The Fourth Deadly Sin (31 page)

“Nah,” the Spoiler said, “that’s not how it’s done, Harold.

You got to tell us in your own words. You say you took a cab over to Ellerbee’s townhouse on that night?”

Gerber: “That’s right.”

Jason: “What kind of cab? Yellow, Checker, gypsy?”

Gerber: “I don’t remember.”

Keisman: “How long did it take you to get there?”

Gerber: “Maybe twenty minutes.”

Jason: “Where did the cabby drop you?”

Gerber: “Right in front of Ellerbee’s office.”

Keisman: “How did you get in?”

Gerber: “Rang the bell. When he answered, I told him I was in a bad way and had to see him. He let me in.”

Jason: “You were carrying the hammer?”

Gerber: “Sure. I carried it with me for the express purpose of killing Ellerbee. It was a premeditated murder.”

Keisman: “Uh-huh. Now tell us again where you got the hammer.”

Gerber: “I boosted it from that hardware store near Sheridan Square.”

Jason: “Just put it under your jacket and walked out?”

Gerber: “That’s right.”

Keisman: “We checked with them. They lose a lot to shoplifters, but no ball peen hammers.”

Gerber: “They don’t know their ass from their elbow.”

Jason: “All right, now you’re inside Ellerbee’s townhouse, carrying a hammer. What did you do next?”

Gerber: “Walked upstairs.”

Keisman: “You were wearing your boots?”

Gerber: “Sure, I was wearing boots. It was a fucking wet night.”

Jason: “You see anyone else in the townhouse?”

Gerber: “No. Just Ellerbee. He let me into his office.”

Keisman: “He was alone?”

Gerber: “Yeah, he was alone.”

Jason: “Did you talk to him?” Gerber: “I said hello. He started to say, “What are you doing-‘ and then I hit him.”

Keisman: “He was facing you when you hit him?”

Gerber: “That’s right.”

Jason: “How many times did you hit him?”

Gerber: “Two or three. I forget.”

Keisman: “Where did you hit him? His brow, top of his head, temples-where?”

Gerber: “Like on the hairline. Not on top of his head. High up on the forehead.”

Jason: “He went down?”

Gerber: “That’s right.”

Keisman: “On his back?”

Gerber: “Yeah, on his back.”

Jason: “Then what did you do?”

Gerber: “I saw he was dead, so 1-2’ Keisman: “You didn’t hit him again when he was down?”

Gerber: “What the hell for? The guy was fucking dead.

I’ve seen enough stiffs to know that. So I got out of there, walked over to York, and got a cab going south.”

Jason: “And what did you do with the hammer?”

Gerber: “Like I told you-I pushed it in a trash can on Eighth Street.”

Keisman: “Why did you kill him, Harold?”

Gerber: “Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you? He was a nosy fucker. After a while he knew too much about me.

Hey, let’s have another brew; I’m thirsty.”

The three sat there in silence, the two officers staring at the other man’s wild, flan-dng eyes. As usual, Gerber needed a shave, and uncombed hair still spiked out from under his black beret.

“You going to take me in?” he asked finally.

“We’ll think about it,” Jason Two said.

“I did it. That’s God’s own truth. I’m guilty as hell.”

They didn’t reply.

“Hey, you guys?” Gerber said brightly, straightening. up.

“I’m moving. A city marshal showed up with an eviction notice. I’ve got to vacate the premises, as they say.”

“Yeah?” the Spoiler said.

“Where you moving to?”

“Who the hell knows? I’ve got to look around. I want another place as swell as this one.”.

“Need any help moving?” Jason offered.

“Moving what?” Harold Gerber said with a ferocious grin.

“I can carry all my stuff in a shopping bag. I’m going to leave a lot of shit right here. You guys want any books? I’ve got a pile of paperbacks over there under the sink. Some hot stuff.

Yore welcome to any or all.” Yeah?” Jason said.

“Let’s take a look. Maybe there’s something my wife would like. She’s always got her nose in a book.” He squatted down at the sink, began to inspect the jumble of books. He pulled out a thick one.

“What’s this?” he said.

“A Bible?”

“Oh, that …” Gerber said casually.

“I fished it out of a garbage can.

I flipped through it. A million laughs.”

Jason inspected the book.

“Douay Version,” he read aloud.

“That’s a Catholic Bible, isn’t it? You a Catholic, Harold?”

“I was. Once. What are you?”

