The 1st Deadly Sin

6

The home of the late Frank Lombard was on a surprisingly pastoral street in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. There were trees, lawns, barking dogs, shrieking children. The house itself was red brick, two stories high, its ugliness hidden in a tight cloak of ivy that was still green and creeped to the eaves.

There was an asphalt driveway leading to a two-car garage. There were four cars, bumper to bumper, on the driveway, and more in front of the house, two double-parked. Captain Delaney observed all this from across the street. He also observed that one of the double-parked cars was a three-year-old, four-door Plymouth, and had the slightly rusted, slightly dusty, nondescript appearance of an unmarked police car. Two men in civilian clothes were in the front seat.

Delaney approved of a guard being stationed for the protection of the widow, Mrs. Clara Lombard. It was very possible, he thought, there was also a personal guard inside the house; Chief Pauley would see to that. Now the problem was, if Delaney went through with his intention to interview the widow, would one of the cops recognize him and report to Broughton that Captain Delaney had been a visitor.

The Captain pondered this problem a few minutes on the next corner, still watching the Lombard home. While he stood, hands shoved deep in his civilian overcoat pockets, he saw two. couples leave the house, laughing, and another car double-park to disgorge two women and a man, also laughing.

Delaney devised a cover story. If the guards made him, and he was eventually braced by Broughton, he would explain that because the homicide occurred in his precinct, he felt duty-bound to express his condolences to the widow. Broughton wouldn’t buy it completely; he’d be suspicious and have the widow checked. But that would be all right; Delaney did feel duty-bound to express his condolences, and would.

As he headed up the brick-paved walk to the door, he heard loud rock music, screams of laughter, the sound of shattering glass. It was a party, and a wild one.

A man answered his ring, a flush-faced, too-handsome man wearing not one, but two pinkie rings.

“Come in come in come in,” he burbled, flourishing his highball glass and slopping half of it down the front of his hand-tailored, sky-blue silk suit. “Always room for one more.”

“Thank you,” Delaney said. “I’m not a guest. I just wanted to speak to Mrs. Lombard for a moment.”

“Hey, Clara!” the man screamed over his shoulder. “Get your gorgeous ass out here. Your lover is waiting.”

The man leered at Delaney, then plunged back into the dancing, drinking, laughing, yelling mob. The Captain stood patiently. Eventually she came weaving toward him.

A zoftig blonde who reminded him of Oscar Wilde’s comment about the widow “whose hair turned quite gold from grief.” She overflowed an off-the-shoulder cocktail dress that seemed capable of standing by itself, so heavily encrusted was it with sequins, rhinestones, braid, a jeweled peacock brooch and, unaccountably, a cheap tin badge, star-shaped, that said “Garter Inspector.” She looked down at him from bleary eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Mrs. Clara Lombard?”

“Yeah.”

“My name is Delaney, Captain Edward X. Delaney. I am the former commanding officer of the-”

“Jesus,” she breathed. “Another cop. Haven’t I had enough cops?”

“I would like to express my condolences on the death-”

“Five,” she said. “Or six times. I lost count. What the hell is it now? Can’t you see I’ve got a houseful of people? Will you stop bugging me?”

“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I-”

“Thanks a whole hell of a lot,” she said disgustedly. “Well, screw all of you. This is a going-away party. I’m shaking New York, and the whole lot of you can go screw.”

“You’re leaving New York?” he asked, amazed that Broughton would let her go.

“That’s right, buster. I’ve sold the house, the cars, the furniture-everything. By Saturday I’ll be in sunny, funny Miami and starting a new life. A brand new life. And then you can all go screw yourselves.”

She turned away and went rushing back to her party. Delaney replaced his hat, walked slowly down to the corner. He watched the traffic, waiting for the light to change. Cars went rushing by, and the odd thing that had nagged him since his reading of the Operation Lombard reports whisked into his mind, as he knew it would. Eventually.

