The 1st Deadly Sin (81 page)

What his men sensed, why he could never communicate with them on equal terms, was that he had this quality to a frightening degree. He was the quintessential cop, and they didn’t need any new words to know it. They understood that he would throw them into the grinder as fast as he would throw himself.

He got to the florist’s shop just as it was closing. They didn’t want to let him in, but he assured them it was an order for the following day. He described exactly what he wanted: a single longstem rose to be placed, no greenery, in a long, white florists’ box and delivered at 9:00 a.m. the next morning.

“Deliver one rose?” the clerk asked in astonishment. “Oh, sir, we’ll have to charge extra for that.”

“Of course,” Delaney nodded. “I understand. I’ll pay whatever’s necessary. Just make certain it gets there first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Would you like to enclose a card, sir?”

“I would.”

He wrote out the small white card: “Dear Dan, here’s a fresh rose for the one you destroyed.” He signed the card “Albert Feinberg,” then slid the card in the little envelope, sealed the flap, addressed the envelope to Daniel G. Blank, including his street address and apartment number.

“You’re certain it will get there by nine tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll take care of it. That’s a lot of money to spend on one flower, sir. A sentimental occasion?”

“Yes,” Captain Edward X. Delaney smiled. “Something like that.”

5

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Delaney awoke, lay staring somberly at the ceiling. Then, for the first time in a long time, he got out of bed, kneeled, and thought a prayer for Barbara, for his own dead parents, for all the dead, the weak, the afflicted. He did not ask that he be allowed to kill Daniel Blank. It was not the sort of thing you asked of God.

Then he showered, shaved, donned an old uniform, so aged it was shiny enough to reflect light. He also loaded his .38 revolver, strapped on his gunbelt and holster. It was not with the certainty that this would be the day he’d need it, but it was another of his odd superstitions: if you prepared carefully for an event, it helped hasten it.

Then he went downstairs for coffee. The men on duty noted his uniform, the bulge of his gun. Of course, no one commented on it, but a few men did check their own weapons, and one pulled on an elaborate shoulder holster that buckled across his chest.

Fernandez was in the kitchen, having a coffee and Danish. Delaney drew him aside.

“Lieutenant, when you’re finished here, I want you to go to Bulldog One and stay there until relieved. Got that?”

“Sure, Captain.”

“Tell your lookout to watch for a delivery by a florist Let me know the minute he arrives.”

“Okay,” Fernandez nodded cheerfully. “You’ll know as soon as we spot him. Something cooking, Captain?”

Delaney didn’t answer, but carried his coffee back into the radio room. He set it down on the long table, then went back into his study and wheeled in his swivel chair. He positioned it to the right of the radio table, facing the operators.

He sat there all morning, sipping three black coffees, munching on the dry, stale heel of a loaf of Italian bread. Calls came in at fifteen-minute intervals from Bulldog One and Ten-0. No sign of Danny Boy. At 9:20, Stryker called from the Factory to report that Blank hadn’t shown up for work. A few minutes later, Bulldog One was back on the radio.

Fernandez: “Tell Captain Delaney a boy carrying a long, white florist’s box just went into the White House lobby.” Delaney heard it. Leaving as little as possible to chance, he went into his study, looked up the florist’s number called, and asked if his single red rose had been delivered. He was assured the messenger had been sent and was probably there right now. Satisfied, the Captain went back to his chair at the radio table. The waiting men had heard Fernandez’ report but what it meant, they did not know.

Sergeant MacDonald leaned over Delaney’s chair.

“He’s freaking, Captain?” he whispered.

“We’ll see. We’ll see. Pull up a chair, sergeant. Stay close to me for a few hours.”

“Sure, Captain.”

The black sergeant pulled over a wooden, straight-backed chair, sat at Delaney’s right, slightly behind him. He sat as solidly as the Captain, wearing steel-rimmed spectacles, carved face immobile.

So they sat and waited. So everyone sat and waited. Quiet enough to hear a Sanitation truck grinding by, an airliner overhead, a far-off siren, hoot of tugboat, the bored fifteen-minute calls from Ten-0 and Bulldog One. Still no sign of Danny Boy. Delaney wondered if he could risk a quick trip to the hospital.

Then, shortly before noon, a click loud enough to galvanize them, and Bulldog One was on:

“He’s coming out! He’s carrying stuff. A doorman behind him carrying stuff. What? A jacket, knapsack. What? What else? A coil of rope. Boots. What?”

Delaney: “Jesus Christ. Get Fernandez on.”

