a dollar a day per man.

The old uniformed patrolman on kitchen duty saw the Captain walk through to his study. A few minutes later he knocked on the door to bring Delaney a beer and ham-and-Swiss on rye. The Captain smiled his thanks; it was just what he wanted.

About an hour later a patrolman knocked and came in to relay a request from Detective first grade Blankenship: could the Captain come into the living room for a minute? Delaney hauled himself to his feet, followed the officer out. Blankenship was standing behind the radio operators, bending over the day’s Time-Habit log of Daniel blank’s activities. He swung around when Delaney came up.

“Captain, you asked to be informed of any erratic change in Danny Boy’s Time-Habit Pattern. Take a look at this.” Delaney leaned forward to follow Blankenship’s finger pointing out entries in the log. “This morning Danny Boy comes outside the White House at ten minutes after nine. Spotted by Bulldog One. Nine-ten is normal; he’s been leaving for work every day around nine-fifteen, give or take a few minutes. But this morning he doesn’t leave. According to Bulldog One, he turns around and goes right back into the White House. He comes out again almost an hour later. That means he just didn’t forget something—right? Okay…he gets a cab. Here it is: at almost ten a.m. Bulldog Two tails him. But he doesn’t go right to the Factory. His cab goes around and around Central Park for almost forty-five minutes. What a meter tab he must have had! Then, finally, he gets to his office. It’s close to eleven o’clock when Stryker calls to clock him in, almost two hours late. Captain, I realize this all might be a lot of crap. After all, it’s the day after Christmas, and Danny Boy might just be unwinding. But I thought you better know.”

“Glad you did,” Delaney nodded thoughtfully. “Glad you did. It’s interesting.”

“All right, now come over here and listen to this. It’s a tape from Stryker, recorded about a half-hour ago. I wasn’t here then so I couldn’t talk to him. He asked the operator to put it on tape for me. Spin it, will you, Al?”

One of the operators at the telephone table started his deck recorder. The other men in the room quieted to listen to the tape.

“Ronnie, this is Stryker, at the Factory. How you doing? Ronnie, I just came back from lunch with the cunt I been pushing down here. A little bony, but a wild piece. At lunch I got the talk around to Danny Boy. He was almost two hours late getting to work. This cunt of mine—she’s the outside receptionist in Danny Boy’s department—she told me that just before I met her for lunch, she was in the ladies’ john talking to Mrs. Cleek. That’s C-l-e-e-k. She’s Danny Boy’s personal secretary. A widow. First name Martha or Margaret. White, female, middle thirties, five-three, one-ten or thereabouts, dark brown hair, fair complexion, no visible scars, wears glasses all the time. Well, anyway, in the can, this Mrs. Cleek tells my cunt that Danny Boy was acting real queer this morning. Wouldn’t dictate or sign any letters. Wouldn’t read anything. Wouldn’t even answer any important phone calls. Probably a sack of shit, Ronnie—but I figured I better report it. If you think it’s important, I can cozy up to this Cleek dame and see what else I can find out. No problem; she’s hungry I can tell. Nice ass. Let me know if you want me to follow up on this. Stryker at the Factory, off.”

There was silence in the radio room after the tape was stopped. Then someone laughed. “That Stryker,” someone said softly, “all he thinks about is pussy.”

“Maybe,” Captain Delaney said coldly, speaking to no one man, speaking to them all, “but he’s doing a good job.” He turned to Blankenship. “Call Stryker. Tell him to cozy up to the Cleek woman and keep us informed—of anything.”

“Will do, Captain.”

Delaney walked slowly back into his study, heavy head bowed, hands shoved into his hip pockets. The altered Time-Habit Pattern and Danny Boy’s strange behavior in his office: the best news he’d had all day. It might be working. It just might be working.

He searched for the sheet of yellow paper on which he had jotted his nine-point plan. It wasn’t in his locked top desk drawer. It wasn’t in the file. Where was it? His memory was really getting bad. He finally found the plan under his desk blotter, alongside the plus-minus list he used to evaluate the performance of men under his command. Before looking at the plan, he added the name of Stryker to the plus column of the performance list.

Peering at the plan closely through his reading glasses, he checked off the first six items: Garage attendant, Parrot bartender, Lipsky, the Mortons at Erotica, Visit to Factory, Lombard Christmas Eve call to Blank. The seventh item was: “Monica’s call to Blank.” He sat back in his swivel chair, stared at the ceiling, tried to think out the best way to handle
that.

He was still pondering his options—what
he
would say and what
she
would say—when the outside guard knocked on his study door and didn’t enter until he heard Delaney’s shouted, “Come in!” The officer said a reporter named Thomas Handry was on the sidewalk and claimed he had an appointment with the Captain.

“Sure,” Delaney nodded. “Let him in. Tell the man at the desk to make certain he’s logged in and out.”

He went into the kitchen for some ice cubes. When he came back Handry was standing in front of the desk.

“Thanks for coming,” Delaney smiled genially. “I had it marked down: ‘Day after Christmas, Handry interviews Blank.’”

Handry sat in the leather club chair, then rose immediately, took two folded sheets from his inside breast pocket, tossed them onto Delaney’s desk.

“Background stuff on this guy,” he said, slumping back into his soft chair. “His job, views on the importance of the computer in industry, biography, personal life. But I imagine you’ve got all this by now.”

The Captain took a quick look at the two typed pages. “Got most of it,” he acknowledged. “But you’ve got a few things here we’ll follow up on—a few leads.”

“So my interview was just wasted time?”

