The 1st Deadly Sin (70 page)

“Yeah. Until Christmas. Jesus, you know you was up there over an hour, and I buzzed you, and you—”

The Captain hung up. A little of Charles Lipsky went a long, long way.

He wrote up reports of his meeting with Thomas Handry and his conversation with the doorman. The only thing he deliberately omitted was his final talk with Handry on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. That exchange would mean nothing to Broughton.

It was past 4:00 p.m. when he finished putting it all down on paper. The reports were added to the Daniel G. Blank file. He wondered if he’d ever see that plump folder again. Alinski and the Anti-Group had about two more hours. Delaney didn’t want to think of what would happen if he didn’t hear from them. He’d have to deliver Blank's file to Broughton, of course, but
how
he’d deliver it was something he wouldn’t consider until the crunch.

He went into the living room, slipped off his shoes, lay down on the couch, intending only to relax, rest his eyes, think of happier times. But the weariness he hadn’t yet slept off, the two drinks and brandy at lunch—all caught up with him; he slept lightly and dreamed of the wife of a homicide victim he had interrogated years and years ago. “He was asking for it,” she said, and no matter what questions he put to her, that’s all she’d say: “He was asking for it, he was asking for it.”

When he awoke, the room was dark. He laced on his shoes, walked through to the kitchen before he put on a light. The wall clock showed almost 7:00 p.m. Well, it was time…Delaney opened the refrigerator door, looked for a cold can of beer to cleanse his palate and his dreams. He found it, was just peeling back the tab when the phone rang.

He walked back into the study, let the phone ring while he finished opening the beer and taking a deep swallow. Then: “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

There was no answer. He could hear loud conversation of several men, laughter, an occasional shout, the clink of bottles and glasses. It sounded like a drunken party.

“Delaney here,” he repeated.

“Edward?” It was Thorsen’s voice, slurred with drink, weariness, happiness.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Edward, we did it. Broughton is out. We pooped him.”

“Congratulations,” Delaney said tonelessly.

“Edward, you’ve got to return to active duty. Take over Operation Lombard. Whatever you want—men, equipment, money. You name it, you’ve got it. Right?” Thorsen shouted; Delaney grimaced, held the phone away from his ear. He heard two or three voices shout, “Right!” in reply to Thorsen’s question.

“Edward? You still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“You understand? You back on active duty. Head of Operation Lombard. Whatever you need. What do you say?”

“Yes,” Captain X. Delaney said promptly.

“Yes? You said yes?”

“That’s what I said.”

“He said yes!” Thorsen screamed. Again Delaney held the phone away, hearing the loud gabble of many voices. This was fraternity house stuff, and it displeased him.

“My God, that’s great,” the Deputy Inspector said in what Delaney was sure Thorsen thought was a sober and solemn voice.

“But I want complete control,” the Captain said stonily. “Over the whole operation. No written reports. Verbal reports to you only. And—”

“Whatever you want, Edward.”

“And no press conferences, no press releases, no publicity from anyone but me.”

“Anything, Edward, anything. Just wrap it up fast. You understand? Show Broughton up for the stupid
schmuck
he is. He gets canned and three days later you’ve solved it. Right? Shows up the bastard.”

“Canned?” the Captain asked. “Broughton?”

“’mounts to the same thing,” Thorsen giggled. “Filed for retirement. Stupid sonofabitch. Says he’s going to run for mayor next year.”

“Is he?” Delaney said, still speaking in a dull, toneless voice. “Ivar, are you certain you’ve got this straight? I’ll take it on, but only on the conditions that I have complete control, verbal reports only to you, pick my own men, handle all the publicity personally. Is that understood?”

“Captain Delaney,” a quiet voice said, “this is Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski. I apologize, but I have been listening in on an extension. There is a certain celebration going on here.”

“I can hear it.”

“But I assure you, your conditions will be met. You will have complete control. Whatever you need. And nothing in the press or TV on Operation Lombard will come from anyone but you. Satisfactory?”

“Yes.”

“Great!” Deputy Inspector Thorsen burbled. “The Telex will go out immediately. We’ll get out a press release right away—just so we can make the late editions—that Broughton has put in for retirement and you’re taking over Operation Lombard. Is that all right, Edward? Just a short, one-paragraph release. Okay?”

