"So that's it?" Delaney asked.
"Not all of it," Boone said, flipping his notebook. "The ME says Ellerbee died about nine P.m. This is where all these people claim they were at that time… "Doctor Diane Ellerbee was up in Brewster, waiting for her husband to arrive.
"Henry Ellerbee was at a charity dinner at the Plaza Hotel.
I confirmed his presence there at nine o'clock.
"Doctor Samuelson was at the Carnegie Hall concert. Confirmed.
"One of the receptionists was home watching television with her mother.
Mommy says yes, she was. Who knows?
"The other receptionist says she was shacked up with her boyfriend in his apartment. He says yes, she was. Who knows?
"The super was playing pinochle at his basement social club. The other guys in the game say yeah, he was there.
"The two ladies who run the art gallery were at a private dinner with eight other people of the Medicare set. Their presence is confirmed.
Besides, the two of them are so frail I don't think they could lift a ball peen hammer.
"The top-floor movie producer was at a film festival in the south of France. His presence there is confirmed by news reports and photographs.
Scratch him.
"And that's it."
Delaney looked admiringly from Boone to Jason and back again. "What the hell does Suarez need me for? You two guys can break this thing on your own.
Well, here's what I've got.
It isn't much."
He gave them a prcis of his conversation with the police psychiatrist and told them what Dr. Walden had said about the incidence of attacks on therapists by their patients.
"He guessed about one-quarter to one-third of all psychiatrists have been assaulted. Those percentages look good. After what you've just told me, I'm beginning to think Ellerbee's patient list may be our best bet."
Then he said that Walden had agreed with Boone's theory about those hammer blows to the eyes: It could be a symbolic effort to blind the doctor.
"After he was dead?" Jason said.
"Well, Walden thinks most attacks on therapists are made by psychotics.
I didn't tell him about the two sets of unidentified footprints. That could mean there were two psychotics working together, or Ellerbee had two visitors that night at different times. Any ideas?"
Jason and Boone looked at each other, then shook their heads.
"All right," Delaney said briskly. "Here's where we go from here. I want to see that townhouse and I want to meet Doctor Diane Ellerbee. Maybe we can do both at the same time. Sergeant, suppose you call her right now.
Tell her you'd like to see her as soon as possible, as part of the investigation into her husband's death. Don't mention that I'll be with you."
Rather than dig through the records in the cartons for Diane Ellerbee's phone number, Boone looked it up in the Manhattan directory. He identified himself and asked to speak to the doctor. He ended by giving Delaney's phone number. Then he hung up.
"She's with a patient," he reported. "The receptionist said she'll give the doctor my message and she'll probably call back as soon as she's free."
"We'll wait," Delaney said. "It shouldn't be more than forty-five minutes.
Meanwhile, there's something else I want to know more about. Boone, do you know a dick one named Parnell? I think his first name is Charles."
"Oh, hell, yes," the Sergeant said, smiling. "I know him.
They call him Daddy Warbucks. He's still on active duty."
"That's the guy," Delaney said. He turned to Jason.
"You've got to realize that some detectives make a good career for themselves by specializing, Now this Parnell, he's a financial whiz. You want a money picture on someone and he can come up with it. He's got good contacts with banks, stockbrokers, credit agencies, accountants, and for all I know, the IRS. He knows how to read wills, trusts, and reports of probate.
He's just the guy we need to get a rundown on the financial status of the deceased and his widow. Sergeant, tell Chief Suarez everything we've done so far-don't leave anything out-and then ask him to have Daddy Warbucks check out the net worth of the dead guy and Doctor Diane Ellerbee."
He paused a moment, pondering. Then: "And throw in Doctor Julius K.
Samuelson for good measure. Let's find out how fat his bank account is."
"Will do," Boone said, making some quick jottings in his notebook.
"Sir " Jason T. Jason said hesitantly, "would you mind telling me the reason for this?"
"Cui bono, " Delaney said promptly. "Who benefits? In this case, who stands to gain from the death of Simon Ellerbee? I'm not saying money was the motive here, but it might have been. It sure as hell has been in a lot of homicides where the perp turns out to be a member of the family or a beneficiary. It's something that's got to be checked out."
"I'll get on it right-" Boone started to say, but then the phone rang.
"That may be Doctor Diane," Delaney said. "You better answer, Sergeant." e talked briefly, then hung up and turned to them.
Six o'clock tonight," he said. "She'll be finished with her patients by then."
"How did she sound?" Delaney asked.
"Furious. Trying to keep her cool. I'm not looking forward to that meeting, sir."
"Has to be done," Delaney said stubbornly. "The lady is said to be a real beauty-if that's any consolation. Well, we've got about eight hours. Boone, why don't you contact Suarez and get Charlie Parnell working on the financial reports. Jason, you take the car and go up to Brewster. The Ellerbees have a married couple who take care of their place.
The man does maintenance and works around the grounds.
Talk to him. He may have a toolshed or workshop on the premises."
"Oh-ho," Jason T. Jason said. "You want to know if he owns a ball peen hammer-right?"
"Right. And if he does, has he still got it? And if he has, you grab it."
"Oh, yeah," Jason said.
"And while you're at it, get a look at the house and grounds. I'd like your take on it."
"I'm on my way."
"And so am I," Boone said, as both officers rose.
"Sergeant, I'll meet you at the Ellerbees' townhouse at five-thirty.
It'll give us a chance to look around the neighborhood before we brace the widow."
"I'll be there," Abner Boone promised.
After they left, Delaney returned to his study and looked at the cartons of files with dread. It had to be done, but he didn't relish the task.
He set to work, dividing the records into separate folders: the victim, Dr. Diane Ellerbee, Dr. Julius Samuelson, the ME's reports and photographs, the reports, photos, and map of the Crime Scene Unit, statements of everyone questioned.
Then he added notes of his conversation with Dr. Murray Walden, and what Sergeant Boone and Jason T. Jason had just told him.
It went faster than he had anticipated, and by 12:30 he had a satisfyingly neat stack of labeled file folders that included all the known facts concerning the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee.
It was time, he decided, for a sandwich.
He went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and inspected the possibilities. There was a single onion roll in there, hard as a rock, but it could be toasted. And there were a few slices of pork left over from a roast loin. Some German potato salad. Scallions he could slice.
Maybe a wee bit of horseradish.
He slapped it all together and ate it leaning over the sink.
Monica would have been outraged, but she was gone, doing volunteer work at a local hospital. She kept nagging him about his addiction, and she was right; he was too heavy in the gut. It was hard to convince her that the Earl of Sandwich had been one of civilization's great benefactors.
He returned to the study and stared at the stack of Ellerbee file folders.
He had a disturbing bunch that this was going to be a "loose-ends case."
That's what he called investigations in which nothing was certain, nothing could be pinned down. A hundred suspects, a hundred alibis, and no one could say yes or no.