It was an overcast night, not so much cold as damp and raw. He pulled on his gloves and knew it wouldn’t be long before he clamped on the earmuffs. It was going to be a long night.
Plenty of people still on the streets; laden Christmas shoppers hurrying home. The lobby lights of Dan’s apartment house were blazing. Two doormen on duty now, one of them Lipsky. They were hustling tips. Why not-it was Christmas, wasn’t it? Cabs were arriving and departing, private cars were heading into the underground garage, tenants on foot were staggering up with shopping bags and huge parcels.
Delaney took up his station across the street, strolling up and down the length of the block. The lobby was easily observable during most of his to-and-from pacing, or could be glimpsed over his shoulder. When it was behind him, he turned his head frequently enough to keep track of arrivals and departures. After every five trips, up and down, he crossed the street and walked along the other side once, directly in front of the apartment house, then crossed back again and continued his back-and-forth vigil. He walked at a steady pace, not fast, not slow, stamping each foot slightly with every step, swinging his arms more than he would ordinarily.
He could perform this job automatically, and he welcomed the chance it gave him to consider once again his conversation with Thorsen, Johnson, Deputy Mayor Alinski.
What disturbed him was that he was not positive he had been entirely accurate in his comments regarding the admissibility of evidence and the possibility of obtaining a search warrant. Ten years ago he would have been absolutely certain. But recent court decisions, particularly those of the Supreme Court, had so confused him-and all cops-that he no longer comprehended the laws of evidence and the rights of suspects.
Even such a Philadelphia lawyer as Lt. Marty Dorfman had admitted his confusion. “Captain,” he had said, “they’ve demolished the old guidelines without substituting a new, definite code. Even the DA’s men are walking on eggs. As I see it, until all this gets straightened out and enough precedents established, each case will be judged on its own merits, and we’ll have to take our chances. It’s the old story: ‘The cop proposes, the judge disposes.’ Only now even the judges aren’t sure. That’s why the percentage of appeals is way, way up.”
Well, start from the beginning…His search of Dan’s apartment had been illegal. Nothing he saw or learned from that search could be used in court. No doubt about that. If he had taken away Dan’s “trophies,” it would have served no purpose other than to alert Blank that his apartment had been tossed, that he was under suspicion.
Now what about a search warrant? On what grounds? That Dan owned an ice ax of a type possibly used to kill four men? And, of course, of a type owned by hundreds of people all over the world. That blood of Dan’s type had been found at the scene of the most recent homicide? How many people had that blood type? That he possessed a can of light machine oil that a thousand other New Yorkers owned? And all of these facts established only by an illegal break-in. Or tell the judge that Daniel G. Blank was a known mountaineer and was suspected of carrying two dummy Christmas packages the night Albert Feinberg was slain? Delaney could imagine the judge’s reaction to a request for a search warrant on those grounds.
No, he had been correct. As of this moment, Dan was untouchable. Then why hadn’t he taken the whole mess to Broughton and dumped it on him? Because Alinski had been exactly right, knowing his man. Broughton would have said, “Fuck the law,” would have come on like Gang Busters, would have collared Blank, got the headlines and TV exposure he wanted.
Later, when Blank was set free, as he was certain to be, Broughton would denounce “permissive justice,” “slack criminal laws,” “handcuffing the cops, not the crooks.” The fact that Blank walked away a free man would have little importance to Broughton compared to the publicity of the suspect’s release, the public outcry, the furtherance of exactly what the Group wanted.
But if Dan couldn’t legally-
Delaney ceased pondering, his head crooked over his shoulder. There was a man standing in the lighted lobby, talking to one of the doormen. The man was tall, slender, wearing a black topcoat, no hat. Delaney stopped midstride, took a sham look at a nonexistent wristwatch, made a gesture of impatience, turned in his tracks, walked toward the lobby. He should apply for an Actors Equity card, he thought; he really should.
He came abreast of the lobby, across the street, just as Daniel Blank exited from the glass doors and stood a moment. It was undeniably him: wide shoulders, slim hips, handsome with vaguely Oriental features. His left hand was thrust into his topcoat pocket. Delaney glanced long enough to watch him sniff the night air, button up his coat with his right hand, turn up the collar. Then Blank walked down the driveway, turned west in the direction Delaney was moving across the street.
Ah there, the Captain thought. Out for a stroll, Danny boy?
“Danny Boy.” The phrase amused him; he began to hum the tune. He matched Blank’s speed, and when Dan crossed Second Avenue, Delaney crossed on his side, keeping just a little behind his target. He was good at tailing, but not nearly as good as, say, Lt. Jeri Fernandez, known to his squad as the “Invisible Man.”
The problem was mainly one of physical appearance. Delaney was obvious. He was tall, big, stooped, lumbering, with a shapeless black overcoat, a stiff Homburg set squarely atop his heavy head. He could change his costume but not the man he was.
Fernandez was average and middle. Average height, middle weight, no distinguishing features. On a tail, he wore clothes a zillion other men wore. More than that, he had mastered the rhythm of the streets, a trick Delaney could never catch. Even within a single city, New York, people moved differently on different streets. In the Garment District they trotted and shoved. On Fifth Avenue they walked at a slower tempo, pausing to look in shop windows. On Park Avenue and upper eastside cross streets they sauntered. Wherever he tailed, Fernandez picked up the rhythm of the street, unconsciously, and moved like a wraith. Set him down in Brussels, Cairo, or Tokyo, the Captain was convinced, and Lt. Jeri Fernandez would take one quick look around and become a resident. Delaney wished he could do it.
But he did what he could, performed what tricks he knew. When Blank turned the corner onto Third Avenue, Delaney crossed the street to move up behind him. He increased his speed to tail from in front. The Captain stopped to look in a store window, watched the reflection in the glass as Blank passed him. Delaney took up a following tail again, dropping behind a couple, dogging their heels closely. If Blank looked back, he’d see a group of three.
Dan was walking slowly. Delaney’s covering couple turned away. He continued in his steady pace, passing his quarry again. He was conscious that Blank was now close behind him, but he felt no particular fear. The avenue was well-lighted; there were people about. Danny Boy might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. Besides, Delaney was certain, he always approached his victims from the front.
Delaney walked another half-block and stopped. He had lost him. He knew it, without turning to look. Instinct? Something atavistic? Fuck it. He just knew it. He turned back, searched, cursed his own stupidity. He should have known, or at least wondered.
Halfway down the block was a pet shop, still open, front window brilliantly lighted. Behind the glass were pups-fox terriers, poodles, spaniels-all frolicking on torn newspaper, and gumming each other, pissing, shitting up a storm, pressing noses and paws against the window where at least half a dozen people stood laughing, tapping the glass, saying things like “Kitchy-koo.” Daniel Blank was one of them.