Fernandez: “Fernandez here. Wearing black topcoat, no hat, left hand in coat pocket, right hand free. No glove. Knapsack, coil of rope, some steel things with spikes, jacket, heavy boots, knitted cap.”

Delaney: “Ice ax?”

Barbara: “Bulldog One, ice ax?”

Fernandez: “No sign. Car coming up from garage. Black Chevy Corvette. His car.”

Captain Delaney turned slightly to look at Sergeant MacDonald. “Got him,” he said.

“Yes,” MacDonald nodded. “He’s running.”

Fernandez: “They’re pushing his stuff into the car. Left hand still in coat pocket, right hand free.”

Delaney (to MacDonald): “Two unmarked cars, three men each. Start the engines and wait. You come back in here.” Fernandez: “He’s loaded. Getting into the driver’s seat. Orders?”

Delaney: “Fernandez to trail in Bulldog Two. Keep in touch.”

Fernandez: “Got it. Out.”

Captain Delaney looked around. Sergeant MacDonald was just coming back into the room.

MacDonald: “Cars are ready, Captain.”

Delaney: “Designated Searcher One and Searcher Two. If we both go, I’ll take One, you take Two. If I stay, you take both.”

MacDonald nodded. He had taken off his glasses. Fernandez: “Barbara from Bulldog Two. He’s circling the block. I think he’s heading for the Castle. Out.”

Delaney: “Alert Tiger One. Send Bulldog Three to Castle.” Fernandez: “Bulldog Two. It’s the Castle all right. He’s pulling up in front. We’re back at the corner, the south corner. Danny Boy’s parked in front of the Castle. He’s getting out. Left hand in pocket, right hand free. Luggage still in car.” Bulldog Three: “Barbara from Bulldog Three.”

Barbara: “Got you.”

Bulldog Three: “We’re in position. He’s walking up to the Castle door. He’s knocking at the door.”

Delaney: “Where’s Tiger One?”

Fernandez: “He’s here in Bulldog Two with me. Danny Boy is parked on the wrong side of the street. We can plaster him.” Delaney: “Negative.”

Barbara: “Negative, Bulldog Two.”

Fernandez (laughing): “Thought it would be. Shit. Look at that…Barbara from Bulldog Two.”

Barbara: “You’re still on, Bulldog Two.”

Fernandez: “Something don’ smell right. Danny Boy knocked at the door of the Castle. It was opened. He went inside. But the door is still open. We can see it from here. Maybe I should take a walk up there and look.”

Delaney: “Tell him to hold it.”

Barbara: “Hold it, Bulldog Two.”

Delaney: “Ask Bulldog Three if they’re receiving our transcriptions to Bulldog Two.”

Barbara: “Bulldog Three from Barbara. Are you monitoring our conversation with Bulldog Two?”

Bulldog Three: “Affirmative.”

Delaney: “To Bulldog Two. Affirmative for a walk past Castle but put Tiger One with walkie-talkie on the other side of the street. Radio can be showing.”

Fernandez: “Bulldog Two here. Got it. We’re starting.”

Bulldog Three: “Bulldog Three here. Got it. Fernandez is getting out of Bulldog Two. Tiger One is getting out, crossing to the other side of the street.”

Delaney: “Hold it. Check out Tiger One’s radio.”

Barbara: “Tiger One from Barbara. How do you read?” Tiger One: “T-One here. Lots of interference but I can read.”

Delaney: “Tell him to cover. Understood?”

Barbara: “Tiger One, cover Lieutenant Fernandez on the other side of the street.
Coppish?”

Tiger One: “Right on.”

Delaney: “Bring in Bulldog Three.”

Bulldog Three: “They’re both walking toward us, slowly. Fernandez is passing the Castle, turning his head, looking at it. Tiger One is right across the street. No action. They’re coming toward us. Walking slowly. No sweat. Fernandez is crossing the street toward us. He’ll probably want to use our mike. Ladies and gentlemen, the next voice you hear will be that of Lieutenant Jeri Fernandez.”

Delaney (stonily): “Get that man’s name.”

Fernandez: “Fernandez in Bulldog Three. Is the Captain there?”

Delaney bent over the desk mike.

Delaney: “Here. What is it, lieutenant?”

Fernandez: “It smells, Captain. The door to the Castle is half-open. Something’s propping it open. Looks like a man’s leg to me.”

Delaney: “A leg?”

Fernandez: “From the knee down. A leg and a foot propping the door open. How about I take a closer look?”

Delaney: “Where’s Tiger One?”