“Oh Handry,” Delaney sighed. “At the time I asked you to do this, I was on my own. I had no idea I’d be back on active duty with enough dicks to run all this down. Besides, all this background shit isn’t so important. I told you that at the restaurant. I wanted your personal impressions of the man. You’re sensitive, intelligent. Since I couldn’t interview him myself, I wanted you to meet him and tell me what your reactions were. That
is
important. Now give me the whole thing, how it went, what you said and what he said.”

Thomas Handry took a deep breath, blew it out. Then he began talking. Delaney never interrupted once, but leaned forward, cupping one ear, the better to hear Handry’s low-voiced recital.

The newspaperman’s report was fluid and concise. He had arrived precisely at 1:30 p.m., the time previously arranged for the interview by Javis-Bircham’s Director of Public Relations. But Blank had kept him waiting almost a half-hour. It was only after two requests to Blank’s secretary that Handry had been allowed into the inner office.

Daniel G. Blank had been polite, but cold and withdrawn. Also, somewhat suspicious. He had asked to inspect Handry’s press card—an odd act for a business executive giving an interview arranged by his own PR man. But Blank had spoken lucidly and at length about the role played by AMROK II in the activities of Javis-Bircham. About his personal background, he had been cautious, uncommunicative, and frequently asked Handry what his questions had to do with the interview in progress. As far as the reporter could determine, Blank was divorced, had no children, had no plans to marry again. He lived a bachelor’s life, found it enjoyable, had no ambitions other than to serve J-B as best he might.

“Very pretty,” Delaney nodded. “You said he was ‘withdrawn.’ Your word. What did you mean by that?”

“Were you in the military, Captain?”

“Yes. Five years U.S. Army.”

“I did four with the Marines. You know the expression ‘a thousand-yard stare’?”

“Oh yes. On the range. For an unfocused vision.”

“Right. That’s what Blank has. Or had a few hours ago during the interview. He was looking at me, in me, through me, and somewhere beyond. I don’t know what the hell he was focusing on. Most of these high-pressure business executives are all teeth, hearty handshake, sincere smile, focusing between your eyes, over the bridge of your nose, so it looks like they’re returning your stare frankly, without blinking. But this guy was gone somewhere, off somewhere. I don’t know where the hell he was.”

“Good, good,” Delaney muttered, taking quick notes. “Anything else? Physical peculiarities? Habits? Bite his nails?”

“No…But he wears a wig. Did you know that?”

“No,” the Captain said in apparent astonishment. “A wig? He’s only in his middle-thirties. Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Handry said, enjoying the surprise. “It wasn’t even on straight. And he didn’t give a goddamn if I knew. He kept poking a finger up under the edge of the rug and scratching his scalp. Anything?”

“Mmm. Maybe. How was he dressed?”

“‘Conservative elegance’ is the phrase. Black suit well-cut. White shirt, starched collar. Striped tie. Black shoes with a dull gloss, not shiny.”

“You’d make a hell of a detective.”

“You told me that before.”

“Smell any booze on his breath?”

“No. But a high-powered cologne or after-shave lotion.”

“That figures. Scratch his balls?”

“What?”

“Did he play with himself?”

“Jesus, no! Captain, you’re wild.”

“Yes. Did he look drawn, thin, emaciated? Like he hasn’t been eating well lately?”

“Not that I could see. Well…”

“What?” Delaney demanded quickly.

“Shadows under his eyes. Puffy bags. Like he hasn’t been sleeping so well lately. But all the rest of his face was tight. He’s really a good-looking guy. And his handshake was firm and dry. He looked to be in good physical shape. Just before I left, when we were both standing, he handed me a promotion booklet Javis-Bircham got out on AMROK II. It slipped out of my hand. It was my fault; I dropped it. But Blank stooped and caught it before it hit the floor. The guy’s quick.”

“Oh yes,” Delaney nodded grimly, “he’s quick. All right, this is all interesting and valuable. Now tell me what you think about him, what you
feel
about him.”

“A drink?”

“Of course. Help yourself.”

“Well…” Thomas Handry said, pouring Scotch over ice cubes, “he’s a puzzle. He’s not one thing and he’s not another. He’s a between-man, going from A to B. Or maybe from A to Z. I guess that doesn’t make much sense.”

“Go on.”

“He’s just not
with
it. He’s not
there.
The impression I got was of a guy floating. He’s out there somewhere. Who the hell knows where? That thousand-yard stare. And it was obvious he couldn’t care less about Javis-Bircham and AMROK II. He was just going through the motions; a published interview couldn’t interest him less. I don’t know what’s on his mind. He’s lost and floating, like I said. Captain, the guy’s a balloon! He’s got no anchor. He puzzles me and he interests me. I can’t solve him.” A long pause. “Can you?”

“Getting there,” Captain Delaney said slowly. “Just beginning to get there.”

There was a lengthy silence, while Handry sipped his drink and Delaney stared at a damp spot on the opposing wall.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Handry said finally. “No doubt about it.”

Delaney sighed. “That’s right. It’s him. No doubt about it.”

“Okay,” the reporter said, surprisingly chipper. He drained his glass, rose, walked toward the hallway door. Then, knob in hand, he turned to stare at the Captain. “I want to be in on the kill,” he stated flatly.

“All right.”

Handry nodded, turned away, then turned back again. “Oh,” he said nonchalantly, “one more thing…I got a sample of his handwriting.”

He marched back to Delaney’s desk, tossed a photo onto the blotter. Delaney picked it up slowly, stared. Daniel G. Blank: a copy of the photo taken from the “Fink File,” the same photo that was now copied in the hundreds and in the hands of every man assigned to Operation Lombard. Delaney turned it over. On the back, written with a felt-tipped pen, was: “With all best wishes. Daniel G. Blank.”

“How did you get this?”

“The ego-trip. I told him I kept a scrapbook of photos and autographs of famous people I interviewed. He went for it.”