Second Deadly Sin Page 3

  “A little Scotch would be fine, Edward. Just straight. No ice, please.”

  They sat facing in old club chairs, the original leather dry and cracked. They raised their glasses to each other, sipped.

  In the Department, Thorsen was called “Admiral,” and looked it: fine, silvered hair, cutting blue eyes, a posture so erect he was almost rigid. He was slender, small-boned, fastidiously well groomed.

  He had been Edward Delaney’s mentor in the Department, his “rabbi,” and a good one, for he had a talent for political infighting, an instinct for picking the winner in the ferocious conflicts that periodically racked city government. More, he enjoyed that world where government of law crashed against government of men. He stepped his way daintily through the debris, and was never soiled.

  “How are things going?” Delaney asked.

  Thorsen flipped a palm back and forth.

  “The usual,” he said. “You know about the budget cuts and layoffs.”

  “Rates up?”

  “No, that’s the crazy thing.” Thorsen laughed shortly. “Fewer cops, but no great increase in crime. The unions thought there would be. So did I.”

  “So did I,” Delaney nodded. “Glad to hear there isn’t. Chief Bernhardt is doing a good job.”

  Bernhardt was Delaney’s successor as Chief of Detectives. A career cop, he had commanded Brooklyn detectives before being brought to headquarters in Manhattan. His wife’s father was on the board of a prestigious New York bank that held a vaultful of New York City and State notes and bonds. It didn’t hurt.

  “Good,” Thorsen said, “but not great. But Bernhardt’s got his problems, too. The cutbacks have hurt. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh?”

  “You read about a homicide about a month ago? Victor Maitland? The artist?”

  “Sure. Down in Little Italy. I followed it. It fell out of the papers in a hurry.”

  “There was a lot of other hot news at the time,” Thorsen said. “Thank God. Also, we didn’t have anything. It’s still open.”

  “Sounded like a B-and-E to me,” Delaney said. “A guy with a snootful of shit breaks the door, this Maitland puts up a fight and gets the shiv.”

  “Could be,” Thorsen said. “I don’t know all the details, but his place had been ripped off twice before, and he had locks and a chain. They weren’t forced. We figured he opened for someone he knew.”

  “Oh? Anything missing?”

  “His wallet. But he never carried much cash. And he still had his credit cards on him. There was an expensive portable radio in the place. It wasn’t touched.”

  “Ah?” Delaney said. “A faked heist? It’s been done before. Who inherits?”

  “No will. That’ll give a lot of lawyers a lot of work. The IRS sealed everything. The guy was loaded. His last painting went for a hundred big ones.”

  “I’ve seen his stuff,” Delaney said. “I like it.”

  “I do, too,” Thorsen said. “So does Karen. She thinks he was the greatest thing since Rembrandt. But that’s neither here nor there. We’re dead on the case. No leads. It would be just another open file, but we’re getting a lot of flak.”

  Delaney rose to freshen Thorsen’s drink. He also dropped two more ice cubes into his rye-and-water.

  “Flak?” he said. “Where from?”

  “Ever hear of a guy named J. Barnes Chapin?”

  “Sure. A politico. State senator. From upstate somewhere.”

  “That’s right,” Thorsen nodded. “His home base is Rockland County. Chapin has been in Albany since the year one. He swings a lot of clout. Right now, there’s a bill up for a special State grant to New York City for law enforcement—cops, courts, prisons, the works. Chapin could tip the scale.”

  “So?”

  “Chapin is—or was—Victor Maitland’s uncle.”

  “Oh-ho.”

  “The funny thing is that Chapin couldn’t care less who offed Maitland. From what we’ve learned, this Maitland was a Grade-A bastard. As the old saying goes, the list of suspects has been narrowed to ten thousand. Everyone hated his guts, including his wife and son. Everyone but his mother. A boy’s best friend etcetera. She’s a wealthy old dame who lives near Nyack. One daughter, Maitland’s sister, lives with her. The mother’s been driving Chapin crazy. He’s her brother. And he’s been driving us crazy. When are we going to find Victor Maitland’s killer and get his sister off his back?”