“Yes. All right.”

“Your personal orders have already been cut. The Commissioner will sign them tonight.”

“You must have been very sure of me,” Delaney said.

“I wasn’t,” Thorsen laughed, “and Johnson wasn’t. But Alinski was.”

“Oh?” Delaney said coldly. “Are you there, Alinski?”

“I am here, Captain,” the soft voice came back.

“You were sure of me? That I’d take this on?”

“Yes,” Alinski said. “I was sure.”

“Why?”

“You don’t have any choice, do you, Captain?” the Deputy Mayor asked gently.

Delaney hung up, just as gently.

The first thing the Captain did was finish his beer. It helped. Not only the tang of it, the shock of coldness in his throat, but it stimulated the sudden realization of the magnitude of the job he had agreed to, the priorities, big responsibilities and small details, and the fact that “first things first” would be the only guide that might see him through. Right now, the first thing was finishing a cold beer.

“You don’t have any choice, do you, Captain?” the Deputy Mayor had asked gently.

What had he meant by that?

He switched on the desk lamp, sat down, put on his glasses, pulled the yellow, legal-lined pad toward him, began to doodle—squares, circles, lines. Rough diagrams, very rough, and random ideas expressed in arrowheads, lightning bolts, spirals.

First things first. First of the first was around-the-clock surveillance of Daniel G. Blank. Three plainclothesmen on foot and two unmarked cars of two men each should do it. Seven men. Working eight-hour shifts. That was 21 men. But a police commander with any experience at all didn’t multiply his personnel requirements by three: he multiplied by four, at least. Because men are entitled to days off, vacations, sick leave, family emergencies, etc. So the basic force watching Danny Boy was 28, and Delaney wondered if he had been too optimistic in thinking he could reduce the 500 detectives assigned to Operation Lombard by two-thirds.

That was one division: the outside force shadowing Blank. A second division would be inside, keeping records, monitoring walkie-talkie reports from the Blank guards. That meant a communications set-up. Receivers and transmitters. Somewhere. Not in the 251st Precinct house. Delaney owed Lt. Dorfman that one. He’d get Operation Lombard out of there, establish his command post somewhere else, anywhere. Isolate his men. That would help cut down leaks to the press.

A third division would be research: the suspect’s history, background, credit rating, bank accounts, tax returns, military record—anything and everything that had ever been recorded about the man. Plus interviews with friends, relatives, acquaintances, business associates. Cover stories could be concocted so Blank wasn’t alerted.

(But what if he was? That blurry idea in the back of Delaney’s mind began to take on a definite outline.)

A possible fourth division might investigate the dark, skinny girl friend, the boy Tony, the friends—what was their name? Morton. That was it. They owned the Erotica. All that might take another squad.

It was all very crude, very tentative. Just a sketching-in. But it was a beginning. He doodled on for almost an hour, starting to firm it up, thinking of what men he wanted where, who he owed favors to. Favors. “I owe you one.”

“That’s one you owe me.” The lifeblood of the Department. Of politics. Of business. Of the thrusting, scheming, rude world. Wasn’t that the rough cement that kept the whole rickety machine from falling apart? You be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you. Charles Lipsky: “One hand washes the other—right?”

It was an hour—more than that—since his conversation with Thorsen. The Telex would now be clicked out in every precinct house, detective division, and special unit in the city. Captain Delaney went up to his bedroom, stripped down to his underwear and took a “whore’s bath,” soaping hands, face and armpits with a washcloth, then drying, powdering, combing his hair carefully.

He put on his Number Ones, his newest uniform, used, so far, only for ceremonies and funerals. He squared his shoulders, pulled the blouse down tautly, made certain his decorations were aligned. He took a new cap from a plastic bag on the closet shelf, wiped the shield bright on his sleeve, set the cap squarely atop his head, the short beak pulled down almost over his eyes. The uniform was a brutal one: choker collar, shielded eyes, wide shoulders, tapered waist. Menace there.

He inspected himself in the downstairs mirror. It was not egotism. If you had never belonged to church, synagogue or mosque, you might think so. But the costume was continuing tradition, symbol, myth—whatever you like. The clothing, decorations, insignia went beyond clothing, decorations, insignia. They were, to those of the faith, belief.

