"This is with the brass and their public relations men from the offices of the Mayor, the Commissioner, and the Chief of Operations," he said. "About what we give to the media. First of all, do we release the business about the Hotel Ripper switching to a strawberry blond wig? Second, do we say we are definitely looking for a female killer? What do you think, Edward?"
Delaney pondered a moment. Then…
"Take the second one first… There's no way we can keep it quiet that we're looking for a woman. But fuzz the issue. Say the killer can be a man or a woman; we're looking for both."
"You still think it's a woman?"
"Of course. But I could be wrong; I admit it. The brass will want an out-just in case. Cover yourself on this one."
"All right, Edward; that makes sense. What about the wig?"
"Ivar, you've got to be definite on that. If the reporters print it was a blond wig, the killer will just switch to another color. That's what happened when Slavin fucked up."
"But if we don't warn tourists about a killer wearing a strawberry blond wig, aren't we endangering them?"
"Probably," Delaney said grimly. "But the decoys have got to have something to look for. We can't have her switching colors on us again."
"Jesus," Thorsen breathed, "if the papers find out, they'll crucify us."
"We've got to take the chance," the Chief urged. "And if the reporters dig it up, we can always say we didn't want the killer to go to another color-which is the truth."
"But meanwhile we're not warning the tourists."
"Deputy," Delaney said, his voice suddenly thick with fury, "do you want to stop this maniac or don't you?"
"All right, all right," Thorsen said hastily. "I'll try to get them to do it your way. I should be out of the meeting and uptown by late this afternoon. Can you meet me at Midtown North at, say, about four o'clock? I'll tell you how I made out and Boone can bring us up to date."
"I'll be there," Delaney said and hung up.
He was a little ashamed of himself for getting shirty with Ivar. He knew what the Admiral was up against: superior officers concerned with the image of the Department and the public relations aspects of this highly publicized case.
It was bullshit like that-image, public relations, politics-that had persuaded Edward X. Delaney it was time for him to retire from the New York Police Department. With his stubbornness, temper, and refusal to compromise, he knew he could never hope for higher rank.
"If you want to get along, you go along." That was probably true in every human organization. But being true didn't make it right. Delaney admitted he was a maverick, always had been. But he consoled himself with the thought that it was the mavericks of the world who got things done. Not the yes-men and the ass-kissers.
All they got for their efforts, he thought morosely, were success, wealth, and admiration.
Detective Bentley had been right; the Osborne wasn't much of a hotel. It could have been called the Seedy Grandeur. Located on 46th Street east of Seventh Avenue, it had a stone facade so gray and crumbled that it seemed bearded.
It was the type of Times Square hotel that had once hosted Enrico Caruso, Lillian Russell, and Diamond Jim Brady. Now it sheltered Sammy the Wop, Gage Sullivan, Dirty Sally, and others of hazy pasts and no futures.
Standing in the center of that chipped and peeling lobby, Delaney decided the odor was compounded of CN, pot, and ancient urinals. But the place seemed bustling enough, all the men equipped with toothpicks and all the women with orange hair. Tout sheets were everywhere.
Eddie Holzer was studying one, marking his choices. His feet were parked atop his splintered desk and he was wearing a greasy fedora. He held a cracked coffee cup in one trembling hand. Delaney guessed it didn't contain coffee.
Holzer glanced up when Delaney paused in the opened door.
"Chrissake," he said, lurching to his feet, "look what the cat drug in. Harya, Chief."
They shook hands, and Holzer brushed magazines and old newspapers off a straight chair. Delaney sat down cautiously. He looked at the other man with what he hoped was a friendly smile.
He knew Holzer's record, and it wasn't a happy one. The ex-detective had worked out of the Narcotics Division, and eventually the big money had bedazzled him. He had been allowed to retire before the DA moved in, but everyone in the Department knew he was tainted.
Now here he was, Chief of Security in a sleazy Times Square hotel, marking up a tipsheet and sipping cheap booze from a coffee cup. For all that, Delaney knew the man had been a clever cop, and he hoped enough remained.
They gossiped of this and that, remembering old times, talking of who was retired, who was dead. The Department put its mark on a man. He might be out for years and years, but he'd be in for the rest of his life.
Finally the chatter stopped.
Holzer looked at the Chief shrewdly. "I don't figure you stopped in by accident. How'd you find me?"
"Bentley," Delaney said.
"Dapper Dan?" Holzer said, laughing. "Good cop."
He was a florid, puffy man, rapidly going to flab. His face was a road map of capillaries, nose swollen, cheeks bloomy. Delaney had noted the early-morning shakes; Holzer made no effort to conceal them. If he was a man on the way down, it didn't seem to faze him.
The Chief wasn't sure how to get started, how much to reveal. But Holzer made it easy for him.
He said: "I hear you're helping out on the Hotel Ripper thing."
Delaney looked at him with astonishment. "Where did you hear that?"
Holzer flipped a palm back and forth. "Here and there. The grapevine. You know how things get around."
"They surely do," Delaney said. "Yes, I'm helping out. Deputy Commissioner Thorsen is an old friend of mine. I hunted you down because I-because we need your help."
He had pushed the right button. Holzer straightened up, his shoulders went back. Light came into his dulled eyes.
"You need my help?" he said, not believing. "On the case?"
Delaney nodded. "I think you're the man. You're a hotel security chief."
"Some hotel," Holzer said wanly. "Some security chief."
"Still…" Delaney said.
He explained that all the Ripper slayings had occurred at hotels in which conventions were being held. He was convinced the killer had prior knowledge of exactly where and when conventions and sales meetings and large gatherings were taking place.
Eddie Holzer listened intently, pulling at his slack lower lip.
"Yeah," he said, "that washes. I'll buy it. So?"
"So how would someone know the convention schedule in midtown Manhattan? It's not published in the papers."
Holzer thought a moment.
"These things are planned months ahead," he said. "Sometimes years ahead. To reserve the rooms, you understand. Someone in the Mayor's office would know. The outfit trying to bring new business to the city. The tourist bureau. Maybe there's a convention bureau. The Chamber of Commerce. Like that."
"Good," Delaney said, not mentioning that he had already thought of those sources. "Anyone else?"
"The hotel associations-they'd know."
"And…?"
"Oh," Holzer said, "here…"
He bent over with some effort, rooted through the stack of magazines and newspapers he had swept off Delaney's chair. He came up with a thin, slick-paper magazine, skidded it across the desk to the Chief.
"New York hotel trade magazine," he said. "Comes out every week. It lists all the conventions in town."
"This goes to every hotel?" Delaney asked, flipping through the pages.
"I guess so," Holzer said. "It's a freebie. The ads pay for it. I think it goes to travel agencies, too. Maybe they send it out of town to big corporations-who knows? You'll have to check."