Second Deadly Sin Read online

  “I wouldn’t know,” Chief Delaney said. “Did you ever model for Victor Maitland?”

  “No,” she said. “Never. I wasn’t his type. His type of model, I mean. He liked the zoftigs. Big tits, big ass. He said I was the Venus of the Computer Age. That’s what Jake Dukker is going to call his aluminum-foil nude of me: Venus of the Computer Age.”

  “Could Dukker have killed Maitland?” Delaney asked directly.

  Again he rocked her. He decided this was the way to do it: keep her off-balance, switch from one topic to another before she could get set. If he followed a logical train of thought, she’d be two questions ahead of him.

  “Jake?” she said. “Jake Dukker kill Maitland?”

  That was what people did when they wanted time to think: they repeated the question.

  “Maybe,” she said. “They were friends, but Victor had something Jake will never have. It drove him ape.”

  “What was that?”

  “Integrity,” she said. “Old-fashioned word, but I’ll bet you just dote on old-fashioned words, Edward X. Delaney. Jake is the better painter. Listen, I know painting, I really do. God knows I’ve screwed enough artists. Jake is better than Maitland was. Technically, I mean. And as fast. But Victor didn’t give one good goddamn what was in fashion, the fads, what was selling. I tell you this, and I know for a fact: if Victor Maitland had never sold a painting in his life, he wouldn’t have changed his style, wouldn’t have stopped doing what he wanted to do, what he had to do. Jake isn’t like that at all, and can never be. He hated Victor’s integrity. Hated it! At the same time he wanted it, wanted it so bad it drove him right up a wall. I know it. He told me once and started crying. Jake likes to be spanked.”

  That stopped them. They didn’t know if she meant it literally or metaphorically. Delaney decided not to press it.

  “Sergeant Boone tells me you admitted you were intimate with Victor Maitland.”

  “‘Intimate with Victor Maitland,’” she mimicked. “You sound like daddy. I always did have a thing for older men. All my shrinks have told me I’m a father-fucker at heart. Sure, I balled Victor. I wish he had bathed more often, but sometimes that can be fun, too. What a savage!”

  “And he paid you?”

  “He gave me gifts, yes,” she said, unconcerned.

  “Money?”

  “Mostly. Once a small painting, which I sold for ten thousand.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “The painting? I loved it. A little still life. A single poppy in a crystal bud vase. But I liked those long, green still lifes even better.”

  “Did you tell Maitland you had sold his painting?”

  “Of course.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “He thought it was funny as hell. He said I got more for it than Geltman would have.”

  “Apparently Maitland was a generous man.”

  “He wasn’t cheap,” she acknowledged.

  Delaney rubbed his chin, squinting through the French doors. The mist was burning away. He could see fuzzy shadows forming on the tiled terrace.

  “Did you ever procure women for Maitland?” he asked.

  There was a moment of silence, brief, heavy.

  “Procure,” she said. “I don’t like that word. I suggested models for him occasionally. Girls I thought he could use. His type.”

  “He paid you for this—this service?”

  “Of course. Don’t worry, Edward X. Delaney; I declared it all on my tax return. I’m clean.”

  “I’m sure you are,” he said blandly. “Let’s get on to the Friday he was killed. You said you left here about ten-thirty and went to your yoga class for an hour.”

  “Yoga and meditation,” she said. “For twenty minutes we sit naked on the floor and go, ‘Ooom.’”

  “After that you went to Jake Dukker’s studio on Central Park South. Did you pose for the aluminum-foil nude then?”

  “No, Jake was setting up for a photo session. He’s a photographer, too, you know, and a good one. Mostly fashion. He’s in Vogue and Town & Country all the time. I sat around kibitzing until they broke for lunch.”

  “That was at twelve? Or thereabouts?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “And then?”

  “Then Jake and I went upstairs to his apartment. He’s got a duplex, you know. Jake made lunch for us. He thinks he’s a great gourmet cook. He’s lousy. I lived in Paris, and I know. He made an herb omelet that was barely edible. But he had a nice chilled Spanish white. I filled up on that.”

