"Thank you," he said.
"Dreadful habit, isn't it?"
"Sex, you mean?" Konigsbacher said, and they both laughed.
Ten minutes later they were seated at a small table against the wall, talking earnestly. They leaned forward, their heads almost touching.
Beneath the table, their knees pressed.
"I can tell, Ross," Symington said, "that you take very good care of yourself."
"I try to, Vince," the Kraut said.
"I work out with weights every morning."
"I really should do that."
He hesitated, then asked, "Are you married, Ross?"
"My wife is; I'm not."
Symington leaned back and clasped his hands together, "Love it," he said.
"Just love it! My wife is; I'm not. I'll have to remember that."
"How about you, Vince?"
"No. Not now. I was once. But she walked out on me.
Taking, I might add, our joint bank account, our poodle, and my personal collection of ancient Roman coins."
"So you're divorced?"
"Not legally, as far as I know."
"You really should be, Vince. You might want to remarry someday."
"I doubt that," Symington said.
"I doubt that very much."
"It's a sad, sad, sad, sad world," the Kraut said mournfully, "and we must grab every pleasure we can."
"Truer words were never spoken," the other man agreed, snapped his fingers at the pretty waiter, and ordered another round of drinks.
"Vince," Konigsbacher said, "I have a feeling we can be good friends. I hope so, because I don't have many."
"Oh, my God," Symington said, running his palm over his bald pate.
"You, too? I can't tell you how lonely I am."
"But there's something you should know about me," the Kraut went on, figuring it was time to get down to business, "I'm under analysis."
"Well, for heaven's sake, that's no crime. I was in analysis for years."
Was? You're not now?"
"No," Symington said sorrowfully.
"My shrink was killed."
"Killed? That's dreadful. An accident?"
The other man leaned forward again and lowered his voice.
"He was murdered."
Murdered? My God!"
"Maybe you read about it. Doctor Simon Ellerbee, on the Upper East Side."
"Who did it-do they know?"
"No, but I keep getting visits from the police. They have to talk to all his patients, you know."
"What a drag. You don't know anything about it-do you?"
"Well, I have my ideas, but I'm not telling the cops, of course. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil."
"That's smart, Vince. Just try to stay out of it."
"Oh, I will. I have my own problems."
"What kind of a man was he-your shrink?"
"Well, you know what they're like; they can be just nasty at times."
"How true. Do you think he was killed by one of his patients?"
Symington swiveled his head to look carefully over both shoulders, as if suspecting someone might be listening. Then he leaned even closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.
"About six months ago-it was on a Friday night-I was crossing First Avenue.
I had just had dinner at Lucky Pierre's.
That's a marvelous restaurant-really the yummiest escargots in New York.
Anyway, it was about nine o'clock, and I was crossing First Avenue, and there, stopped for a light, was Doctor Ellerbee. I saw him plain as day, but he didn't see me.
He was driving his new green Jaguar. Then the light changed and he headed uptown. Now I ask you, what does that suggest?"
Konigsbacher was bewildered.
"That he had been somewhere?"
"Somewhere with someone. And obviously not his wife; she was nowhere to be seen; he was alone in the car."
"I don't know, Vince," the Kraut said doubtfully.
"He could have been anywhere. Seeing a patient, for instance, or at a hospital. Anything." Symington said, sitting back and smirking with satisfaction, "that's not the only thing. I could tell the cops but won't. Let them do their own dirty work."
"Very wise. You keep out of it."
"Oh, I intend to. I don't want to get involved." onigsbacher peered at his watch.
"Oh dear," he said, "it's later than I thought. I'll have to split."
"Must you, Ross?"
"I'm afraid so, Vince," the Kraut said, having decided to play this fish slowly.
"Thank you for a lovely evening. I really enjoyed it."
"It was fun, wasn't it? Do you think you might drop in here again?"
"I think I might. Like tomorrow night."
They both laughed, beamed at each other, shook hands lingeringly.
Konigsbacher departed, leaving the other man to pick up the tab. Fuck him.
Driving home to Riverdale, the Kraut went over the night's conversation.
Not much, but a hint of goodies to come. He'd put it A in his report and let Delaney sort it out.
Edward X. Delaney read the report with something less than admiration.
He knew what the Kraut was doing and didn't like it. But after thinking it over, he decided to let the detective run and see what he turned up.
Delaney wasn't about to indulge in a soggy philosophical debate over whether or not the end justified the means. He had more immediate concerns.
The techs reported on the ball peen hammer lifted from the trunk of Ronald Bellsey's Cadillac. Negative. Not only no bloodstains, but no indications, even, that the damned thing had been recently used.
Sergeant Boone did another lockpicking job and slipped it back into the trunk.
The problem of the late patient continued to nag Delaney.
He kept thinking he had solved it, only to find he had uncovered a bigger mystery.
Going through Simon Ellerbee's appointment book for the umpteenth time, he noted that occasionally late patients were scheduled- 6-.00, 7:00, 8:00, and even 9:00 P.M. He attempted to see if there was any pattern, if certain patients habitually made late appointments.
He then reasoned that late patients who were not scheduled in the appointment book-the ones who made panicky phone calls-would certainly be noted in Dr. Ellerbee's billing ledger. Hadn't Carol Judd said that the doctor would leave a note on her desk the next morning, telling her to bill so-and-so for an evening session? it made sense, but he could find no billing ledger, or anything that resembled it, among the records sent over by Suarez's investigative team. He and Boone spent a frustrating afternoon on the phone, trying to locate it.
Dr. Diane Ellerbee said yes, her husband had kept such a financial journal, with each session noted: name of patient, date, and time. She assumed the police had taken it when they gathered up the rest of Simon's records.
Carol Judd also said yes, there had been such a billing ledger. She kept it in the top drawer of her desk in the outer office, and used it to send out invoices and statements to patients.
Dr. Diane, when he called back, agreed to make a search for the journal, and then phoned to say she could not find it in the receptionist's desk, her husband's office, or anywhere else.
Boone talked to the Crime Scene Unit men and the detective who had taken all the files from the victim's office. None of them could recall seeing anything resembling a billing ledger'all right," Delaney said, "so it is missing. Did the killer grab it? Probably. Why? Because it would show how often he or she had been a late patient."
"I don't get it," Boone said.
"Sure you do. We add up the number of sessions for one particular patient in one month, as noted in the appointment book. Then we compare that to the patient's total billing for the month. If the bill is higher than it should be by, say, a hundred bucks, we can figure that the patient had one unscheduled session."
"Now I get it," Boone said.
"But it's all smoke if we can't find the damned ledger."
Delaney learned more about the business practices of psychiatrists from Monica, who, as promised, had talked to her friends who were in analysis.
"They said their doctors generally sent monthly bills," she reported.