The 1st Deadly Sin (67 page)

The Deputy Mayor looked at his watch again and grimaced. “We’re going to be late,” he said. He strode to the door, yanked it open. Thorsen and Johnson were waiting outside, in hats and overcoats. Alinski waved them into the dining room, then closed the door behind them. He turned to Delaney. “Captain,” he said. “Twenty-four hours. Will you give us that? Just twenty-four hours. After that, if Broughton still heads Operation Lombard, you better go to him and tell him what you have. He’ll crucify you, but he’ll have the killer—and the headlines—whether or not the man is ever convicted.”

“You won’t give the guards?” Delaney asked.

“No. I can’t stop you from going to Broughton right now, if that’s what you want to do. But I will not cooperate in his triumph by furnishing the men you want.”

“All right,” the Captain said mildly. He pushed by Alinski, Thorsen, Johnson, and pulled open the door. “You can have your twenty-four hours.”

He made his way through the hallway, crowded now with men pulling on hats and coats. He looked at no one, spoke to no one, although one man called his name.

Back in the dining room, Alinski looked at the two officers in astonishment. “He agreed so easily,” he said, puzzled. “Maybe he was exaggerating. Perhaps there is no danger tonight. He certainly didn’t fight very hard for the guards he wanted.”

Thorsen looked at him, then looked out into the hallway where the others were waiting.

“You don’t know Edward,” he said, almost sadly.

“That’s right,” Inspector Johnson agreed softly. “He’s going to freeze his ass off tonight.”

He wasn’t furious, wasn’t even angry. They had their priorities, and he had his. They had the “Group” and “Anti-Group.” He had Daniel G. Blank. It was interesting, listening to the Deputy Mayor, and he supposed their concern was important. But he had been in the Department a long time, had witnessed many similar battles between the “Ins” and the “Outs,” and it was difficult for him to become personally involved in this political clash. Somehow the Department always survived. At the moment, his only interest was Dan, his close friend Dan.

He walked home rapidly, called Barbara immediately. But it was Dr. Louis Bernardi who answered the phone.

“What’s wrong?” Delaney demanded. “Is Barbara all right?”

“Fine, fine, Captain,” the doctor soothed. “We’re just conducting a little examination.”

“So you think the new drug is helping?”

“Coming along,” Bernardi said blithely. “A little fretful, perhaps, but that’s understandable. It doesn’t worry me.”

Oh you bastard, Delaney thought again. Nothing worries
you.
Why the hell should it?

“I think we’ll give her a little something to help her sleep tonight,” Bernardi went on in his greasy voice. “Just a little something. I think perhaps you might skip your visit tonight, Captain. A nice, long sleep will do our Barbara more good.”

“Our Barbara.” Delaney could have throttled him, and cheerfully.

“All right,” he said shortly. “I’ll see her tomorrow.”

He looked at his watch: almost seven-thirty. He didn’t have much time; it was dark outside; the street lights were on, had been since six. He went up to the bedroom, stripped down to his skin. He knew, from painful experience, what to wear on an all-night vigil in the winter.

Thermal underwear, a two-piece set. A pair of light cotton socks with heavy wool socks over them. An old winter uniform, pants shiny, jacket frayed at the cuffs and along the seams. But there was still no civilian suit as warm as that good, heavy blanket wool. And the choker collar would protect his chest and throat. Then his comfortable “cop shoes” with a pair of rubbers over them, even though the streets were dry and no rain or snow predicted.

He unlocked his equipment drawer in the bedroom taboret. He owned three guns: his .38 service revolver, a .32 “belly gun” with a two-inch barrel, and a .45 automatic pistol which he had stolen from the U.S. Army in 1946. He selected the small .32, slid it from its flannel bag and, flicking the cylinder to the side, loaded it slowly and carefully from a box of ammunition. He didn’t bother with an extra gun belt. The gun was carried on his pants belt in a black leather holster. He adjusted it under his uniform jacket so the gun hung down over his right groin, aimed toward his testicles: a happy thought. He checked the safety again.

His identification into his inside breast pocket. A leather-covered sap slid into a special narrow pocket alongside his right leg. Handcuffs into his righthand pants pocket and, at the last minute, he added a steel-linked “come-along”—a short length of chain, just long enough to encircle a wrist, with heavy grips at both ends.

