The 1st Deadly Sin (71 page)

“Sure, Captain.”

“You know Shakespeare and Lauder?”

“The ‘Gold Dust Twins?’ I know Lauder.”

“I’d like them in one of the cars. If they’re not on duty, any good men will do. That makes seven men. You pick six more, three in plain and three in uniform, and have them stand by here until eight tomorrow morning. Everyone else can go home. But everyone back by eight tomorrow, and anyone else you can reach by phone or who calls in. Got it?”

“Where do you want me, Captain?”

“Right here. I’ve got to go out for an hour or so, but I’ll be back. We’ll have some coffee together and talk about that extra crease in your ass.”

“Sounds like a jolly night.”

Delaney looked at him a long time. They had started in the Department the same year, had been in the same Academy class. Now Delaney was a captain, and MacDonald was a sergeant. It wasn’t a question of ability. Delaney wouldn’t mention what it was, and MacDonald never would either.

“What’s Broughton had you on?” he asked the sergeant finally.

“Rousting street freaks,” MacDonald said.

“Shit,” Delaney said disgustedly.

“My sentiments exactly, Captain,” the sergeant said.

“Well, lay it all on,” the Captain said. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Your men should be in position by then. The sooner, the better. Show them that photo, but you hang onto it. It’s the only one I’ve got. I’ll have copies run off tomorrow.”

“Is he it, Captain?” Detective sergeant MacDonald asked.

Delaney shrugged. “Who knows?” he said.

He turned, walked away. He was at the staircase when the sergeant called softly: “Captain.” He turned around.

“Good to be working with you again, sir,” MacDonald said.

Delaney smiled faintly but didn’t answer. He walked down the stairway thinking of Broughton’s stupidity in using MacDonald to pull in street freaks. MacDonald! One of the best professors in the Department. No wonder those forty men had been sour and grumbling. It wasn’t that Broughton hadn’t kept them busy, but he had misused their individual abilities and talents. No one could take that for long without losing drive, ambition, even interest in what he was doing. And what was he, Delaney? What were his abilities and talents? He waved a hand in answer to the desk sergeant’s salute as he walked out. He’knew what he was. He was a cop.

He would have commandeered a squad car, but there was none around. So he walked over to Second Avenue, got a cab heading downtown. He walked into the hospital and, for once, the white tiled walls and the smell couldn’t depress him. Wait until Barbara heard!

Then he pushed open the door of her room. There was a nurses’ aide sitting alongside the bed. Barbara appeared to be sleeping. The aide motioned to him, beckoning him outside into the corridor.

“She’s had a bad evening,” she whispered. “Earlier it took two of us to hold her down, and we had to give her something. Doctor said it would be all right.”

“Why?” the Captain demanded. “What is it? Is it the new drug?”

“You’ll have to ask doctor,” the aide said primly. Delaney wondered again, in despair, why they always just said “doctor.” Never “the doctor.”

“You have to consult engineer.”

“You’ll have to talk to architect.”

“You’ll have to discuss that with lawyer.” It made the same sense, and it all made no sense whatever.

“I’ll sit with her awhile,” Delaney told the aide. She was so young; he couldn’t blame her. Who could he blame?

She nodded brightly. “Tell me when you leave. Unless she’s asleep by then.”

“She’s not asleep now?”

“No. Her eyes are closed, but she’s awake. If you need any help, ring the bell or call.”

She walked away quickly, leaving him wondering what help he might need. He went softly back into the hospital room, still wearing his uniform cap. He pulled a chair over to Barbara’s bedside, sat looking at her. She did seem to be sleeping; her eyes were shut tight, she was breathing deeply and regularly. But, while he watched, her eyelids flicked open, she stared at the ceiling.

“Barbara?” he called gently. “Darling?”

Her eyes moved, but her head didn’t turn. Her eyes moved to look at him, into him, through him, not seeing him.

“Barbara, it’s Edward. I’m here. I have so much to tell you, dear. So much has happened.”

“Honey Bunch?” she said.

“It’s Edward, dear. I have a lot to tell you. A lot has happened.”

“Honey Bunch?” she said.

He found the books in the metal taboret alongside her bed. He took the top one, not even glancing at the title, and opened it at random. Not having his glasses, he had to hold the book almost at arm’s length. But the type was large, there was good white space between the lines.