  Delaney was silent, staring at Thorsen. He took a slow sip of his drink. The two men locked eyes.

  “Why me?” he asked quietly.

  Thorsen hunched forward.

  “Look, Edward,” he said, “you don’t have to quote me the numbers. I know the graph: if a homicide isn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours, solution probability drops off to nit. It’s a cold trail. Granted. And just between you, me, and the lamppost, finding the killer of Victor Maitland comes pretty far down on the Department’s anxiety list.”

  “I understand.”

  “But we’ve got to go through the motions. To keep J. Barnes Chapin happy. So he can keep his sister happy. Convince her we’re working on it.”

  “And keep Chapin on the City’s side when that new bill comes up for a vote.”

  “Of course,” Thorsen shrugged. “What else?”

  “Again,” Delaney said, “why me?”

  Thorsen sighed, sat back, crossed his knees, sipped his drink.

  “Great Scotch, Edward. What is it?”

  “Glenlivet.”

  “Well, for one thing, Chapin asked for you. Yes, he did. In person. He remembers Operation Lombard. Second, we just don’t have the manpower to waste on this thing. Edward, it’s cold. You know it, we know it. It was probably a smash-and-grab like you said, and the cat is probably in Kansas City by now. Who the hell knows? No one’s expecting you to break it. For Christ’s sake, Edward, there’s been a hundred unsolved homicides in the city since Maitland was greased. We can only do so much.”

  “What do you want from me?” Delaney asked stonily.

  “Look into it. Just look into it. Edward, I know you’re retired, but don’t tell me you’re all that busy. I won’t buy it. Just look into it. We can cover your expenses. And we’ll assign you one man on active duty to drive you around and flash his potsy whenever it’s needed. You’ll get copies of everything we’ve got—reports, photos, PM, the works. Edward, we don’t expect anything. Just take a look at it.”

  “So you can tell Chapin the murder of his nephew is under active investigation?”

  Thorsen smiled wanly.

  “That’s exactly correct,” he said. “It’s for the Department, Edward.”

  Delaney raised his arms and went through an elaborate mime of bowing a violin. Thorsen laughed.

  “Iron Balls!” he said. “Well, what the hell, I thought it might interest you, might intrigue you. Get you out of Monica’s hair. No?”

  Delaney looked down at his glass, turning it in his hands.

  “I’ll sleep on it,” he said. “Talk it over with Monica. All right? I’ll call you in the morning, one way or the other.”

  “Sure,” Thorsen said. “That’s good enough for me. Fine. Think it over.

  He drained his drink and stood up. Delaney started to rise, then suddenly Thorsen flopped back into his chair.

  “There’s one other thing,” he said.

  “Had to be,” Delaney said sardonically.

  “Remember a cop named Sam—Samuel Boone? About fifteen years ago?”

  “Sure, I remember him,” Delaney said. “He got blown away. I went to his funeral.”

  “Right. It was in the South Bronx. My precinct at the time. Jewish then. Now it’s all Spic and Span. This Sam Boone was the best. I mean, the best. They loved him. On his birthday, old Jewish ladies would bring cakes and cookies to the precinct house. I swear it. He was out of Kentucky or Tennessee or West Virginia, or someplace like that. An accent you could cut with a knife, and the Jews on his beat taught him some Yiddis
h. They’d say, ‘Samele, speak me some Yiddish,’ and he’d say what they had taught him in that corn-pone accent of his, and they’d break up. Anyway, a car pulled into a one-way street, going the wrong way, and piled up against on-coming traffic. Sam was nearby and walked over. The car had Illinois plates or Michigan. Something like that. Knowing Sam, I figure he would have explained to the driver about our one-way streets, get him turned around, and send him on his way with a warning. He leans down to talk to the guy—and pow! pow! pow! Three in the face and chest. The guy had to be an idiot, an idiot! What’s he going to do? He can’t pull ahead; he’s bumper to bumper with the on-coming cars. And he can’t back up because of the traffic on the avenue. So he piles out of the car.