Fernandez: “Right here with me.”

Delaney: “Both of you go back to Bulldog Two. Tiger One across the street, covering again. You take a closer look. Tell Tiger One to give us a continuous. Got that?”

Fernandez: “Sure.”

Delaney: “Lieutenant…”

Fernandez: “Yeah?”

Delaney: “He’s fast.”

Fernandez (chuckling): “Don’ give it a second thought, Captain.”

Tiger One: “We’re walking south. Slowly. Fernandez is across the street.”

Delaney: “Gun out?”

Barbara: “Is your gun out, Tiger One?”

Tiger One: “Oh Jesus, it’s been out for the last fifteen minutes. He’s coming up to the Castle. He’s slowing, stopping. Now Fernandez is kneeling on one knee. He’s pretending to tie his shoelace. He’s looking toward the Castle door. He’s—Oh my God!”

Daniel Blank awoke in an antic mood, laughing at a joke he had dreamed but could not remember. He looked to the windows; it promised to be a glorious day. He thought he might go over to Celia Montfort’s house and kill her. He might kill Charles Lipsky, Valenter, the bartender at The Parrot. He might kill a lot of people, depending on how he felt. It was that kind of a day.

It took off like a rocket: hesitating, almost motionless, moving, then spurting into the sky. That’s the way the morning went, until he’d be out of the earth’s pull, and free. There was nothing he might not do. He remembered that mood, when he was atop Devil’s Needle, weeks, months, years ago.

Well, he would go back to Devil’s Needle and know that rapture again. The park was closed for the winter, but it was just a chain-link fence, the gate closed with a rusty padlock. He could smash it open easily with his ice ax. He could smash anything with his ice ax.

He bathed and dressed carefully, still in that euphoria he knew would last forever.

So the chime at his outside door didn’t disturb him at all.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Package for you, Mr. Blank.”

He heard retreating footsteps, waited a few moments, then unbolted his door. He brought the long, white florist’s box inside, relocked the door, He took the box to the living room and stared at it, not understanding.

Nor did he comprehend the single red rose inside. Nor the card. Albert Feinberg? Feinberg? Who was Albert Feinberg? Then he remembered that last death with longing; the close embrace, warm breath in his face, their passionate grunts. He wished they could do it again. And Feinberg had sent him another rose! Wasn’t that sweet. He sniffed the fragrance, stroked the velvety petals against his cheek, then suddenly crushed the whole flower in his fist. When he opened his hand, the petals slowly came back to shape, moving as he watched, forming again the whole exquisitely shaped blossom, as lovely as it had been before.

He drifted about the apartment, dreaming, nibbling at the rose. He ate the petals, one by one; they were soft, hard, moist, dry on his tongue, with a tang and flavor all their own. He ate the flower down to the stem, grinning and nodding, swallowing it all.

He took his gear from the hallway closet; ice ax, rucksack, nylon line, boots, crampons, jacket, knitted watch cap. He wondered about sandwiches and a thermos—but what did he need with food and drink? He was beyond all that, outside the world’s pull and the hunger to exist.

It was remarkable, he thought happily, how efficiently he was operating; the call to the garage to bring his car around, the call to a doorman—who turned out to be Charles Lipsky—to help him down with his gear. He moved through it all smiling. The day was sharp, clear, brisk, open, and so was he. He was in the lemon sun, in the thin blue sac filled with amniotic fluid. He was one with it all. He hummed a merry tune.

When Valenter opened the door and said, “I’m thorry, thir, but Mith Montfort ith not—” he smashed his fist into Valenter’s face, feeling the nose crunch under his blow, seeing the blood, feeling the blood slippery between his knuckles. Then, stepping farther inside, he hit the shocked Valenter again, his fist going into the man’s throat, crushing that jutting Adam’s apple. Valenter’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he went down.

So Daniel Blank walked easily across the entrance hall, still humming his merry tune. What was it? Some early American folksong; he couldn’t remember the title. He climbed the stairs steadily, the ice ax out now, transferred to his right hand. He remembered the first time he had followed her up these stairs to the room on the fifth floor. She had paused, turned, and he had kissed her, between navel and groin, somewhere on the yielding softness, somewhere…Why had she betrayed him?

But even before he came to that splintered door, a naked Anthony Montfort darted out, gave Daniel one mad, frantic glance over his shoulder, then dashed down the hall, arms flinging. Watching that young, bare, unformed body run, all Blank could think of was the naked Vietnamese girl, burned by napalm, running, running, caught in pain and terror.