“Baptist. Mind if I take this along?” Jason Two asked, holding up the Bible.

“Be my guest,” Gerber said.

“Read the whole thing. I won’t tell you how it comes out.”

They sat around awhile longer before the two officers left, promising Gerber they’d tell him the next day whether or not they would arrest him.

They sat in Jason’s car, the heater on, trying to get warm.

“He’s full of crap,” Keisman said.

“A complete whacko.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jason agreed.

“Doesn’t even know how Ellerbee died.”

“Why do you figure he wants to get busted?”

“I don’t know for sure. Something to do with guilt, I suppose. What happened in Vietnam … It’s too deep for me. “What’s with the Bible?” the Spoiler asked, jerking a thumb at the book.

“Why did you glom on to that?”

“Look at it,” Jason Two said, ruffling the pages.

“It’s full of dog-ears. Someone’s been doing some heavy reading. And I don’t believe he found it in a garbage can. Nobody throws out a Bible.”

“Jose, that’s the Baptist in you talking.”

“Maybe. But he says he used to be a Catholic, and this is a Catholic edition. Funny a backslid Catholic should find a Catholic Bible in a garbage can.”

““God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.”’ “Hey, Jason said admiringly, “there’s more to you than Gucci after all, isn’t there?”

“I was brought up right,” Keisman said.

“Didn’t go bad until-oh, maybe the age of six or so.”

“Well …” Jason T. Jason said, staring down at the book in his hands, “it may be nothing, but what say we give it the old college try?”

The Spoiler groaned.

“You mean check every Catholic church in the city?”

“I don’t think we’ll have to do that. Just the ones in Greenwich Village. I’m hoping that poor son of a bitch was praying in some church on that Friday night.”

“Man, you really dig the long shots, don’t you?”

Because of previous arrests, there was a photo of Harold Gerber in his NYPD file, and Jason cajoled a police photographer into making two copies, one for himself, one for Keisman.

At the same time, Detective Calazo was having more serious photo problems. Apparently there was no shot of Ronald Bellsey in the files. Calazo could have requested that a police photographer take a telephoto of Bellsey without the subject’s knowledge-but that meant making out a requisition and then waiting.

The old, white-haired gumshoe had been around a long time, and knew a lot of ways to skin a cat in what he sometimes called the “Dick Biz.” He looked up the name and address of a trade magazine, The Wholesale Butcher, and visited their editorial offices on West 14th Street.

Sure enough, they had a photograph of Ronald J. Bellsey in their files. Calazo flashed his patsy and borrowed the shot, promising to return it. He didn’t bother asking them not to tell Bellsey about his visit. Let them tell the fink; it would do him good to sweat a little.

Then Benny, with the aid of Sergeant Boone, when he could spare the time, tailed the subject for almost a week. He discovered that Bellsey had three bars he favored: the Tail of the Whale on Eleventh Avenue, a tavern on Seventh Avenue near Madison Square Garden, and another on 52nd Street, just east of Broadway.

He also discovered that Bellsey got his ashes hauled two afternoons a week by a Chinese hooker working out of a fleabag hotel on West 23rd Street. She had a sheet a yard long, all arrests for loitering, solicitation, and prostitution. She was getting a little frazzled around the edges now, and Calazo figured she’d be lucky to get twenty bucks a pop.

He didn’t move on her-just made sure he put her name (Betty Lee), address, room, and phone number in his report to Boone. Then he turned his attention to those three hangouts Bellsey frequented.

All three were patronized by boxers, trainers, managers, agents, bookies, and hangers-on in the fight racket. And all three had walls covered with photos and paintings of dead and living pugs, along with such memorabilia as bloodied gloves, trunks, shoes, and robes.

Calazo then checked the records at Midtown North and Midtown South to see how many times the cops had been called to the three joints, and for what reasons. This would have been an endless task, but Benny had friends in every precinct in Manhattan, so, with a little help, the job took only two days.

After winnowing out incidents of public drunkenness, freefor-all donnybrooks, robberies, attempted rape, and one case of indecent exposure, Calazo was left with four unsolved cases of assault that pretty much followed the pattern of the attack on Detective Timothy Hogan.

In all four episodes, a badly beaten man had been found on the sidewalk, in an alley, or in the gutter near one of the three bars. None of the victims could positively identify his assailant, but all four had been drinking in one of Bellsey’s favorite hangouts.

