The 1st Deadly Sin (72 page)

He wouldn’t think of what she had said, or what she had meant. First things first.

“I’ve got to get back,” he said, and signaled for a check.

During that wild week he found time for two more personal jobs. Still not certain in his mind why he was doing it, he selected the business card of a certain J. David McCann, representative of something called the Universal Credit Union. Wearing his stiff Homburg and floppy civilian overcoat, he walked into the effete, scented showroom of the Erotica on Madison Avenue and asked to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Morton, hoping neither would recognize him as the former commander of the precinct in which they lived and worked.

He spoke to both in their backroom office. Neither glommed him; he realized that except for members of business associations, VIP’s, community groups and social activists, the average New Yorker hadn’t the slightest idea of the name or appearance of the man who commanded the forces of law and order in his precinct. An ego-deflating thought.

Delaney took off his hat, bowed, presented his phony business card, did everything but tug his forelock.

“I’m not selling anything,” he said ingratiatingly. “Just a routine credit investigation. Mr. Daniel G. Blank has applied for a loan and given us your names as references. We just want to make sure you actually do know him.”

Flo looked at Sam. Sam looked at Flo.

“Of course we know him,” Sam said, almost angrily. “A very good friend.”

“Known him for years,” Flo affirmed. “Lives in the same apartment house we do.”

“Mm-hmm,” Delaney nodded. “A man of good character, you’d say? Dependable? Honest? Trustworthy?”

“A Boy Scout,” Sam assured him. “What the hell’s this all about?”

“You mentioned a loan,” Flo said. “What kind of a loan? How big?”

“Well…I really shouldn’t reveal these details,” Delaney said in soft confidential tones, “but Mr. Blank has applied for a rather large mortgage covering the purchase of a townhouse on East End Avenue.”

The Mortons looked at each other in astonishment. Then to Delaney’s interest, they broke into pleased smiles.

“Celia’s house!” Sam shouted, smacking his thighs. “He’s buying her place!”

“It’s on!” Flo screamed, hugging her arms. “They’re really getting together!”

Captain Delaney nodded at both, snatched his business card back from Sam’s fingers, replaced his Homburg, started from the office.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam called. “You don’t mind if we tell him you were here?”

“That you were checking up?” Flo asked. “You don’t mind if we kid him about it?”

“Of course not,” Captain Delaney smiled. “Please do.”

On the second call he wore the same clothes, used the same business card. But this time he had to sit on his butt in an overheated outer office for almost a half-hour before he was allowed to see Mr. Rene Horvath, Personnel Director of the Javis-Bircham Corp. Eventually he was ushered into the inner sanctum where Mr. Horvath inspected the Captain’s clothing with some distaste. As well he might; he himself was wearing a black raw silk suit, a red gingham plaid shirt with stiff white collar and cuffs, a black knitted tie. What Delaney liked most, he decided, were the black crinkle-patent leather moccasins with bright copper pennies inserted into openings on the top flaps. Exquisite.

Delaney went through the same routine he used with the Mortons, varying it to leave out any mention of a mortgage on a townhouse, saying only that Mr. Daniel G. Blank had applied for a loan, and that he, Mr. J. David McCann—“My card, sir”—and the Universal Credit Union were simply interested in verifying that Mr. Blank was indeed, as he claimed to be, employed by Javis-Bircham Corp.

“He is,” the elegant Mr. Horvath said, handing back the soiled business card with a look that suggested it might be a carrier of VD. “Mr. Daniel Blank is presently employed by this company.”

“In a responsible capacity?”

“Very responsible.”

“I suppose you’d object to giving me a rough idea of Mr. Blank’s annual income?”

“You suppose correctly.”

“Mr. Horvath, I assure you that anything you tell me will be held in strictest confidence. Would you say that Mr. Blank is honest, dependable, and trustworthy?”

Horvath’s pinched face closed up even more. “Mr. McClosky—”

“McCann.”

“Mr. McCann,
all
J-B executives are honest, dependable and trustworthy.”

Delaney nodded, replaced the Homburg on his big head. “Thank you for your time, sir. I certainly do appreciate it. Just doing my job—I hope you realize that.”

“Naturally.”

Delaney turned away, but suddenly a squid hand was on his arm, gripping limply.