  “And did you have relations?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Sexual relations,” he said. “While you were up in his apartment? Before, during, or after lunch?”

  “You know,” she said, “you’re not going to believe this, but I don’t remember. I really don’t.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “After all, it was six weeks ago.”

  She laughed her trilling laugh, up and down the scale.

  “Oh, Edward X. Delaney,” she said. “You’re a sly one, you are. All right, I remember that awful herb omelet, but I don’t remember if we screwed. Probably not.”

  “Why ‘Probably not’?”

  “Because his assistants and the fashion models were waiting for him downstairs. And the models get paid by the hour. Jake is all business.”

  “Even in his painting?”

  “You better believe it, buster. If the Hudson River School ever comes back into style, Jake will be sitting out there on the Palisades, painting the river and trees and clouds and Indians in canoes.”

  “So then, after lunch, you and Dukker went downstairs to the studio, and he resumed shooting that photography assignment at about one-thirty. Is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How late did you stay?”

  “Oh, for another hour or so. I had an appointment at the hairdresser’s.”

  “How many models were involved in this photography session at Dukker’s?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “One?”

  “No, two or three, I guess.”

  “Perhaps four? Or five?”

  “There could have been,” she said. “Is it important?”

  “What were they modeling?”

  “Lingerie.”

  “Why did you attend? Photography shootings are usually boring, aren’t they?”

  She shrugged. “I just dropped by to kill a few hours. Before my appointment.”

  “It wasn’t to take a look at the models, was it? For your friends? The important men?”

  At first he thought he had cracked her. He watched her head jerk back. Thin lips peeled away from wet teeth. He thought he heard a faint hiss. But she held herself together. She smiled bleakly.

  “Edward X. Delaney,” she said. “Good old Edward X. Delaney. I don’t run a call-girl ring, you know.”

  “I do know that,” he said. “You wouldn’t be involved in anything as obvious and vulgar as that.”

  He was conscious of Boone stirring restlessly in the chair alongside him. He turned to him.

  “Sergeant?” he said. “Anything?”

  “Belle,” Abner Boone said, “you said you provided Maitland with models.”

  “Occasionally,” she said tightly. “And I didn’t provide them; I suggested girls to him.”

  “Ever suggest a very young girl?” Boone pressed on. “Maybe Puerto Rican? Or Italian? A Latin-type?”

  She thought a moment, frowning.

  “Can’t recall anyone like that,” she said. “Recently?”

  “Say a few weeks before he died. Maybe a month.”

  “No,” she said definitely. “I didn’t send Victor a girl for at least six months. Who is she?”

  Boone looked at Delaney. The Chief saw no reason not to tell Belle Sarazen why they were interested. He described the three drawings they had found in Maitland’s studio. He said it was believed they had been done shortly before Maitland
’s death. Maybe on the morning he had been killed.

  “Where are they now?” she said. “The drawings?”

  “I have them,” Delaney said.

  “Bring them around,” she suggested. “I’ll take a look. Maybe I can identify her. I know most of the girls Victor used, and a lot more besides.”

  “I may do that,” Delaney said. He rose to his feet, putting his notebook away, and Sergeant Boone did the same. They thanked Belle Sarazen for her cooperation, and asked if they might return if more questions came up.

  “Any time,” she said. “I’ll be right here.”

  She rang for the Filipino to show them out. They were at the bedroom door when she called Delaney’s name. He stopped and turned slowly to face her.

  “You don’t really think I knew it was my husband when I fired the shotgun, do you?” she asked. Her smile was flirtatious, almost coy.

  His smile was just as meaningless.

  “We’ll never know, will we?” he said.

  They sat in Boone’s car, comparing notes and blowing more smoke.

  “There’s nothing in the file about her and drugs,” Delaney said. “No record of busts. But a woman like that, living a life like that, has got to be on. I’d be willing to bet she’s feeding her nose. Maybe she was the source of the poppers they found in Maitland’s studio.”

