They're copying the files now and will probably be here before noon."
"Can I tell Rebecca about Abner?"
"Sure. He's probably told her already."
"Are you happy about this, Edward?"
"Happy?" he said, surprised at the word. "Well, I'm satisfied. Yes, I guess I'm happy. It's nice to be asked to do a job."
"They need you," she said stoutly.
"No guarantees. I warned Thorsen and I warned Suarez."
"But the challenge really excites you."
He shrugged.
"You'll crack it," she assured him.
"Crack it?" he said, smiling. "You're showing your age, dear. Cops don't crack cases anymore, and reporters don't get scoops. That was all long ago."
"Goodbye then," she said, "if I'm so dated. You clean up.
I'm going shopping."
"Spend money," he said. "Enjoy."
He did clean up, scraps and dishes and coffeemaker. He shouted a farewell to Monica when she departed, then went into the study to read the morning Times and smoke a cigar.
But then he put the paper aside a moment to reflect.
You just couldn't call it a challenge -as Monica had; there was more to it than that.
Every day hundreds -thousands- of people were dying in wars, revolutions, terrorist bombings, religious feuds; on highways, in their homes, walking down the street, in their beds. Unavoidable deaths, some of them-just accidents. But too many the result of deliberate violence.
So why be so concerned with the killing of a single human being? Just another cipher in a long parade of ciphers. Not so.
Edward X. Delaney could do little about wars; he could not end mass slaughter. His particular talent was individual homicide. Event and avenger were evenly matched.
A life should not be stopped before its time by murder.
That's what it came down to.
He took up his newspaper again, wondering if he was spinning fantastical reasons that had no relation to the truth. His motives might be as complex as those of Michael Ramon Suarez in seeking his help.
Finally, common sense made him mistrust all these soft philosophical musings and he came back to essentials: A guy had been chilled, Delaney was a cop, his job was to find the killer. That defined his role as something of value: hard, simple, and understandable. He could be content with that.
He finished his newspaper and cigar at about the same time, and put both aside. The Times carried a one-column story on the Ellerbee homicide in the Metropolitan Section. It was mostly indignant tirades from Henry Ellerbee and Dr. Diane Ellerbee, denouncing the NYPD for lack of progress in solving the murder.
Acting Chief of Detectives Suarez was quoted as saying that the Department was investigating several "promising leads," and "significant developments" were expected shortly.
Which was, as Delaney well knew, police horse shit for "We ain't got a thing and don't know where to turn next."
The two officers arrived a little after noon, lugging four cartons tied with twine. Delaney led them directly into the study, where they piled the boxes in a high stack. Then they all had a chance to shake hands, grinning at each other. The two cops were wearing mufti, and Delaney took their anoraks and caps to the hall closet. They were still standing when he returned to the study.
"Sit down, for God's sake," he said. "Sergeant, I saw you ten days ago, so I know how you are. Monica's out with Rebecca today, by the way, spending our money. Jason, I haven't seen you in-what's it been?-almost two years.
Don't tell me you've lost some weight?"
"Maybe a few pounds, sir. I didn't think it showed."
"Well, you're looking great. Family okay?"
"Couldn't be better, thank you. My two boys are sprouting up like weeds.
All they talk about is basketball."
"Don't knock it," Delaney advised. "Good bucks there."
The two officers didn't ask any questions about what the deal was and what they were doing there-and Delaney knew they wouldn't. But he felt he owed them a reason for their presence.
Briefly, he told them that Acting Chief of Detectives Suarez had more on his plate than he could handle, and Deputy Commissioner Thorsen had asked Delaney to help out on the Ellerbee homicide because the Department was getting so much flak from the victim's widow and father-both people of influence.
Delaney said nothing about the cutthroat ethnic and political wars being waged in the top ranks of the NYPD. Boone and Jason seemed to accept his censored explanation readily enough.
"Sergeant," Delaney said, "you'll assist in my investigation and liaise with Suarez's crew. Remember, he's in command; I'm just a civilian consultant. Jason, you'll be here, there, everywhere you're needed.
These are temporary assignments. If the case is cleared, or I get bounced, the two of you go back to your regular duties. Okay?"
"Suits me just fine," Jason Two said.
"It'll be a vacation," Sergeant Boone said. "Working just one case."
"Vacation, hell!" Delaney said. "I'm going to run your ass off. Now the first thing the three of us are going to do is go through all the paper on the Ellerbee kill. We'll read every scrap, look at every photo. We'll take a break in an hour or so.
I've got some sandwiches and drinks. Then we'll get back to it until we've emptied the cartons. Then we'll sit around and gas and decide what we do first."
They set to work, opening the cartons, piling the photocopied documents on Delaney's desk. He read each statement first, then handed it to Boone, who scanned it and passed it along to Officer Jason. Most of the stuff was short memos, and those went swiftly. But the Medical Examiner's postmortem and the reports of the Crime Scene Unit were longer and took time to digest.
Delaney smoked another cigar, and the two cops chain smoked cigarettes.
The study fogged up, and Delaney rose to switch on an exhaust fan set in the back window. But there was no conversation; they worked steadily for more than an hour. Then they broke for lunch. Delaney brought in a platter of sandwiches he'd prepared earlier and cans of Heineken for Jason and himself. Abner Boone had a bottle of club soda.
Delaney parked his feet up on his desk.
"Jason," he said, "you did a hell of a job keeping clear of those wet tracks on the carpet."
"Thank you, sir."
"I think your report covered just about everything. Nothing you left out, was there?"
"Nooo," the officer said slowly, "not to my remembrance."
"When you went up the stairs," Delaney persisted, "and into the receptionist's office, did you smell anything?"
"Smell? Well, that was a damned wet night. The inside of that house smelled damp. Almost moldy."
"But nothing unusual? Perfume, incense, cooking odors something like that?"
The big black frowned. "Can't recall anything unusual.
Just the wet."
"That art gallery on the first floor-the door was locked?"
"Yes, sir. And so was the door to Dr. Diane Ellerbee's office on the second floor. And so was that private apartment on- the fourth. The victim's office was the only one open."
"He was lying on his back?"
"Yes, sir. Not a pretty sight."
"Sergeant," Delaney said, swinging his swivel chair to face Boone, "how do you figure those two hammer blows to the eyes? After the poor guy was dead."
"That seems plain enough. Symbolic stuff. The killer wanted to blind him."
"Sure," Delaney agreed. "But after he was dead? That's heavy."
"Well, Ellerbee was a psychiatrist dealing with a lot of crazies. It could have been a patient who thought the doctor was seeing too much."
Delaney stared at him. "That's interesting-and plausible.
Listen, there are three sandwiches left, and I've got more beer and soda. Why don't we finish eating and work at the same time?"
They were done a little after 3:00 P.m and stuffed every thing back in the cartons. Then they all sat back and stared at each other.