“Maybe he’s on to us,” Blankenship. “Maybe he knows the decoys are out every night, and he’s being tailed.”
“Can’t be,” Fernandez growled angrily. “No way. He don’ even see my boys. As far as he’s concerned, we don’ exist.”
“I don’t know what else we can do,” MacDonald confessed. “We’ve got him sliced up so thin I can see right through him. Birth certificate, diplomas, passport, bank statements-everything. You’ve seen the file. The man’s laid out there, bareassed naked. Read the file and you’ve got him. Sure, maybe he’s a psychopath, capable of killing I guess. He’s a cold, smart, slick sonofabitch. But take him into court on what we’ve got? Uh-uh. Never. That’s my guess.”
“Keep at it,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said.
Things slowed down on Christmas Eve. That was natural, men wanted to be home with their families. Squads were cut to a minimum (mostly bachelors or volunteers), and men sent home early. Delaney spent that quiet afternoon in his study, reading once again through his original Daniel G. Blank file and the great mass of material assembled by Pops and his squad who seemed to get their kicks sifting through dusty documents, military records, tax returns.
He read it all once more, sipping slowly from a balloon glass of that marvelous brandy Alinski had sent. He would have to call the Deputy Mayor to thank him, or perhaps mail a thank-you note, but meanwhile Alinski’s envelope was added to the stack of unopened Christmas cards and presents that had accumulated in a corner of the study. He’d get to them, eventually, or take them over to Barbara when she was well enough to open them and enjoy them.
So he sipped brandy through a long Christmas Eve afternoon (the usual conference had been cancelled). As he read, the belief grew in him that the chilling of Danny Boy would come about through the man’s personality, not by any clever police work, the discovery of a “clue,” or by a sudden revelation of friend or lover.
Who was Daniel G. Blank? Who was he? MacDonald had said he was sliced thin, that he was laid out in that file bareassed naked. No, Delaney thought, just the facts of the man’s life were there. But no one is a simple compilation of official documents, of interviews with friends and acquaintances, of Time-Habit schedules. The essential question remained: Who was Daniel G. Blank?
Delaney was fascinated by him because he seemed to be two men. He had been a cold, lonely boy who grew up in what apparently had been a loveless home. No record of juvenile delinquency. He was quiet, collected rocks and, until college, didn’t show any particular interest in girls. Then he refused to attend his parents’ funeral. That seemed significant to Delaney. How could anyone, no matter how young, do a thing like that? There was a callous brutality about it that was frightening.
Then there was his marriage-what was it Lipsky had called her? A big zoftig blonde-the divorce, the girl friend with a boy’s body, then possibly the boy himself, Tony. And meanwhile the sterile apartment with mirrors, the antiseptic apartment with silk bikini underwear and scented toilet paper. And according to one of MacDonald’s beautifully composed and sardonic reports, a fast climb up the corporate ladder.
Delaney went back to an interview one of MacDonald’s snoops had with a man named Robert White who had been Blank’s immediate superior at Javis-Bircham. He had, from all the evidence and statements available, been knifed and ousted by Daniel Blank. The interview with White had been made under the cover story that Blank was being considered for a high executive position with a corporation competing with J-B.
“He’s a nice lad,” Bob White had stated (“Possibly under the influence of alcohol,” the interrogating detective had noted carefully in his report). “He’s talented. Lots of imagination. Too much maybe. But he gets the job done: I’ll say that for him. But no blood. You understand? No fucking blood.”
Captain Delaney stared up at the ceiling. “No fucking blood.” What did that mean? Who was Daniel G. Blank? Of such complexity…Disgusting and fascinating. Courage-no doubt about that; he climbed mountains and he killed. Kind? Of course. He objected when he saw a man hit a dog, and he kept sentimental souvenirs of the men he murdered. Talented and imaginative? Well, his previous boss had said so. Talented and imaginative enough to fuck a 30-year-old woman and her 12-year-old brother, but Delaney didn’t suppose Bob White knew anything about that!
Who was Dan?
Captain Delaney rose to his feet, brandy glass in hand, about to propose a toast: “Here’s to you, Danny Boy,” when there was a knock on his study door. He sat down sedately behind his desk.
“Come in,” he called.
Lt. Jeri Fernandez stuck his head through the opened door.
“Busy, Captain?” he asked. “Got a few minutes?”
“Of course, of course,” Delaney gestured. “Come on in. Got some fine brandy here. How about it?”
“Ever know me to refuse?” Fernandez asked in mock seriousness, and they both laughed.
Then Delaney was in his swivel chair, swinging back and forth gently, holding his glass, and Fernandez was in the leather club chair. The lieutenant sipped the brandy, said nothing, but his eyes rolled to Heaven in appreciation.
“Thought you’d be home by now,” the Captain said.
“On my way. Just making sure everything’s copasetic.”
“I know I’ve told you this before, lieutenant, but I’ll say it again: tell your boys not to relax, not for a second. This monkey is fast.”
Fernandez hunched over in the club chair, leaning forward, head lowered, moving the brandy snifter between his palms.
“Faster than a thirty-eight, Captain?” he asked in a voice so low that Delaney wasn’t sure he heard him.
“What?” he demanded.
“Is this freak faster than a thirty-eight?” Fernandez repeated. This time he raised his head, looked directly into Delaney’s eyes.
The Captain rose immediately, went to the study doors, closed them and locked them, then came back to sit behind his desk again.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked quietly, looking directly at Fernandez.
“Captain, we been at this for-how long? Over a week now. Almost ten days. We got this Danny Boy covered six ways from Sunday. You keep calling him a ‘suspect.’ But I notice we’re not out looking for other suspects, digging into anyone else. Everything we do is about this guy Blank.”
“So?” Delaney said coldly.
“So,” Fernandez sighed, looking down at his glass, “I figure maybe you know something we don’ know, something you’re not telling us.” He held up a hand hastily, palm out. “This isn’t a beef, Captain. If there’s something we don’ have to know, that’s your right and privilege. Just thought-maybe-you might be sure of this guy but can’t collar him. For some reason. No witnesses. No evidence that’ll hold up. Whatever. But I figure you know it’s him. Know it!”
The Captain resumed his slow swinging back and forth in his swivel chair. “Supposing,” he said, “just supposing, mind you, that you’re right, that I know as sure as God made little green apples that Blank is our pigeon, but we can’t touch him. What do you suggest then?”
Fernandez shrugged. “Supposing,” he said, “just supposing that’s the situation, then I can’t see us collaring Danny Boy unless we grab him in the act. And if he’s as fast as you say he is, we’ll have another stiff before we can do that. Right?”