  “Could be,” Boone said. “And maybe dealing a little with her important friends. You were a mite rough on her, Chief. Think we’ll get any flak?”

  Delaney considered a moment.

  “We might,” he acknowledged. “She could be humping the entire Board of Estimate, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. If I get a call from Thorsen tonight, I’ll know we made a dent. How do you figure her motive?”

  “For wasting Maitland?”

  “No, no. For living. The way she does.”

  “Money hungry,” Boone said promptly. “Anything for a buck.”

  “I don’t agree,” Delaney said, just as promptly. “That might do for Saul Geltman. By the way, did you catch the way he referred to the art he sells as ‘the merchandise’? But I don’t think it holds for the Sarazen woman. Money, sure; she needs it. We all need it. But as a means to an end; not money for the sake of piling it up.”

  “What, then?”

  “Here’s how I see her; a spunky kid from a good family that’s seen better days. Marries a wealthy, older man. Big house, horses, mistress of the manor—the whole enchilada. Now she is someone. But he strays, and she’s got pride and a temper. So she blows Canfield away, with a lot of publicity, her name and picture in the papers. She likes that. Off she goes to Paris and starts spending, feeling pretty good, a tough, smart twist who got away with murder. But Europe is full of jackals, tougher and smarter, and in five years the money is gone, and who cares about Belle Sarazen from Raccoon Ford, Virginia? If she stays in Europe, she’ll be peddling her ass in flea markets. So she comes home and marries Congressman Burroughs. Now she’s someone again: the Washington hostess with the mostest. Big parties. Entertaining the President. It doesn’t cost Burroughs that much. I know how D.C. works; she’d have no trouble getting lobbyists and PR men to pick up the tab if she could collect the right guests and maybe provide some push-push on a crucial vote. Then Burroughs conks, and she’s lost her power base. Washington is full of Congressional widows. So she moves to New York and gets in with the art and museum crowd. Keeps up her old friendships with politicos. Helps them out with high-class girls and maybe some dust when needed. Lends her apartment for their fun and games. Takes gifts for these services, money gifts, and gets high-level protection in return. More important to her—she’s on all the society pages: party-thrower, woman-about-town, model for famous artists and fashion photographers; she’s still someone.”

  “But why?” Boone wanted to know.

  “If not fame, then notoriety,” Delaney said somberly, almost speaking to himself. “As long as the world knows Belle Sarazen exists. Those scrapbooks are the tip-off. She’s got to reassure herself about who she is. Some people are like that. They have such a low opinion of themselves that to endure, they’ve got to create another image in other people’s eyes. She’s a mirror woman. Now she can look in the mirror and see a sexy beauty with a face that looks like it hasn’t been lived in, and a body that doesn’t stop. The scrapbooks tell her who she is. But if it wasn’t for the publicity, if it wasn’t for the world’s reaction to her, she’d look in the mirror and there would be nothing there. That’s why she’ll do almost anything for those important friends. She’s got to hang onto the movers and shakers. To prove she’s important, too. The poor doxy.”

  “Chief, you really think she knew it was Canfield when she blasted?”

  “Of course. She gave herself away when she said the Durkee case was her favorite. We broke that one by working on a jealous wife, a woman who thought she had been scorned. Belle could identify with that; she had been a scorned woman herself.”

  “But could she have chopped Maitland?”

  “I think so—if he was threatening her self-esteem, her vision of herself. And obviously she has the strength.”

  “Or for kicks,” Boone said wonderingly. “Maybe she did it just for kicks.”

  “She’s capable of that, too,” Delaney said stonily. “She got away with it once. After they’ve done that, they think they can keep kicking God’s shins.”

  “Listen, Chief,” the sergeant said hesitantly. “Sounds to me that with the girls and the important friends, she’s in a good position for some polite blackmail.”

  Delaney shook his head.

  “Not our Belle,” he said. “I told you she’s not money hungry. All she wants is to call Senators by their first names.”

  They had time before their meeting with Jake Dukker, and they talked about lunch.

  “Something quick,” Delaney said. “And light. You have your big meal at night, don’t you?”

