He could sympathize with her fright. Every cop’s wife lived with that dread. But she should have known that if anything had happened to her husband, she wouldn’t learn of it from a phone call. Two men from the Department would ring her bell. She would open the door and they would be standing there, faces twisted and guilty, and she would know.
“I’m trying to contact your husband to get some information, Mrs. Blankenship,” he went on, speaking slowly and distinctly. This was obviously not an alert woman. “I gather he’s not at home. Is he working?”
“Yes. He’s on nights for the next two weeks.”
“Could you give me his office phone number, please?”
“All right. Just a minute.”
He could also have told her not to give out any information about her husband to a stranger who calls in the middle of the night and claims he’s a captain in the NYPD. But what would be the use? Her husband had probably told her that a dozen times. A dull woman.
He got the number and thanked her. It was now getting on toward eleven o’clock; he wondered if he should try or let it go till morning. He dialed the number. Blankenship had checked in all right, but he wasn’t on the premises. Delaney left his number, without identifying himself, and asked if the operator would have him call back.
“Please tell him it’s important,” he said.
“‘Important’?” the male operator said. “How do you spell that, Mr. Important?”
Delaney hung up. A wise-ass. The Captain would remember. The Department moved in involved and sometimes mysterious ways. One day that phone operator in that detective division might be under Delaney’s command. He’d remember the high, lilting, laughing voice. It was stupid to act like that.
He started a new file, headed BLANK, Daniel G., and in it he stowed the Blankenship reports, his notes on Blank’s record of arrests for speeding, the make of car he drove and his license number. Then he went to the Manhattan telephone directory and looked up Blank, Daniel G. There was only one listing of that name, on East 83rd Street. He made a note of the phone number and added that to his file.
He was mixing a fresh rye highball-was it his second or third? — when the phone rang. He put down the glass and bottle carefully, then ran for the phone, catching it midway through the third ring.
“Hello?”
“This is Blankenship. Who’s this?”
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here. I was-”
“Captain! Good to hear from you. How are you, sir?”
“Fine, Ronnie. And you?” Delaney had never before called the man by his first name, hadn’t even known what it was before his call to Fernandez. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever speaking to Blankenship personally, but he wanted to set a tone.
“Okay, Captain. Getting along.”
“How do you like the new assignment? Tell me, do you think this reorganization is going to work?”
“Captain, it’s great!” Blankenship said enthusiastically. “They should have done it years ago. Now I can spend some time on important stuff and forget the little squeals. Our arrest rate is up, and morale is real good. The case load is way down, and we’ve got time to think.”
The man sounded intelligent. His voice was pleasingly deep, vibrant, resonant. Delaney remembered that big, jutting Adam’s apple.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Listen, I’m on leave of absence, but something came up and I agreed to help out on it.”
He let it go at that, keeping it vague, waiting to see if Blankenship would pick up on it and ask questions. But the detective hesitated a moment, then said, “Sure, Captain.”
“It concerns a man named Daniel Blank, in the Two-five-one. He was involved in two beefs last year. You handled both of them. I have your reports. Good reports. Very complete.”
“What was that name again?”
“Blank, B-l-a-n-k, Daniel G. He lives on East Eighty-third Street. The first thing was a pushing match with a guy who was allegedly beating his dog. The second-”
“Oh sure,” Blankenship interrupted. “I remember. Probably because his name is Blank and mine is Blankenship. At the time I thought it was funny I should be handling him. Two beefs in six months. In the second, he kicked the shit out of a faggot. Right?”
“Right.”
“But the victim wouldn’t sign a complaint. What do you want to know, Captain?”
“About Blank. You saw him?”
“Sure. Twice.”
“What do you remember about him?”
Blankenship recited: “Blank, Daniel G. White, male, approximately six feet or slightly taller, about-”
“Wait, wait a minute,” Delaney said hastily. “I’m taking notes. Go a little slower.”
“Okay, Captain. You got the height?”
“Six feet or a little over.”
“Right. Weight about one seventy-five. Slim build but good shoulders. Good physical condition from what I could see. No obvious physical scars or infirmities. Dark complexion. Sunburned, I’d say. Long face. Sort of Chinese-looking. Let’s see-anything else?”
“How was he dressed?” Delaney asked, admiring the man’s observation and memory.
“Dark suits,” Blankenship said promptly. “Nothing flashy, but well-cut and expensive. Some funny things I remember. Gold link chain on his wrist watch. Like a bracelet. The first time I saw him I think it was his own hair. The second time I swear it was a rug. The second time he was wearing a real crazy shirt open to his pipik, with some kind of necklace. You know-hippie stuff.”
“Accent?” Delaney nodded.
“Accent?” Blankenship repeated, thought a moment, then said, “Not a native New Yorker. Mid-western, I’d guess. Sorry I can’t be more specific.”
“You’re doing great,” Delaney assured him, elated. “You think he’s strong?”
“Strong? I’d guess so. Any guy who can break another man’s jaw with a punch has got to be strong. Right?”
“Right. What was your personal reaction to him? Flitty?”
“Could be, Captain. When they punish an obvious faggot like that, it’s got to mean something. Right?”
“Right.”
“I wanted to charge him, but the victim refused to sign anything. So what could I do?”
“I understand,” Delaney said. “Believe me, this has nothing to do with that beef.”
“I believe you, Captain.”
“Do you know where he works, what he does for a living?”
“It’s not in my reports?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Sorry about that. But you’ve got his lawyer’s name and address, haven’t you?”
“Oh yes, I have that. I’ll get it from him,” Delaney lied. It was Blankenship’s first mistake, and a small one. No use going to the lawyer; he’d simply refuse to divulge the information, then surely mention to Blank that the police had been around asking questions.
“That just about covers it,” Delaney said. “Thanks very much for your help. What are you working on now?”
“It’s a beaut, Captain,” Blankenship said in his enthusiastic way. “This old dame got knocked off in her apartment. Strangled. No signs of forcible entry. And as far as we can tell, nothing stolen. A neighbor smelled it; that’s how we got on to it. A poor little apartment, but it turns out the old dame was loaded.”
“Who inherits?”
“A nephew. But we checked him out six ways from the middle. He’s got an alibi that holds up. He was down in Florida for two weeks. We checked. He really was there. Every minute.”
“Check his bank account, back for about six months or a year. See if there was a heavy withdrawal-maybe five or ten big ones.”
“You mean he hired-? Son of a bitch!” Blankenship said bitterly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Stick around for twenty-five years,” Delaney laughed. “You’ll learn. Thanks again. If there’s ever anything I can do, for you, just let me know.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Captain,” Blankenship said in his deep, throaty voice.
“You do that,” Delaney said seriously.
After he hung up, he finished mixing his highball. He took a deep swallow, then grinned, grinned, grinned. He looked around at walls, ceiling, floor, furniture, and grinned at everything. It felt good. It had gone beyond his first article on common sense: the value of personally observed evidence and experience. It had even gone beyond the second article that extolled the value of hunch and instinct. Now he was in the realm of the third, unpublished article which Barbara had convinced him should never be printed. Quite rightly, too. Because in that monograph, exploring the nature of the detective-criminal relationship-his theory of the adversary concept-he had rashly dwelt on the “joy” of the successful detective.