In the interview with the victim’s mother, Mrs. Sophia Lombard, she had stated he never drove over from Brooklyn because he couldn’t find parking space near her apartment; he took the subway.

Delaney retraced his steps, and this time the outside guards stared at him. He rang the bell of the Lombard home again. The widow herself threw open the door, a welcoming smile on her puffy face-a smile that oozed away as she recognized Delaney.

“Jesus Christ, you again?”

“Yes. You said you’re selling your car?”

“Not car-cars. We had two of them. And forget about getting a bargain; they’re both sold.”

“Your husband-your late husband drove a car?”

“Of course he drove a car. What do you think?”

“Where did he usually carry his driver’s license, Mrs. Lombard?”

“Oh God,” she shouted, and immediately the pinkie-ringed man was at her shoulder.

“Wassamatta, honey?” he inquired. “Having trouble?”

“No trouble, Manny. Just some more police shit. In his wallet,” she said to Delaney. “He carried his driver’s license in his wallet. Okay?”

“Thank you,” Delaney said humbly. “I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just that the license wasn’t in his wallet when we found him.” He refrained from mentioning that she had stated nothing was missing from the wallet. “It’s probably around the house somewhere.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said impatiently.

“If you come across it while you’re packing, will you let us know? We’ve got to cancel it with the State.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll look, I’ll look.”

He knew she wouldn’t. But it didn’t make any difference; she’d never find it.

“Anything else?” she demanded.

“No, nothing. Thank you very much, Mrs. Lombard, for your kind cooperation.”

“Go screw yourself,” she said, and slammed the door in his face.

He went back to his home and methodically checked the inventory of personal effects taken from the body of Frank Lombard, and Mrs. Sophia Lombard’s statement about her son’s visiting habits. Then he sat a long time in the growing darkness. Once he rose to mix a weak rye highball and sat nursing that, sipping slowly and still thinking.

Finally he pulled on his overcoat and hat again and went out to find a different phone booth. He had to wait almost fifteen minutes before Deputy Inspector Ivar Thorsen got back to him, a period during which three would-be phone users turned away in disgust. One of them kicked the phone booth in anger before he left.

“Edward?” Thorsen asked.

“Yes. I’ve got something. Something I don’t think Broughton has.”

He heard Thorsen’s swift intake of breath.

“What?”

“Lombard was a licensed driver. He owned two cars. His wife has sold them, incidentally. She’s leaving town.”

“So?”

“She says he carried his driver’s license in his wallet. That makes sense. The percentages are for it. The license wasn’t in the wallet when it was found. I checked the inventory.” There was a moment’s silence.

“No one would kill for a driver’s license,” Thorsen said finally. “You can buy a good counterfeit for fifty bucks.”

“I know.”

“Identification?” Thorsen suggested. “A hired killer. He takes the license to prove to his employer he really did hit Lombard.”

“What for? It was in all the papers the next day. The employer would know the job had been done.”

“Jesus, that’s right. What do you think? Why the driver’s license?”

“Identification maybe.”

“But you just said-”

“Not a hired killer. I have two ideas. One, the killer took the license as a souvenir, a trophy.”

“That’s nuts, Edward.”

“Maybe. The other idea is that he took the license to prove to a third party that he had killed. Not killed Lombard, but killed someone, anyone. If the stories were in the papers, and the killer could present the victim’s driver’s license, that would prove he was the killer.”

The silence was longer this time.

“Jesus, Edward,” Thorsen said finally. “That’s wild.”

“Yes. Wild.” (And suddenly he remembered a sex killing he had investigated. The victim’s eyelids had been stitched together with her own hairpins.)

Thorsen came on again: “Edward, are you trying to tell me we’re dealing with a crazy?”

“Yes. I think so. Someone like Whitman, Speck, Unruh, the Boston Strangler, Panzram, Manson. Someone like that.”

“Oh God.”

“If I’m right, we’ll know soon enough.”

“How will we know?”

“He’ll do it again.”