“Mr. McCann…”

“Yes?”

“You said Mr. Blank has applied for a loan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How large a loan?”

“That I am not allowed to say sir. But you’ve been so cooperative that I can tell you it’s a very large loan.”

“Oh?” said Mr. Horvath. “Hmm,” said Mr. Horvath, staring at the bright pennies inserted into his moccasin tongues. “That’s very odd. Javis-Bircham, Mr. McCann, has its own loan program for all employees, from cafeteria busboy to Chairman of the Board. They can draw up to five thousand dollars, interest-free, and pay it back by salary deductions over a period of several years. Why didn’t Mr. Blank apply for a company loan?”

“Oh well,” Delaney laughed merrily, “you know how it is; everyone gets caught by the shorts sooner or later—right? And I guess he wanted to keep it private.”

He left a very perturbed Mr. Rene Horvath behind him, and he thought, if Handry’s impression was right and Blank’s position with the company was shaky, it was shakier now.

In that week before Christmas, while the Delaney’s living room furniture was being pushed back to the walls, deal tables and folding chairs brought in, cots set up, and communications men were still fiddling with their equipment, including three extra telephone lines, a “council of war” was scheduled every afternoon at 3:00 p.m. It was held in the Captain’s study where the doors could be closed and locked. Attending were Captain Delaney, Lt. Jeri Fernandez, Detective first grade Ronald Blankenship, and Detective sergeant Thomas MacDonald. Delaney’s liquor cabinet was open or, if they preferred, there was cold beer or hot coffee from the kitchen.

The first few meetings were concerned mostly with planning, organization, division of responsibility, choice of personnel, chain of command. Then, as information began to come in, they spent part of their time discussing the “Time-Habit Charts” compiled by Blankenship’s squad. They were extremely detailed tabulations of Daniel Blank’s daily routine: the time he left for work, his route, time of arrival at the Javis-Bircham Building, when he left for lunch, where he usually went, time of arrival back at the office, departure time, arrival at home, when he departed in the evening, where he went, how long he stayed. By the end of the fourth day, his patterns were pretty well established. Daniel Blank appeared to be a disciplined and orderly man.

Problems came up, were hashed out. Delaney listened to everyone’s opinion. Then, after the discussion, he made the final decision.

Question: Should an undercover cop, with the cooperation of the management, be placed in Daniel Blank’s apartment house as a porter, doorman, or whatever? Delaney’s decision: No.

Question: Should an undercover cop be placed in Javis-Bircham, as close to Blank’s department as as he could get? Delaney’s decision: Yes. It was assigned to Fernandez to work out as best he could a cover story that might seem plausible to the J-B executives he’d be dealing with.

Question: Should a Time-Habit Chart be set up for the residents of that townhouse on East End Avenue? Delaney’s decision: No, with the concurring opinions of all three assistants.

“It’s a screwy household,” MacDonald admitted. “We can’t get a line on them. This Valenter, the butler—or whatever you want to call him—has a sheet on molesting juvenile males. But no convictions. But that’s all I’ve got so far.”

“I don’t have much more,” Fernandez confessed. “The dame—this Celia Montfort—was admitted twice to Mother of Mercy Hospital for suicide attempts. Slashed wrists, and once her stomach had to be pumped out. We’re checking other hospitals, but nothing definite yet.”

“The kid seems to be a young fag,” Blankenship said, “but no one’s given me anything yet that makes a pattern. Like Pops said, it’s a weird set-up. I don’t think anyone knows what’s going on over there. Nothing we can chart, anyway. She’s in, she’s out, at all hours of the day and night. She was gone for two days. Where was she? We don’t know and won’t until we put a special tail on her. Captain?”

“No,” Delaney said. “Not yet. Keep at it.”

Keep at it. Keep at it. That’s all they heard from him, and they did because he seemed to know what he was doing, radiated an aura of confidence, never appeared to doubt that if they all kept at it, they’d nail this psycho and the killings would stop.

Daniel G. Blank. Captain Delaney knew his name, and now the others did, too. Had to. The men on the street, in the Con Ed van, in the unmarked cars adopted, by common consent, the code name “Danny Boy” for the man they watched. They had his photo now, reprinted by the hundreds, they knew his home address and shadowed his comings and goings. But they were told only that he was a “suspect.”

