The Fourth Deadly Sin
By
Lawrence Sanders
Copyright C) 1985 by Lawrence Sanders.
The November sky over Manhattan was chain mail, raveling into steely rain. A black night with coughs of thunder, lightning stabs that made abrupt days. Dr. Simon Ellerbee, standing at his office window, peered out to look at life on the street below. He saw only the reflection of his own haunted face.
He could not have said how it started, or why. He, who had always been so certain, now buffeted and trembling ... All hearts have dark corners, where the death of a loved one is occasionally wished, laughter offends, and even beauty becomes a rebuke.
He turned back to his desk. It was strewn with files and tape cassettes: records of his analyses. He stared at that litter of fears, angers, passions, dreads. Now his own life belonged there, part of the untidiness, where once it had been ordered and serene.
He stalked about, hands thrust deep into pockets, head bowed. He
pondered his predicament and dwindling choices.
Mordant thought: How does one seek "professional help" when one is a professional?
The soul longs for purity, but we are all hungry for the spiced and
exotic. Evil is just a word, and what no one sees, no one knows. Unless God truly is a busybody.
He lay full-length on the couch some of his patients insisted on using, though he thought this classic prop of psychiatry was flimflam and often counterproductive. But there he was, stretched out tautly, trying to still his churning thoughts and succeeding no better than all the agitated who had occupied that same procrustean bed.
Groaning, he rose from the couch to resume his pacing. He paused again to stare through the front window. He saw only a rain-whipped darkness.
The problem, he decided, was learning to acknowledge uncertainty. He, the most rational of men, must adjust to the variableness of a world in which nothing is sure, and the chuckles belong to chance and accident. There could be satisfaction in living with that-fumbling toward a dimly glimpsed end. For if that isn't art, what is?
The downstairs bell rang three times-the agreed-upon signal for all
late night visitors. He started, then hurried into the receptionist's office to press the buzzer unlocking the entrance from the street. He
then unchained and unbolted the door leading from the office suite to the corridor.
He ducked into the bathroom to look in the mirror, adjust his tie,
smooth his sandy hair with damp palms. He came back to stand before the
outer door and greet his guest with a smile.
But when the door opened, and he saw who it was, he made a thick,
strangled sound deep in his throat. His hands flew to cover his face and
hide his dismay. He turned away, shoulders slumping.
The first heavy blow landed high on the crown of his head.
It sent him stumbling forward, knees buckling. A second blow put him
down, biting at the thick pile carpeting.
The weapon continued to rise and fall, crushing his skull.
But by that time Dr. Simon Ellerbee was dead, all dreams gone, doubts
fled, all questions answered.
By Monday morning the sky had been rinsed; a casaba sun loomed; and
pedestrians strode with opened coats flapping. A chill breeze nipped,
but New York had the lift of early winter, with stores preparing for
Christmas, and street vendors hawking hot pretzels and roasted
chestnuts.
Former Chief of Detectives Edward X. Delaney sensed the acceleration.
The city, his city, was moving faster, tempo changing from andante to
con anima. The scent of money was in the air. It was the spending
season-and if the boosters didn't make it in the next six weeks, they
never would.
He lumbered down Second Avenue, heavy overcoat hanging from his
machine-gunner's shoulders. Hard homburg set solidly, squarely, atop his
head. Big, flat feet encased in ankle-high shoes of black kangaroo
leather. A serious man who looked more like a monsignor than an ex-cop.
Except that cops are never ex-.
The sharp weather delighted him, and so did the food shops opening so
rapidly in Manhattan. Every day seemed to bring a new Korean
greengrocer, a French patisserie, a Japanese take-out. And good stuff,
too-delicate mushrooms, tangy fruits, spicy meats.
And the breads! That's what Edward X. Delaney appreciated most. He
suffered, as his wife, Monica, said, from "sandwich senility," and this
sudden bonanza of freshly baked breads was a challenge to his
inventiveness.
Pita, brioche, muffins, light challah and heavy pumpernickel. Loaves no
larger than your fist, and loaves of coarse German rye as big as a
five-inch shell. Flaky stuff that dissolved on the tongue, and some
grainy doughs that hit the stomach with a thud.
He stopped in a half-dozen shops, buying this and that, filling his net
shopping bag. Then, fearful of his wife's reaction to his spree, he
trundled his way homeward. He had a vision of something new: smoked chub
tucked into a split croissant-with maybe a thin slice of Vidalia onion
and a dab of mayonnaise, for fun.
