"My God, sir, my blues need cleaning and pressing!"
"Try to get it done this afternoon. If you can't, wear them the way they are. Full equipment for both of you."
A short pause, then: "We're busting her?"
"Tell you tonight at eight," Delaney said, enjoying the suspense game as much as anyone.
He had promised his ladies a fine lunch, and put the Eller bee case from his mind for a few hours while he acted the expansive host. He took them to Prunelle's on East 54th Street, where the women were suitably impressed with the Art Deco decor and hurled maple walls.
"On the first day of the new year," Delaney vowed as they finished, "I am going to start my six thousand four hundred and fifty-eighth diet."
"Another of your one-day diets?" Monica said cruelly.
"You like me massive," he told her.
"More of me to love."
"Hah!" she said.
Their luncheon took almost two hours, and after, the women shared their intention of checking out the post christmas sales in Fifth Avenue stores. Delaney left them outside the restaurant determined to walk home and work off some of those calories.
The temperature hovered around the freezing mark, but it was a bright, pleasant day with a washed blue sky dotted with puffy clouds. He tramped north on Madison Avenue, marveling at the proliferation of art galleries, antique shops, and boutiques.
It was a long walk, almost thirty blocks, and he was happy to get in the warm brownstone, unlace his shoes, and treat himself to a cigar. He sat heavily in his swivel chair in the study and began plotting the confrontation with Diane Ellerbee.
He would dress somberly with white shirt and black tie.
Something like a mortician, he thought, amused. The only prop he'd need, he decided, would be a clipboard holding a heavy sheaf of papers. It meant nothing, of course, but it would impress.
He was confident of his ability to wing it, adjusting his attitude and manner to counter her responses. Never for a moment did he expect her to admit anything; she would deny, deny, deny. But, being a civilian, he could badger her in ways a police officer on duty could not. He would not let her off the hook.
What he needed to do, he determined, was to rattle her from the start, knock her off balance, and keep her confused.
She was an intelligent woman with an enormous ego. His best course would be to dent that self-esteem and then keep her disturbed and witless.
He wanted her to say to herself, "Can this be happening to me?"
So sure was he of her guilt that he designed her downfall coldly and without mercy. He never questioned his own motives. If Monica had said to him, "What right do you have to do this?" he would have looked at her in astonishment. For it wasn't his right; it was society's right-or perhaps God's.
Boone and Jason arrived promptly at eight o'clock, both in full uniform.
He called them into the study for a few minutes to give them a quick rundown.
"We're going to take her tonight," he said.
"Let me do the talking, but if you think I've missed something, don't be afraid to chime in. And don't be surprised to hear me state suppositions as facts; I want her to believe we've got a lot more than we actually have."
"One thing we haven't got is a warrant," Boone reminded him.
"True," Delaney said, "but we have probable cause. This is not a minor offense she's being charged with, and I think the courts will hold that a warrantless arrest was justified in this case by the gravity of the crime."
He didn't tell them that it was extremely unlikely the case would ever come to trial; they were smart cops and could figure that out for themselves.
"If this thing self-destructs," he told them, "neither of you will suffer. There will be no notations on your records that you participated. I have Deputy Thorsen's word on that. On the other hand, if it goes down as planned, Chief Suarez assures me you'll get something out of it. Any questions? No?
Then let's get this show on the road."
They drove over to East 84th in Jason's car. When they stood in the lobby of the townhouse, Delaney was pleased with the way they looked: three big men with the physical presence to command respect. Or to intimidate.
He rang her bell. The intercom clicked on.
"Who is it?"
"Delaney," he said tensely.
"I'm in my office, Mr. Delaney. Please come up to the second floor."
The door lock buzzed. They pushed in and silently climbed the staircase.
She was waiting in the hallway, and blinked when she saw the officers in uniform.
"Is this an official visit, Mr. Delaney?" she asked with a tight smile.
"You've already met Sergeant Boone," he said, ignoring her question.
"This man is Officer Jason who, incidentally, was on the scene when the homicide was discovered. May we come in?"
She led the way into her office, and once again he admired her carriage: head held high, shoulders back, spine straight.
But nothing was stiff; she moved with sinuous grace.
Her hair was up in a braided crown, her face free of makeup, that marvelous translucent complexion aglow. She was wearing an oversize block-check shirt in lavender and black, cinched at the waist with a man's necktie. And below, pants of purple suede, so snug that Delaney wondered if she had to grease her legs to get into them.
She sat regally behind her desk, hands held before her, fingertips touching to form a cage. Delaney pulled up an uncomfortable straight chair to face her directly. The two officers sat behind him in the cretonne-covered armchairs.
All three men had left their overcoats in the car, and Delaney's homburg as well. But he had instructed them to wear their caps and not to remove them indoors. Now they sat with peaks pulled low, as solid and motionless as stone monoliths.
"You say you have discovered something about my husband's death?" Dr.
Ellerbee said, voice cool and formal.
With slow deliberation Delaney took a leather spectacle case from his inside jacket pocket, removed his reading glasses, donned the glasses, adjusting the bows carefully. He then looked down at the clipboard on his lap, made a show of flipping over a few pages.
He glanced sharply at the doctor.
"Let's start from the beginning," he said in a hard, toneless voice.
"For the past year your late husband was having an affair with one of his patients, Joan Yesell. Not only was this a violation of professional ethics, but it was also a betrayal of his marriage vows and a grievous insult to you personally."
He was watching her closely as he spoke, and saw no signs of surprise or horror. But those touching fingers clenched to form a ball of whitened knuckles, and the porcelain-complexion blanched.
"You don't-" she began, her voice now dry and cracked.
"The evidence cannot be controverted," Delaney interrupted. He flipped through more pages on his clipboard.
"We have the sworn statements of Miss Yesell, her mother, the testimony of an eyewitness who saw the doctor driving away after delivering Yesell to her home on a Friday night. And the clause canceling his patients' outstanding bills in your late husband's will was expressly designed to benefit Miss Yesell.
Now do you wish to deny that Doctor Simon was carrying on an illicit relationship?" I was not aware of it," she said harshly.
"Ah, but you were. You are an intelligent, perceptive woman. We are certain you were aware of your husband's transgression."
Diane Ellerbee stood abruptly.
"I think this meeting is at an end," she said.
"Please leave before…"
Delaney reached out to slap the top of her desk with an open palm. The sharp crack made her jump.
"Sit down, madam!" he thundered.
"You are going nowhere without our permission."
She stared at him, blank-faced, and then slowly lowered herself back into her chair.
"Let's get on with it," Delaney said.
"We don't want to waste too much time on a tawdry murder." That got to her, he could see, and he peered down at his clipboard, flipping pages with some satisfaction.