Downstairs, he prepared a thick sandwich of bologna and sliced onion, wrapped it in waxed paper, put it into his civilian overcoat pocket. He filled a pint flask with brandy; that went into the inside overcoat breast pocket. He found his fleece-lined earmuffs and fur-lined leather gloves; they went into outside overcoat pockets.

Just before he left the house, he dialed Daniel Blank. He knew the number by heart now. The phone rang three times, then that familiar voice said, “Hello?” Delaney hung up softly. At least his friend was home, the Captain wouldn’t be watching an empty hole.

He put on his stiff Homburg, left the hall light burning, double-locked the front door, went out into the night. He moved stiffly, hot and sweating under his layers of clothing. But he knew that wouldn’t last long.

He walked over to Daniel Blank’s apartment house, pausing once to transfer the come-along to his lefthand pants pocket so it wouldn’t clink against the handcuffs. The weighted blackjack knocked against his leg as he walked, but he was familiar with that feeling; there was nothing to be done about it.

It was an overcast night, not so much cold as damp and raw. He pulled on his gloves and knew it wouldn’t be long before he clamped on the earmuffs. It was going to be a long night.

Plenty of people still on the streets; laden Christmas shoppers hurrying home. The lobby lights of Dan’s apartment house were blazing. Two doormen on duty now, one of them Lipsky. They were hustling tips. Why not—it was Christmas, wasn’t it? Cabs were arriving and departing, private cars were heading into the underground garage, tenants on foot were staggering up with shopping bags and huge parcels.

Delaney took up his station across the street, strolling up and down the length of the block. The lobby was easily observable during most of his to-and-from pacing, or could be glimpsed over his shoulder. When it was behind him, he turned his head frequently enough to keep track of arrivals and departures. After every five trips, up and down, he crossed the street and walked along the other side once, directly in front of the apartment house, then crossed back again and continued his back-and-forth vigil. He walked at a steady pace, not fast, not slow, stamping each foot slightly with every step, swinging his arms more than he would ordinarily.

He could perform this job automatically, and he welcomed the chance it gave him to consider once again his conversation with Thorsen, Johnson, Deputy Mayor Alinski.

What disturbed him was that he was not positive he had been entirely accurate in his comments regarding the admissibility of evidence and the possibility of obtaining a search warrant. Ten years ago he would have been absolutely certain. But recent court decisions, particularly those of the Supreme Court, had so confused him—and all cops—that he no longer comprehended the laws of evidence and the rights of suspects.

Even such a Philadelphia lawyer as Lt. Marty Dorfman had admitted his confusion. “Captain,” he had said, “they’ve demolished the old guidelines without substituting a new, definite code. Even the DA’s men are walking on eggs. As I see it, until all this gets straightened out and enough precedents established, each case will be judged on its own merits, and we’ll have to take our chances. It’s the old story: ‘The cop proposes, the judge disposes.’ Only now even the judges aren’t sure. That’s why the percentage of appeals is way, way up.”

Well, start from the beginning…His search of Dan’s apartment had been illegal. Nothing he saw or learned from that search could be used in court. No doubt about that. If he had taken away Dan’s “trophies,” it would have served no purpose other than to alert Blank that his apartment had been tossed, that he was under suspicion.

Now what about a search warrant? On what grounds? That Dan owned an ice ax of a type possibly used to kill four men? And, of course, of a type owned by hundreds of people all over the world. That blood of Dan’s type had been found at the scene of the most recent homicide? How many people had that blood type? That he possessed a can of light machine oil that a thousand other New Yorkers owned? And all of these facts established only by an illegal break-in. Or tell the judge that Daniel G. Blank was a known mountaineer and was suspected of carrying two dummy Christmas packages the night Albert Feinberg was slain? Delaney could imagine the judge’s reaction to a request for a search warrant on those grounds.

No, he
had
been correct. As of this moment, Dan was untouchable. Then why hadn’t he taken the whole mess to Broughton and dumped it on him? Because Alinski had been exactly right, knowing his man. Broughton would have said, “Fuck the law,” would have come on like Gang Busters, would have collared Blank, got the headlines and TV exposure he wanted.