He decided against an overcoat; he wouldn’t be going far. He went into the study just long enough to take the photo of Daniel G. Blank from the file and scrawl the man’s address, but not his name, on the back. He slipped the photo into his hip pocket. He left his glasses on the desk. If possible, you did not wear eyeglasses when you exercised command, or exhibit any other signs of physical infirmity. It was ridiculous, but it was so.

He locked up, marched next door to the 251st Precinct house. The Telex had obviously come through; Dorfman was standing near the sergeant’s desk, his arms folded, waiting. When he saw Delaney, he came forward at once, his long, ugly face relaxing into a grin. He held out a hand eagerly.

“Congratulations, Captain.”

“Thank you,” Delaney said, shaking his hand. “Lieutenant, I’ll have this gang out of your hair as soon as possible. A day or two at the most. Then you’ll have your house back.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Dorfman said gratefully.

“Where are they?” Delaney asked.

“Detectives’ squad room.”

“How many?”

“Thirty, forty—around there. They got the word, but they don’t know what to do.”

Delaney nodded. He walked up the old creaking stairway, past the commander’s office. The frosted glass door of the detectives’ squad room was closed. There was noise from inside, a lot of men talking at once, a buzz of confused sound, angry turbulence. The Captain opened the door, and stood there.

The majority were in plainclothes, a few in uniform. Heads turned to look at him, then more. All. The talk died down. He just stood there, looking coldly out from under the beak of his cap. They all stared at him. A few men rose grudgingly to their feet. Then a few more. Then more. He waited unmoving, watching them. He recognized a few, but his aloof expression didn’t change. He waited until they were all standing, and silent.

“I am Captain Edward X. Delaney,” he said crisply. “I am now in command. Are there any lieutenants here?”

Some of the men looked around uneasily. Finally, from the back, a voice called, “No, Captain, no lieutenants.”

“Any detective sergeants?”

A hand went up, a black hand. Delaney walked toward the raised hand, men stepping aside to let him through. He walked to the back of the room until he was facing the black sergeant, a short, heavy set man with sculpted features and what appeared to be a closely-fitted knitted cap of white wool. He was, Delaney knew, called “Pops,” and he looked like a professor of Middle English literature. Strangely enough, he had professorial talents.

“Detective sergeant Thomas MacDonald,” Captain Delaney said loudly, so everyone could hear him.

“That’s right, Captain.”

“I remember. We worked together. A warehouse job over on the west side. About ten years ago.”

“More like fifteen. Captain.”

“Was it? You took one in the hip.”

“In the ass, Captain.”

There were a few snickers. Delaney knew what MacDonald was trying to do, and fed him his lines.

“In the ass?” he said. “I trust it healed, sergeant?”

The black professor shrugged. “Just one more crease, Captain,” he said. The listening men broke up, laughing and relaxing.

Delaney motioned to MacDonald. “Come with me.” The sergeant followed him out into the hallway. The Captain closed the door, shutting off most of the laughter and noise. He looked at MacDonald. MacDonald looked at him.

“It really was the hip,” Delaney said softly.

“Sure, Captain,” the sergeant agreed. “But I figured—”

“I know what you figured,” the Captain said, “and you figured right. Can you work till eight tomorrow morning?”

“If I have to.”

“You have to,” Delaney said. He drew Blank’s photo from his pocket, handed it to MacDonald. “This is the man,” he said tonelessly. “His address is on the back. You don’t have to know his name—now. It’s a block-size apartment building. Entrance and exit through a lobby on east Eighty-third. One doorman this time of night. I want three men, plain, covering the lobby. If this man comes out, I want them close to him.”

“How close?”

“Close enough.”

“So if he farts, they can smell it?”

“Not that close. But don’t let this guy out of their sight. Not for a second. If he spots them, all right. But I wouldn’t like it.”

“I understand, Captain. A crazy?”

“Something like that. Just don’t play him for laughs. He’s not a nice boy.”

The sergeant nodded.

“And two cars. Two men each, in plain. At both ends of the block. In case he takes off. He’s got a black Chevy Stingray in the underground garage, or he might take a cab. Got all that?”