Showing the borrowed photo to owners, waiters, bartenders, and regular customers, Calazo learned a lot about Bellsey-none of it good. The detective was convinced the subject had been responsible for the four unsolved assaults, plus the attack on Tim Hogan. But he doubted if there would ever be enough evidence to arrest, let alone indict and convict.

His main problem, he knew, was to determine if Bellsey was really at home on the night Ellerbee was killed. Mrs. Lorna Bellsey had told Hogan that she hadn’t actually seen her husband from eight-thirty to eleven o’clock. But that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t there.

In addition to solving that puzzle, Calazo was determined to do something about Hogan’s beating. Big Tim was estupido, but still he was a cop, and that meant something to Benjamin Calazo.

Also, he hated guys like Ronald J. Bellsey who thought they could muscle their way through life and never pay any dues. So, in his direct way, Calazo began to plot how he might solve his problems and, at the same time, cut Bellsey off at the knees.

The fact that he would be retired, an ex-cop, in another three weeks, was also a factor. He would end his career gloriously by teaching a crud a lesson, avenging a fellow officer and, with luck, discovering who hammered in Dr. Ellerbee’s skull.

That would be something to remember when he was playing shuffleboard in Florida.

If Edward Delaney had known what Calazo was planning, he’d have understood how the detective felt and sympathized.

But that wouldn’t have prevented him from yanking Calazo off the case. Personal hatreds had a way of fogging a man’s judgment, and the downfall of Ronald Bellsey was small potatoes compared to finding Ellerbee’s killer.

At the moment, Delaney had concerns of his own. Chief Suarez called and, in almost despairing tones, asked if there had been any progress. Delaney told him there had been a few minor developments, no breakthroughs, and suggested the two of them get together and review the entire investigation.

They agreed to meet at Delaney’s home at nine o’clock on Wednesday night.

“I wish Mrs. Suarez could come with you,” Delaney said.

“I know my wife would like to meet her.”

“That is most kind of you, sir,” Suarez said.

“I shall certainly ask her, and if we are able to arrange for the children, I am sure she will be delighted to visit your charming home.”

Delaney repeated this conversation to Monica.

“The guy talks like a grandee,” he said.

“He must drive those micks at headquarters right up the wall.”

“Well, we got an invitation, too,” Monica said.

“Diane Ellerbee called and asked if we’d like to come up to her Brewster place with the Boones this Saturday. I told her I’d check with you first, then call her back. I spoke to Rebecca and she said she and Abner would love to go. Shall I tell Diane it’s okay for Saturday?”

“Oh-ho,” he said.

“Now it’s “Diane,’ is it? What happened to “Doctor Ellerbee’?”

“I have a lot in common with her,” Monica said loftily, “and it’s silly not to be on a first-name basis.”

“Oh? What do you have in common with her?”

“She’s a very intelligent woman.”

“You win,” he said, laughing.

“Sure, call and tell her we’ll be there on Saturday. Is she going to feed us?”

“Of course. She said she’s thinking about a buffet dinner for early evening.”

“A buffet,” he said grumpily.

“That’s as bad as a cafeteria.”

Promptly at nine o’clock on Wednesday evening, Michael and Rosa Suarez arrived at the brownstone, both wearing what Delaney later described as Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Introductions were made and the two couples settled down in the big living room, close to the fireplace, where a modest blaze warmed and mesmerized.

They talked of the current cold snap, of the problems of raising children, of the high cost of ground beef. Mrs. Suarez spoke little, at first, but Delaney had prepared hot rum toddies (with lemon and nutmeg), and after two small cups of that, Rosa’s shyness thawed and she began to sparkle.

Monica brought out a plate of her special Christmas treats: pitted dates stuffed with almond paste, covered with a flaky pastry crust and then rolled in shredded coconut before baking. Rosa tried one, rolled her eyes ecstatically.

“Please,” she begged, “the recipe!”

Monica laughed and held out her hand.

“Come into the kitchen with me, Rosa. We’ll trade secrets and let these two grouches talk business.”

Delaney took Suarez into the study and provided cigars.

“First of all,” the Chief said, “I must tell you that I have been forced to cut the number of men assigned to the Ellerbee homicide. We were getting no results, nada, and the murder was a month ago. More than a month. Since then there have been many, many things that demand attention. What I wish to say is that you and the people assigned to you are now our only hope. You understand why it was necessary to pull men off this case?”