This hunched, ponderous man, weighty shoes thumping the pavement, seemed
to look at nothing, but he saw everything. As he passed the 251st
Precinct house-his old precinct-and came to his brownstone, he noted the
unmarked black Buick illegally parked in front. Two uniformed cops in
the front seat.
They glanced at him without interest.
Monica was perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, going through her
recipe file.
"You have a visitor," she said.
"Ivar," he said. "I saw his car. Where'd you put him?"
"In the study. I offered a drink or coffee, but he didn't want anything.
Said he'd wait for you."
"He might have called first," Delaney grumbled, hoisting his shopping
bag onto the counter.
"What's all that stuff?" she demanded.
"Odds and ends. Little things."
She leaned forward to sniff. "Phew! What's that smell?"
"Maybe the blood sausage."
"Blood sausage? Yuck!"
"Don't knock it unless you've tried it."
He bent to kiss the back of her neck. "Put this stuff away, will you,
han?
I'll go in and see what Ivar wants."
"How do you know he wants anything?"
"He didn't come by just to say hello-that I know."
He hung his hat and coat in the hall closet, then went through the
living room to the study at the rear of the house.
He opened and closed the door quietly, and for a moment thought that
First Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen might be dozing.
"Ivar," Delaney said loudly, "good to see you."
The Deputy-known in the Department as the "Admiral'--opened his eyes and
rose from the club chair alongside the desk. He smiled wanly and held
out his hand.
"Edward," he said, "you're looking well."
"I wish I could say the same about you," Delaney said, eyeing the other
man critically. "You look like something the cat dragged in."
"I suppose," Thorsen said, sighing. "You know what it's like downtown,
and I haven't been sleeping all that much lately."
"Take a glass of stout or port before you go to bed. Best thing in the
world for insomnia. And speaking of the old nasty-it's past noon, and
you could use some plasma."
"Thank you, Edward," Thorsen said gratefully. "A small scotch would do
me fine."
Delaney brought two glasses and a bottle of Glenfiddich from the
cellarette. He sat in the swivel chair behind his desk and poured them
both tots of the single malt. They tinked glass rims and sipped.
"Ahh," the Admiral said, settling into his armchair. "I could get hooked
on this."
He was a neat, precise man. Fine, silvery hair was brushed sideways.
Ice-blue eyes pierced the world from under white brows. Ordinarily he
had a baby's complexion and a sharp nose and jaw that could have been
snipped from sheet metal.
But now there were stress lines, sags, pouches.
"Monica had lunch with Karen the other day," Delaney mentioned. "Said
she's looking fine."
"What?" Thorsen said, looking up distractedly.
"Karen," Delaney said gently. "Your wife."
"Oh ... yes," Thorsen said with a confused laugh. "I'm -sorry; I wasn't
listening."
Delaney leaned toward his guest, concerned. "Ivar, is everything all
right?"
"Between Karen and me? Couldn't be better. Downtown?
Couldn't be worse."
"More political bullshit?"
"Yes. But this time it's not from the Mayor's office; it's the
Department's own bullshit. Want to hear about it?"
Delaney really didn't want to. Political infighting in the upper
echelons of the New York Police Department was the reason he had filed
for early retirement. He could cope with thieves and killers; he wasn't
interested in threading the Byzantine maze of Departmental cliques and
cabals. All those intrigues. All those naked ambitions and steamy
hatreds.
In the lower, civil service ranks of sergeant, lieutenant, captain, he
had known the stress of political pressure-from inside and outside the
Department. He had been able to live with it, rejecting it when he
could, compromising when he had to.
But nothing had prepared him for the hardball games they played in the
appointive ranks. When he got his oak leaves as a Deputy Inspector, he
was thrown into a cockpit where the competition was fierce, a single,
minor misstep could mean the end of a twenty-year career, and combatants
swigged Maalox like fine Beaujolais.
And as he went up the ladder to the two stars of an Assistant Chief, the
tension increased with the responsibility. You not only had to do your
work, and do it superbly well, but you had constantly to look over your
shoulder to see who stood close behind you with a knife and a smirk.
Then he had the three stars of Chief of Detectives, and wanted only to
be left alone to do the job he knew he could do. But he was forced to
spend too much time soothing his nervous superiors and civilian
politicos with enough clout to make life miserable for him if he didn't
find out who mugged their nephew.
He couldn't take that kind of constraint, and so Edward X. Delaney
turned in his badge. The fault, he acknowledged later, was probably his.
He was mentally and emotionally incapable of "going along."