  “Usually,” Boone said. “The doc’s got me on a high-protein diet. Mostly I cook at home. Easy stuff like steaks, fish, hamburgers, and so forth.”

  “How are you doing?” Delaney asked, staring straight ahead.

  “On the drinking?” Boone said calmly. “All right, so far. There isn’t a minute I don’t want it, but I’ve been able to lay off. Keeping busy on this Maitland thing helps.”

  “Does it bother you when you’re with someone, and the other man orders a drink? Like yesterday, when I had an ale at lunch, and you had iced tea?”

  “No, that doesn’t bother me,” the sergeant said. “What bothers me is when people joke about it. You know, friends and comics on TV who make jokes about how much they drink, and funny stories about drunks, and all. I don’t think it’s funny anymore. For a while there I was working at getting through the next hour without a drink. Now I work at getting through a whole day without a drink, so I guess that’s an improvement.”

  Delaney nodded. “I know it sounds stupid to say it, but you’ve got to do it yourself. No one can do it for you, or even help.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Chief,” Abner Boone said slowly. “You’ve helped.”

  “I have?” Delaney said, pleased. “Glad to hear it.”

  He didn’t ask how.

  The sun was at full blast now, the sky rapidly clearing, a nice breeze coming from the west. They decided to park somewhere near Columbus Circle, buy hotdogs from a street vendor, and maybe some cold soda, and have their lunch on a bench in Central Park. Then they could walk over to Jake Dukker’s studio.

  They pulled into a No Parking zone near the Circle, and Boone put the officer on duty card behind the windshield, hoping for the best. They found a vendor near the Maine Monument, and each bought two hotdogs, with sauerkraut, pickles, relish, mustard, and onions, and a can of wild-cherry soda. Delaney insisted on paying. They carried their lunch, bundled in paper napkins, into the park and finally discovered an empty bench stuck off on a small hillock covered with scrawny grass.

  They ate leaning forward, knees sp
read, to avoid the drippings. The opened cans of soda were set on the bald ground.

  “The way I see it,” Sergeant Boone said, mouth full, “Sarazen and Dukker have got a mutual alibi for ninety minutes. We got statements from Dukker’s assistants and from the models placing Sarazen and Dukker in the downstairs studio before twelve and after one-thirty. But for ninety minutes the two of them were upstairs, alone together. They say.”

  “You think one is covering for the other?”

  “Or they were both in on it together. Look, Chief, those times are approximate. You know how unreliable witnesses are when it comes to exact time. Maybe they were out of the studio for more than ninety minutes. Maybe as much as two hours.”

  “Keep talking. It listens.”

  “They probably didn’t take a cab. We checked thousands of trip sheets and followed up on every drop in the vicinity of the Mott Street studio between ten and three that Friday. But suppose they had a private car waiting. I think one of them, or both, could get down to Mott Street from Dukker’s place and back in ninety minutes, or maybe a little more.”

  “That’s assuming they didn’t have to go through the downstairs studio to get out. Is there a door to the outside from the upstairs floor? The apartment?”

  “That I don’t know, sir. Something we’ll have to check. Assuming there is, they leave the studio at twelve, go upstairs, pop out the door, go downstairs and head for their car. Or even—how’s this?—they drive over to Lex and Fifty-ninth, by private car or cab, and take the downtown IRT subway. There’s a local stop on Spring Street, less than two blocks from Maitland’s studio. By taking the subway, they eliminate the risk of getting stuck in traffic. And I think they could make the round trip in ninety minutes to two hours, allowing five or ten minutes for killing Maitland.”

  “I don’t know,” Delaney said doubtfully. “It’s cutting it thin.”

  “Want me to time it, sir?” Boone asked, getting a little excited about his idea. “I’ll drive from Dukker’s place to Maitland’s studio and back, and then I’ll try the same trip by subway. And time both trips.”

  “Good idea,” Delaney nodded. “Make both between ten and three on a Friday, when the traffic and subway schedule will be approximately the same as they were then.”