Sitting upright in his Number One uniform, gleaming cap squarely atop his head, the commander of Operation Lombard began reading:

“Honey Bunch picked her nasturtiums that morning and she gave away her first bouquet. That is always a lovely garden experience—to give away your first bouquet. Of course Honey Bunch gave hers to Mrs. Lancaster and the little old lady said that she would take the flowers home and put them in water and make them last as long as possible.

“ ‘Haven’t you any garden at all?’ asked Honey Bunch. ‘Just a little one?’

“ ‘No garden at all,’ replied the old lady sadly. ‘This is the first year I can remember that I haven’t had a piece of ground to do with as…’ ”

5

H
E SLEPT WHEN
he could, but it wasn’t much: perhaps four or five hours a night. But, to his surprise and pleasure, it didn’t slow him down. Within three days he had it all organized. It was functioning.

He took Lt. Jeri Fernandez out of the Garment Center division he hated, put him in command of the squad shadowing Daniel Blank. Delaney let him select his own spooks; the “Invisible Man” almost wept with gratitude. It was exactly the kind of job he loved, that he did best. It was his idea to borrow a Consolidated Edison van and tear up a section of East 83rd Street near the driveway leading to Blank’s apartment house. Fernandez’ men wore Con Ed uniforms and hard hats, and worked slowly on the hole they dug in the pavement. It played hell with traffic, but the van was filled with communication gear and weapons, and served as Fernandez’ command post. Delaney was delighted. Fuck the traffic jams.

For “Mr. Inside,” the Captain requisitioned Detective first grade Ronald Blankenship, the man who had handled the two original beefs on Daniel Blank. Working together closely, Delaney and Blankenship transferred the command post of Operation Lombard from the 251st Precinct house to the living room of Delaney’s home, next door. It wasn’t as spacious as they would have liked, but it had its advantages; the communications men could run wires out the window, up to Delaney’s roof, then across to tie in with the antennae on the precinct house roof.

Detective sergeant Thomas MacDonald, “Pops,” was Delaney’s choice to head up the research squad, and MacDonald was happy. He got as much pleasure from an afternoon of sifting through dusty documents as another man might get in an Eighth Avenue massage parlor. Within 24 hours his men had compiled a growing dossier on Daniel G. Blank, taking him apart, piece by piece.

Captain Delaney appreciated the unpaid labors of his amateurs, but he couldn’t deny the advantages and privileges of being on active duty, in official command, with all the resources of the Department behind him, and a promise of unlimited men, equipment, funds.

Item: A tap was put on the home telephone of Daniel Blank. It was installed in the central telephone office servicing his number.

Item: The next day’s call to Charles Lipsky had resulted in the time of departure and license number of a cab picking up Blank’s dark-haired girl friend at his apartment house. Delaney told Blankenship what he wanted. Within three hours the license number had been traced, the fleet identified, and a dick was waiting in the garage for the driver to return. His trip sheet was checked, and the Captain had the address where the cab had dropped her off. One of Fernandez’ boys went over to check it; it turned out to be a townhouse on East End Avenue. After consultation with the lieutenant, Delaney decided to establish surveillance: one plainclothesman around-the-clock. Fernandez suggested detailing a two-man team to comb the neighborhood, to learn what they could about that house.

“It’s an expensive section,” Delaney said thoughtfully. “Lots of VIP’s around there. Tell them to walk softly.”

“Sure, Captain.”

“And lots of servants. You got a good-looking black who could cuddle up to some of the maids and cooks on the street?”

“Just the man!” Fernandez said triumphantly. “A big, handsome stud. He don’ walk, he glides. And smart as a whip. We call him ‘Mr. Clean.’”

“Sounds good,” the Captain nodded. “Turn him loose and see what he can come up with.”

He then put on his civilian clothes, went over to Blank’s apartment house to slip Lipsky his twenty dollars. The doorman thanked him gratefully.

Item: An hour later, Blankenship handed him the trace on Charles Lipsky. As Delaney had suspected, the man had a sheet. As a matter of fact, he was on probation, having been found guilty of committing a public nuisance, in that he did “with deliberate and malicious intent,” urinate on the hood of a parked Bentley on East 59th Street.

