"You're getting up in ranks where you'll have to pay as much attention to politics as you do to police work. Think of it as another part of your job. I wasn't able to hack it, but don't make my mistakes. This is a big, brawling, confused city, and politics is the glue that holds it together. I admit that sometimes the glue smells Re something the cat dragged in-but can you think of a better, more human system? I can't.
I'm willing to see us go blundering along, making horrendous mistakes.
It can be discouraging, but it's a hell of a lot better than a storm trooper shouting, "You vill obey orders!" So get into politics, Chief.
Or at least touch bases with the heavies. It could do you a lot of good."
"Yes," Suarez said thoughtfully, "I think you are correct. I have been so busy with the nuts and bolts of my job that I have neglected the personal relations that might have made my job easier. Thank you for your advice, Edward."
"Don't just thank me-do it!"
Later that night, preparing for bed, Delaney said, "Nice, nice people."
"Aren't they," Monica agreed.
"That Rosa is a doll. Were you really serious about him cultivating the politicos?"
"Absolutely. If he wants to protect his ass. Thorsen can do just so much.
But Suarez would be wise to build up some political muscle with the power brokers."
"Well, if he's going to do that, I better take Rosa in hand.
She dresses like a frump. She's really a very attractive woman and could do a lot more with herself than she does."
"You mean," he said solemnly, "you want to convert her into a sex object?"
"And you can go to hell," his wife said, but Delaney was still pursuing Suarez's career.
"I don't know the man too well," Delaney said.
"A couple of meetings, a couple of phone calls… But I have the feeling his strong suit is administration. I really don't think he's got the basic drive to be a good detective. He's a little too cool, too detached – There's no obsession there."
"Is that what a good detective needs-an obsession?"
"You better believe it. Abner Boone has it and I'm betting Jason has it, too."
"Do you have it?"
"I suppose," he said shortly. He turned to stare at her.
"You're a beautiful woman. Did I ever tell you that?"
"Not recently."
"Well, I'm telling you now."
"And what, pray, is the reason for this sudden romantic frenzy?"
"I thought you might be properly appreciative," he said, winking at her.
"I am," she said, crooking a finger at him.
Detectives Helen Venable and Brian Estrella had never worked together before, but they found to their pleased surprise that they made a good team. He thought her a bright, vigorous woman willing to take on her share of the donkeywork. She thought him a bit stodgy, but smart and understanding. Best of all, he didn't pull any of that macho bullshit she was used to from other cops.
She told him everything she had learned about Joan Yesell, and especially the business of Mrs. Blanche Yesell and her Friday night bridge club.
"The old bitch was lying to us," she said bitterly.
"Maybe and maybe not," Estrella said.
"?"here was a bad storm that night; the bridge game could have been called off.
In that case she was probably home like she says. What's your take on Joan?"
I can't believe she's the perp. I swear to God, Brian, she wouldn't hurt a fly."
"But she'll hurt herself. She's suicidal, isn't she?"
"Suicidal, yes; homicidal, no."
He went through the. slow routine of packing his pipe, tamping down the tobacco, lighting up, puffing.
"Helen, sounds to me like you've already made up your mind about this woman. You like her?"
"Very much. We're even talking about sharing an apartment."
"Take it easy," he advised.
"Wait'll we clear her first."
"Brian, she's such a little mouse. She hasn't got a mean bone in her body.
I tell you she's just incapable of snuffing Ellerbee-or anyone else. She cries when she sees a stray dog."
"Uh-huh," he said.
"The meanest killer I ever scragged raised gerbils."
"You want to talk to Joan and see for yourself?"
"Not yet," he said.
"You keep up the buddy-buddy routine with her, but don't tell her I'm working with you."
Without making it obvious, he spent all week double checking Venable's investigation- and couldn't fault it. He talked to doctors at St.
Vincent's, with fellow employees at Yesell's law office, with neighbors, storekeepers, even the postman who delivered mail to the Yesells' brownstone.
Everything he heard substantiated what Helen had told him: Joan Yesell was a timid, withdrawn woman. The only gossip Estrella picked up was that Blanche Yesell was a real battle-ax who treated her daughter like a cretin without the brains or will to make her own decisions.
On Friday night the two detectives were slouched in Venable's Honda parked a few doors down from the Yesells' home.
"With my luck," Helen said gloomily, "Mama Blanche will have the bridge club meeting at her apartment tonight."
"Doesn't make any difference," Estrella said.
"If she does, you and I will tail two of the women after the game breaks up.
Brace them, get their names and addresses, and we'll take it from there.
But if Mrs. Yesell comes out-" And, while he was talking, she did come out. She turned eastward and crossed the street.
"That's her," Venable said tensely.
"Okay," Estrella said, "you go after her and get the number of the building she goes into. I'm going to make a phone call.
Meet you back here." elen took off after the scurrying Mrs. Yesell. Brian headed for Eighth Avenue and used a wall phone in an all night deli. He called the Yesells' apartment.
A faint voice, "Hello?"
"Mrs. Blanche Yesell, please," Estrella said.
"She's not here right now. Who's calling?" -This is Detective Brian Estrella of the New York Police Department. To whom am I speaking?"
"This is Joan Yesell, Mrs. Blanche Yesell's daughter."
"Miss Yesell, it is important that I contact your mother tonight.
There's a document wed like her to sign. It's just routine, but we do have to go by the rules and regulations, you know."
"A document? About Doctor Ellerbee's death?"
"Yes. Just her statement that she was home with you on that night. Could you tell me where I might reach her?"
"She's at her bridge club."
"Could you give me the phone number so I can contact her?"
"Well, she's at Mrs. Ferguson's tonight."
"Do you have the phone number?" he persisted.
She hesitated a moment, then gave him the number. Using a ballpoint pen, he jotted it down on the back of his hand.
"Thank you very much, Miss Yesell."
A few minutes later he was back at the Honda. Helen was waiting for him.
"I got the address," Venable said.
"And I got the name and phone number. We're in business." The next morning Delaney felt equally optimistic as he and Monica set out with the Boones for Diane Ellerbee's country home.
"Looks like a splendid day," Delaney gloated.
And so it was. A blue sky shimmered like a butterfly's wing. The sun was a hot plate and there, to the east, one could see a faint smudge of white moon. The sharp air bit like ether, and the whole world seemed scrubbed and polished.
Traffic was heavy, but they made surprisingly good time, stopping only once at a Brewster gas station to ask directions, use the rest rooms, and buy five gallons of gas in gratitude.
They drove. slowly along a country road, commenting on the mailboxes: a windmill, a miniature house, a model plane.
"Very cutesy," Delaney said.
"What's the Ellerbees' going to be-a little black leather couch with a red flag?"
But the mailbox marked Elerbee was the plain aluminum variety. It was at the entrance to a narrow side road that curved through a stand of skeleton trees up to the house and outbuildings. The gentle rise was not high enough to be called a hill, but sufficiently elevated to provide a pleasant view of the rolling countryside.