He had a hair-trigger temper, a strong sense of his own dignity, and
absolute faith in his detective talents and methods of working a case.
He couldn't change himself, and he couldn't change the Department. So he
got out before the ulcers popped up, and tried to keep busy, tried to
forget what might have been. But still ... "Sure, Ivar," he said with a
set smile, "I'd like to hear about it."
Thorsen took a sip of his scotch. "You know Chief of Detectives Murphy?"
"Bill Murphy? Of course I know him. We came through the Academy
together.
Good man. A little plodding maybe, but he thinks straight."
"He's put in his papers. As of the first of the year. He's got cancer of
the prostate."
"Ahh, Jesus," Delaney said. "That's a crying shame. I'll have to go see
him."
"Well ..." the Admiral said, peering down at his drink, "Bill thought he
could last until the first of the year, but I don't think he's going to
make it. He's been out so much we've had to put in an Acting Chief of
Detectives to keep the bureau running. The Commish says he'll appoint a
permanent late in December."
"Who's the Acting Chief?" Delaney asked, beginning to get interested.
Thorsen looked up at him. "Edward, you remember when they used to say
that in New York, the Irish had the cops, the Jews had the schools, and
the Italians had the Sanitation Department? Well, things have
changed-but not all that much.
There's still an Old Guard of the Irish in the Department, and they take
care of their own. They just refuse to accept the demographic changes
that have taken place in this city-the number of blacks, Hispanics,
Orientals. When it came to getting the PC to appoint an Acting Chief of
Detectives, I wanted a two-star named Michael Ramon Suarez, figuring it
would help community relations. Suarez is a Puerto Rican, and he's been
running five precincts in the Bronx and doing a hell of a job. The Chief
of Operations, Jimmy Conklin, wanted the Commissioner to pick Terence J.
Riordan, who's got nine Brooklyn precincts. So we had quite a tussle."
"I can imagine," Delaney said, pouring them more whiskey. "Who won?"
"I did," Thorsen said. "I got Suarez in as Acting Chief. I figured he'd
do a good job, and when the time came, the PC would give him his third
star and appoint him permanent Chief of Detectives. A big boost for the
Hispanics. And the Mayor would love it."
"Ivar, you should have gone into politics."
"I did," Thorsen said with a crooked grin.
"So? You didn't stop by just to tell me how you creamed the Irish.
What's the problem?"
"Edward, did you read the papers over the weekend? Or
watch the local TV? That psychiatrist who got wasted-Dr.
Ellerbee?"
Delaney looked at him. "I read about it. Got snuffed in his own
office, didn't he? And not too far from here. I figured it was
a junkie looking for drugs."
"Sure," Thorsen said, nodding. "That was everyone's guess. God
knows it happens often enough. But Ellerbee didn't keep any
drugs in his office. And there was no sign of forced entry,
either at the street entrance or his office door. I don't know
all the details, but it looks like he let someone in he knew and
expected."
Delaney leaned forward, staring at the other man. "lvar, what's
this all about-your interest in the Ellerbee homicide?
It happens four or five times a day in the Big Apple. I didn't
think you got all that concerned about one kill."
Thorsen rose and began to pace nervously about the room.
"It isn't just another kill, Edward. It could be big trouble.
For many reasons. Ellerbee was a wealthy, educated man who had
a lot of friends in what they call 'high places.' He was
civicminded-did free work in clinics, for example. His wife
who's a practicing psychologist, by the way-is one of the most
beautiful women I've ever seen, and she's been raising holy hell
with us. And to top that, Ellerbee's father is Henry Ellerbee,
the guy who built Ellerbee Towers on Fifth Avenue and owns more
Manhattan real estate than you and I own socks. He's been
screaming his head off to everyone from the Governor on down."
"Yes, I'd say you have a few problems."
"And the clincher," Thorsen went on, still pacing, "the clincher
is that this is the first big homicide Acting Chief of
Detectives Michael Ramon Suarez has had to handle."
"Oh-ho," Delaney said, leaning back in his swivel chair and
swinging gently back and forth. "Now we get down to the nitty-
gritty."
"Right," the Admiral said, almost angrily. "The nittygritty. If
Suarez muffs this one, there is no way on God's green earth he's
going to get a third star and permanent appointment."
"And you'll look like a shithead for backing him in the first
place."
"Right," Thorsen said again. "He'd better clear this one fast or
he's in the soup, and I'm in there with him."
"All very interesting," Delaney said. "So?"
The Admiral groaned, slumped into the armchair again.