  “Edward, I got there about ten minutes after it happened. The streets were crowded, lots of people on the sidewalks, and they saw Sam go down. I swear we had to tear this guy away from them. If someone had had a rope, he’d have been swinging. I’ve never seen people so infuriated. To this day it scares me to think about it. And of course the clincher is that this guy was facing a GTA back in Michigan, or Illinois, or whatever. Even if Sam had asked for his ID, which, knowing Sam, I doubt he’d have done, the guy faced three-to-five at most, and probably less. But he panicked, and I lost the best street cop in my precinct.”

  Delaney nodded somberly, rose to pour fresh drinks, add ice cubes to his glass. Then he sat down again opposite Thorsen.

  “That’s the way it goes,” he said. “But what’s that got to do with Maitland’s murder?”

  “Well …” Thorsen said. He drew a deep breath. “Sam had a son. Abner Boone. He joined the Department. I kept an eye on him. I figured I owed him. Abner Boone. He’s a detective sergeant now. You know him, Edward?”

  “Abner Boone?” Delaney said, frowning. “I remember him vaguely. About six-one. One-eighty. Sandy hair. Blue eyes. Long arms and legs. Nice grin. Slightly stooped. Looks like his ankles and wrists are sticking out of his clothes. White scar on the left neck. Wears glasses for reading. That the guy?”

  “Remember him vaguely?” Thorsen mimicked. “I should have your memory! That’s the guy. Edward, you know when the son of a slain patrolman joins the Force, we’ve got to keep an eye on him. Maybe the kid did it to get revenge, or to prove he’s as good as his daddy was, or to prove he’s a better man than his daddy was. It can be sticky. Anyway, I kept an eye on Abner Boone, and helped when I could. The kid did just great. Made detective sergeant, finally, and about two years ago they gave him one of those commando homicide squads that are supposed to help out the regular units when the workload piles up or when a big case comes along.”

  “How are they working out?” Delaney asked. “The special squads?”

  “Still being evaluated,” Thorsen said. “But I don’t think they’ll last. Too much jealousy from the regular units. That’s natural. Anyway, this Abner Boone got this squad, and after a year or so, he had a good record. Some important busts and a lot of good assists. Then he started hitting the sauce. Hard. His squad covered for him for awhile. Then it couldn’t be covered. I did what I could—counseling, doctors, psychiatrists, AA, the lot—but nothing worked. Edward, the kid is trying. I know he is. He’s really trying. If he falls again, he’s out.”

  “And this is the man you want to assign me on the Maitland case? A lush?”

  Thorsen laughed shortly.

  “You got it,” he said. “I figured we can keep J. Barnes Chapin happy with an on-going investigation, even if it comes to zilch. At the same time, I can get Abner Boone out of the office on detached assignment, and maybe he can straighten himself out. It’s worth the gamble. And even if he goes off again, who’s to see? Except you.”

  Delaney looked at him with wonder. Perhaps, he thought, this was the secret of Thorsen’s success. You manipulate people, but as you do, you tell them exactly why and how you are doing it. Bemused by the honesty, won by the candor in the ice-blue eyes, they agree to do what you want. It all sounds so reasonable.

  “I’ll sleep on it,” he repeated.

  Two hours later, he sat with Monica on the living room couch. The TV screen was dead. They were sipping decaf coffee. He told her exactly what Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen had said. He had almost total recall.

  “What do you think?” he finished.

  “He’s an alcoholic?” she asked.

  “Abner Boone? Sounds like it from what Ivar said. Or on his way. But that’s not important. If Boone fucks up, they’ll give me someone else. The question is, should I do it?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I don’t know. In a way I do, and in a way I don’t. I’d like a chance to stick Maitland’s killer. A human being shouldn’t be destroyed, and the killer walks away. That’s not right. I know that sounds simple, but it’s the way I feel. My God, if … Well … On the other hand, I’m retired, and it’s the Department’s migraine, not mine. Still … What do you think?”

  “I think you should,” she said.

  “Want me out of your hair?” he said, smiling. “Out of the house? Working?”

  “Nooo,” she said slowly. “You’re a pain in the ass at times.” He looked up sharply. “But I think this is something you should do. But it’s really up to you. It’s your decision.”

  He motioned, and she came over to sit on his lap, a soft weight. He put an arm about her waist. She put an arm around his neck.