Item: Christopher Langley called to report he had completed a list of all retail outlets of the West German ice ax in the U.S. With his new authority, Delaney was able to dispatch a squad car to go up to Langley’s, pick up the list, bring it back to the command post. The list was assigned to one of Detective sergeant MacDonald’s research men and, on the phone, he struck gold with his first call. Daniel G. Blank had purchased such an ax five years ago from Alpine Haven, a mail order house in Stamford, Conn., that specialized in mountaineering gear. A man was immediately sent to Stamford to bring back a photostatic copy of the sales check made out to Daniel G. Blank.

Item: Fernandez’ men, particularly “Mr. Clean,” made progress on that East End Avenue townhouse. At least, they now had the names of the residents: Celia Montfort, Blank’s dark, thin girl friend; her young brother Anthony; a houseman named Valenter; and a middle-aged housekeeper. The names were turned over to MacDonald; the professor set up a separate staff to check them out.

During these days and nights of frantic activity, in the week before Christmas, Captain Delaney took time out to perform several personal chores. He gave Mary her Christmas gift early and, in addition, two weeks’ vacation. Then he brought in an old uniformed patrolman, on limited duty, waiting for retirement, and told him to buy a 20-cup coffee urn and keep it going 24 hours a day in the kitchen; to keep the refrigerator filled with beer, cold cuts, cheese; and have enough bread and rolls on hand so anyone in Operation Lombard coming off a cold night’s watch, or just stopping by during the day to report, would be assured of a sandwich and a drink.

He ordered folding cots, pillows and blankets brought in, and they were set up in the living room, hallway, kitchen, dining room—any place except in his study. They were in use almost constantly. Men who lived out on Long Island or up in Westchester sometimes preferred to sleep in, rather than make the long trip home, eat, sleep a few hours, turn around and come right back again.

He also found time to call his amateurs, wish them a Merry Christmas, thank them, for their help and support and tell them as gently as he could, that their efforts were no longer needed. He assured them their aid had been of invaluable assistance in developing a “very promising lead.”

He did this on the phone to Christopher Langley and Calvin Case. He took Monica Gilbert to lunch and told her as much as he felt she should know: that partly through her efforts, he had a good chance to nail the killer but, because of the press of work, he wouldn’t be able to call her or see her as often as he’d like. She was understanding and sympathetic.

“But take care of yourself,” she entreated. “You look so tired.”

“I feel great,” he protested. “Sleep like a baby.”

“How many hours?”

“Well…as much as I can.”

“And you have regular, nourishing meals, I’m sure,” she said sardonically.

He laughed. “I’m not starving,” he assured her. “With luck, this may be over soon. One way or another. Are you still visiting Barbara?”

“Almost every day. You know, we’re so dissimilar, but we have so much in common.”

“Do you? That’s good. I feel so guilty about Barbara. I dash in and dash out. Just stay long enough to say hello. But she’s been through this before. She’s a cop’s wife.”

“Yes. She told me.”

Her sad voice gave him a sudden, vague ache, of something he should have done but did not do. But he couldn’t think about it now.

“Thank you for visiting Barbara and liking her,” he said. “Did I tell you we’re now grandparents?”

“Barbara did.
Mazeltov.”

“Thank you. An ugly little boy.”

“Barbara told me,” she repeated. “But don’t worry; within six months he’ll be a beautiful little boy.”

“Sure.”

“Did you send a gift?”

“Well…I really didn’t have time. But I did talk to Liza and her husband on the phone.”

“It’s all right. Barbara sent things. I picked them out for her and had them sent.”

“That was very kind of you.” He rubbed his chin, felt the bristle, realized he had neglected to shave that morning. That was no good. He had to present the image of a well-groomed, crisply uniformed, confident commander to his men. It was important.

“Edward,” she said, in a low voice, with real concern, “are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right,” he said stonily. “I’ve been through things like this before.”

“Please don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. Monica. I’m all right. I swear it. I could be sleeping more and eating better, but it’s not going to kill me.

“You seem so—so wound up. This is important to you, isn’t it?”

“Important? That I nail this guy? Of course it’s important to me. Isn’t it to you? He killed your husband.”

She flinched at his brutality. “Yes,” she said faintly, “it’s important to me. But I don’t like what it’s doing to you.”