"Edward, you're not making this any easier for me."
"Making what easier?" Delaney said innocently.
Then it all came out in a rush.
"I want you to get involved in the Ellerbee case," the First
Deputy Commissioner said. "I haven't even thought about how it
can be worked; I wanted to discuss it with you first.
Edward, you've saved my ass before-at least twice. I know I gave
you a lot of bullshit about doing it for the Department, or
doing it just to keep active and not becoming a wet-brained
retiree. But this time I'm asking you on the basis of our
friendship. I'm asking for a favor-one old friend to another.
" "You're calling in your chits, Ivar," Delaney said slowly. "I
would never have gone as far as I did without your clout. I know
that, and you know I know it."
Thorsen made a waving gesture. "Put it any way you like.
The bottom line is that I need your help, and I'm asking for it.
" Delaney was silent a moment, looking down at his big hands
spread on the desk top.
"I, m getting liver spots," he said absently. "Ivar, have you
talked to Suarez about this?"
"Yes, I talked to him. He'll cooperate one hundred percent.
He's out of his depth on this case and he knows it. He's got
some good men, but no one with your experience and knowhow.
He'll take help anywhere he can get it."
"Is he working the Ellerbee case personally?"
"After the flak started, he got personally involved. He had to.
But from what he told me, so far they've got a dead body, and
that's all they've got."
"It happened Friday night?"
"Yes. He was killed about nine P.m. Approximately. According to
the ME."
"More than forty-eight hours ago," Delaney said reflectively.
"And getting colder by the minute. That means the solution
probability is going down."
"I know."
"What was the murder weapon?"
"Some kind of a hammer."
"A hammer?" Delaney said, surprised. "Not a knife, not a
gun? Someone
brought a hammer to his office?"
"Looks like it. And crushed his skull."
"A hammer is usually a man's weapon," Delaney said.
"Women prefer knives or poison. But you never know."
"Well, Edward? Will you help us?"
Delaney shifted his heavy bulk uncomfortably. "If I doand you notice I
say if-I don't know how it could be done. I don't have a shield. I can't
go around questioning people or rousting them. For God's sake, Ivar, I'm
a lousy civilian."
"It can be worked out," Thorsen said stubbornly. "The first thing is to
persuade you to take the case."
Delaney drew a deep breath, then blew it out. "Tell you what," he said.
"Before I give you a yes or no, let me talk to Suarez. If we can't get
along, then forget it. If we hit it off, then I'll consider it. I know
that's not the answer you want, but it's all you're going to get at the
moment."
"It's good enough for me," the Deputy said promptly. "I'll call Suarez,
set up the meet, and get back to you. Thank you, Edward."
"For what?"
"For the scotch," Thorsen said. "What else?"
After the Admiral left, Delaney went back into the kitchen.
Monica had gone, but there was a note on the refrigerator door, held in
place with a little magnetic pig. "Roast duck with walnuts and cassis
for dinner. Be back in two hours.
Don't eat too many sandwiches."
He smiled at that. But they usually dined at 7:00 P.m and it was then
barely 1:30. One sandwich was certainly not going to spoil his appetite
for roast duck. Or even two sandwiches, for that matter.
But he settled for one-which he called his U.N. Special: Norwegian
brisling sardines in Italian olive oil heaped on German schwarzbrot,
with a layer of thinly sliced Spanish onion and a dollop of French
dressing.
He ate this construction while leaning over the sink so it would be easy
to rinse the drippings away. And with the sandwich, to preserve the
international flavor, he had a bottle of Canadian Molson ale. Finished,
the kitchen restored to neatness, he went down into the basement to find
the newspapers of the last two days and read again about the murder of
Dr. Simon Ellerbee.
Shortly after midnight, Monica went up to their second floor bedroom.
Delaney made his customary rounds, turning off lights and checking
window and door locks. Even those in the empty bedrooms where his
children by his first wife, Barbara (now deceased), had slept-rooms
later occupied by Monica's two daughters.
Then he returned to the master bedroom. Monica, naked, was seated at the
dresser, brushing her thick black hair. Delaney perched on the edge of
his bed, finished his cigar, and watched her, smiling with pleasure.
They conversed in an intimate shorthand: "Hear from the girls?" he
asked.
"Maybe tomorrow."
"Should we call?"
"Not yet."
"We've got to start thinking about Christmas."
"I buy the cards if you'll write the notes."
"You want to shower first?"
"Go ahead."
"Rub my back?"
"Later. Leave me a dry towel."
The only light in the