  “Am I really a pain in the ass?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” she nodded. “Sometimes I am too. I know. Everyone is. Sometimes. I really think you should do this thing, Edward. Ivar said he doesn’t really expect results, but that was just to convince you to take the job, to challenge you. He really does think you can do it, and so does this Chapin. I don’t like that man; he’s such a reactionary. Do you think you can find Maitland’s killer?”

  “I don’t know,” he sighed. “It’s a cold, cold trail.”

  “If anyone can, you can,” she said, and that ended it as far as she was concerned. “Coming to bed?” she asked.

  “In a while,” he said.

  She rose, kissed the top of his head, took their cups and saucers into the kitchen. He heard running water, then the sound of her footsteps going upstairs.

  He sat another half-hour by himself, slumped, pondering. It was an injustice to Monica, but he thought of what Barbara, his first wife, would have counseled. He knew. Exactly what Monica urged. He was lucky with his women. It was odd how they felt, their lust for life, their passion for children and plants. They were right of course, he acknowledged. You nurtured it. The spark. You breathed on it to keep it alive. You punished people who destroyed it. The spark …

  He sighed again, stood up and stretched, began his rounds. First into the basement to test windows and doors. Then, moving upward, checks to make certain chains and locks were in place to keep out the darkness. Mary and Sylvia were sleeping placidly, secure. The whole house was secure. An island.

  He undressed as quietly as he could, and slid into bed. But Monica was still awake. She turned to come into his arms. Warm and waiting.

  3

  THE MATERIAL ON THE Maitland case was delivered to the Delaney brownstone by an unmarked police car shortly before noon. It came jammed into three battered liquor cartons with a note from Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen: “Sorry it’s not in order, Edward—but you’re good at that! Boone will call you tomorrow to set up a meet. Luck.”

  The Chief had the cartons brought into the study and piled on the floor next to his broad desk. He went into the kitchen and made himself two sandwiches: salami and sliced Spanish onion (with mayonnaise) on rye, and ham and cheese (with mustard) on a seeded roll. He took the sandwiches and an open bottle of Heineken back into the study, placed them carefully aside on a small end table, and set to work.

  He went through the three cartons slowly and steadily, glancing briefly at each document before adding it to one of four loosely classified piles:

  1. Official reports of the investigat
ing officers.

  2. Signed statements of those questioned, and photographs.

  3. Photos of the victim alive and as a corpse in situ, and reports of the Medical Examiner.

  4. Miscellaneous bits of paper, most of which were informal reactions of detectives to those they had questioned, or suggestions for additional lines of inquiry.

  Working methodically, stopping occasionally for a bite of sandwich, a gulp of beer, Delaney had all the records broken down by 3:30 P.M. He then went through each stack arranging it by date and time, switching a few documents from one pile to another, but generally adhering to his original division.

  He put on his heavy reading glasses, pulled the green-shaded student lamp close. He sat down in his swivel chair and began with the photos and PM, since this was the smallest stack. Finished, he started on the pile of official reports. He was halfway through when Monica called him to dinner.

  He washed up and joined the family in the dining room. He tried to eat slowly and join in the conversation. He made a few ponderous jokes. But he left the table early, declining dessert, and took a mug of black coffee back into the study with him. He completed the initial reading shortly after 9:00 P.M. He then began a second reading, slower this time, with a pad of yellow legal paper nearby on which he occasionally jotted brief notes and questions.

  Monica brought him a thermos of coffee at 11:00 and announced she would watch TV for an hour and then go to bed. He smiled absently, kissed her cheek, went back to his reading. He completed the second review by 1:00 A.M. He then filed the material in folders in the bottom drawer of a metal cabinet equipped with a lock. He dug out his street map and street guide of Manhattan and located the scene of the killing, on Mott Street between Prince and Spring.

  He knew the section; about twenty years previously, when he was a dick two, he had been assigned temporarily as a summer replacement for precinct detectives going on vacation. The neighborhood was practically 100 percent Italian then, part of Little Italy. Delaney remembered how, later in the year, he had enjoyed the Feast of San Gennaro on Mulberry Street, one of the city’s big ethnic festivals.