Later, when Blank was set free, as he was certain to be, Broughton would denounce “permissive justice,” “slack criminal laws,” “handcuffing the cops, not the crooks.” The fact that Blank walked away a free man would have little importance to Broughton compared to the publicity of the suspect’s release, the public outcry, the furtherance of exactly what the Group wanted.

But if Dan couldn’t legally—

Delaney ceased pondering, his head crooked over his shoulder. There was a man standing in the lighted lobby, talking to one of the doormen. The man was tall, slender, wearing a black topcoat, no hat. Delaney stopped midstride, took a sham look at a nonexistent wristwatch, made a gesture of impatience, turned in his tracks, walked toward the lobby. He should apply for an Actors Equity card, he thought; he really should.

He came abreast of the lobby, across the street, just as Daniel Blank exited from the glass doors and stood a moment. It was undeniably him: wide shoulders, slim hips, handsome with vaguely Oriental features. His left hand was thrust into his topcoat pocket. Delaney glanced long enough to watch him sniff the night air, button up his coat with his right hand, turn up the collar. Then Blank walked down the driveway, turned west in the direction Delaney was moving across the street.

Ah there, the Captain thought. Out for a stroll, Danny boy?

“Danny Boy.” The phrase amused him; he began to hum the tune. He matched Blank’s speed, and when Dan crossed Second Avenue, Delaney crossed on his side, keeping just a little behind his target. He was good at tailing, but not nearly as good as, say, Lt. Jeri Fernandez, known to his squad as the “Invisible Man.”

The problem was mainly one of physical appearance. Delaney was obvious. He was tall, big, stooped, lumbering, with a shapeless black overcoat, a stiff Homburg set squarely atop his heavy head. He could change his costume but not the man he was.

Fernandez was average and middle. Average height, middle weight, no distinguishing features. On a tail, he wore clothes a zillion other men wore. More than that, he had mastered the rhythm of the streets, a trick Delaney could never catch. Even within a single city, New York, people moved differently on different streets. In the Garment District they trotted and shoved. On Fifth Avenue they walked at a slower tempo, pausing to look in shop windows. On Park Avenue and upper eastside cross streets they sauntered. Wherever he tailed, Fernandez picked up the rhythm of the street, unconsciously, and moved like a wraith. Set him down in Brussels, Cairo, or Tokyo, the Captain was convinced, and Lt. Jeri Fernandez would take one quick look around and become a resident. Delaney wished he could do it.

But he did what he could, performed what tricks he knew. When Blank turned the corner onto Third Avenue, Delaney crossed the street to move up behind him. He increased his speed to tail from in front. The Captain stopped to look in a store window, watched the reflection in the glass as Blank passed him. Delaney took up a following tail again, dropping behind a couple, dogging their heels closely. If Blank looked back, he’d see a group of three.

Dan was walking slowly. Delaney’s covering couple turned away. He continued in his steady pace, passing his quarry again. He was conscious that Blank was now close behind him, but he felt no particular fear. The avenue was well-lighted; there were people about. Danny Boy might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. Besides, Delaney was certain, he always approached his victims from the front.

Delaney walked another half-block and stopped. He had lost him. He knew it, without turning to look. Instinct? Something atavistic? Fuck it. He just knew it. He turned back, searched, cursed his own stupidity. He should have known, or at least wondered.

Halfway down the block was a pet shop, still open, front window brilliantly lighted. Behind the glass were pups—fox terriers, poodles, spaniels—all frolicking on torn newspaper, and gumming each other, pissing, shitting up a storm, pressing noses and paws against the window where at least half a dozen people stood laughing, tapping the glass, saying things like “Kitchy-koo.” Daniel Blank was one of them.

He should have guessed, he repeated to himself. Even the dullest dick three learned that a high percentage of killers were animal lovers. They kept dogs, cats, parakeets, pigeons, even goldfish. They treated their pets with tender, loving care, feeding them at great expense, hustling them to the vet at the first sign of illness, talking to them, caressing them. Then they killed a human being, cutting off the victim’s nipples or slicing open the abdomen or shoving a beer bottle up the ass. Captain Edward X. Delaney really didn’t want to know the explanation of this predilection of animal lovers for homicide. It was difficult enough, after years of experience, to assimilate the facts of these things happening. The facts themselves were hard enough to accept; who had the time or stomach for explanations?