Sometime during that week, Captain Delaney could never recall later exactly when, he scheduled his first press conference. It was held in the now empty detectives’ squad room of the 251st Precinct house. There were reporters from newspapers, magazines, local TV news programs. The cameras were there, too, and the lights were hot. Captain Delaney wore his Number Ones and delivered, from memory, a brief statement he had labored over a long time the previous evening.

“My name is Captain Edward X. Delaney,” he started, standing erect, staring into the TV cameras, hoping the sweat on his face didn’t show. “I have been assigned command of Operation Lombard. This case, as you all know, involves the apparently unconnected homicides of four men: Frank Lombard, Bernard Gilbert, Detective Roger Kope, and Albert Feinberg. I have spent several days going through the records of Operation Lombard during the time it was commanded by former Deputy Commissioner Broughton. There is nothing in that record that might possibly lead to the indictment, conviction, or even identification of a suspect. It is a record of complete and utter failure.”

There was a gasp from the assembled reporters; they scribbled furiously. Delaney didn’t change expression, but he was grinning inwardly. Did Broughton really think he could talk to Delaney the way he had and not pay for it, eventually? The Department functioned on favors. It also functioned on vengeance. Run for mayor, would he? Lots of luck, Broughton!

“So,” Captain Delaney continued, “because there is such a complete lack of evidence in the files of Operation Lombard while it was under the command of former Deputy Commissioner Broughton, I am starting from the beginning, with the death of Frank Lombard, and intend to conduct a totally new investigation into the homicides of all four men. I promise you nothing, I prefer to be judged by my acts rather than by my words. This is the first and last press conference I intend to hold until I either have the killer or am relieved of command. I will not answer any questions.”

An hour after this brief interview, shown in its entirety, appeared on local TV news programs, Captain Delaney received a package at his home. It was brought into his study by one of the uniformed patrolmen on guard duty at the outside door—a 24-hour watch. No one went in or out without showing a special pass Delaney had printed up, issued only to bona fide members of Operation Lombard. The patrolman placed the package on Delaney’s desk.

“Couldn’t be a bomb, could it, Captain?” he asked anxiously. “You was on TV tonight, you know.”

“I know,” the Captain nodded. He inspected the package, then picked it up gingerly. He tilted it gently, back and forth. Something sloshed.

“No,” he said to the nervous officer, “I don’t think it’s a bomb. But you did well to suggest it. You can return to your post.”

“Yes, sir,” the young patrolman said, saluted and left.

Handsome, Delaney thought, but those sideburns were too goddamned long.

He opened the package. It was a bottle of 25-year-old brandy with a little envelope taped to the side. Delaney opened the bottle and sniffed; first things first. He wanted to taste it immediately. Then he opened the sealed envelope. A stiff card. Two words: “Beautiful” and “Alinski.”

The mood of the “war councils” changed imperceptibly in the three days before Christmas. It was obvious they now had a working, efficient organization. Danny Boy was blanketed by spooks every time he stepped outside home or office. Blankenship’s bookkeeping and communications were beyond reproach. Detective sergeant MacDonald’s snoops had built up a file on Blank that took up three drawers of a locked cabinet in Delaney’s study. It included the story of his refusal to attend his parents’ funeral and a revealing interview with a married woman in Boston who agreed to give her impressions of Daniel Blank while he was in college, under the cover story that Blank was being considered for a high-level security government job. Her comments were damning, but nothing that could be presented to a grand jury. Blank’s ex-wife had remarried and was presently on an around-the-world honeymoon cruise.

During those last three days before Christmas, the impression was growing amongst Delaney’s assistants—he could
feel
the mood—that they were amassing a great deal of information about Daniel G. Blank—a lot of it fascinating and libidinous reading—but it amounted to a very small hill of beans. The man had a girl friend. So? Maybe he was or was not sleeping with her brother, Tony. So? He came out occasionally at odd hours, wandered about the streets, looked in shop windows, stopped in at The Parrot for a drink. So?

“Maybe he’s on to us,” Blankenship. “Maybe he knows the decoys are out every night, and he’s being tailed.”

“Can’t be,” Fernandez growled angrily. “No way. He don’ even
see
my boys. As far as he’s concerned, we don’ exist.”