The Fourth Deadly Sin

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 room came from a lamp on the bedside table. The tinted silk shade gave the illumination a rosy glow. Delaney watched the play of light on his wife's strong back as she raised her arms to brush, religiously, one hundred times.

She was a stalwart woman with a no-nonsense body: wide shoulders and hips, heavy bosom, and a respectable waist.

Muscular legs tapered to slender ankles. There was a warm solidity about her that Delaney cherished. He reflected, not for the first time, how lucky he had been with women: first Barbara and now Monica-two joys.

She, took up her flannel robe and went into the bathroom, pausing to glance over her shoulder and wink at him. When he heard the shower start, he began to undress, slowly. He unlaced his high shoes, peeled off the white cotton socks. He removed the heavy gold chain and hunter from his vest. The chunky chain had been his grandfather's, the pocket watch his father's. It had stopped fifty years ago; Delaney had no desire to have it started again, Off came the dark suit of cheviot as coarse as an army blanket. White shirt with starched collar. Silk rep tie in a muted purple, like a dusty stained-glass window. He hung everything carefully away, moving about the bedroom in under drawers as long as Bermuda shorts and balbriggan undershirt with cap sleeves.

Monica called him a mastodon, and he supposed he was.

There was a belly now-not big, but it was there. There was a layer of new fat over old muscle. But the legs were still strong enough to run, and the shoulders and arms powerful enough to deal a killing blow.

He had come to an acceptance of age. Not what it did to his mind, for he was convinced that was as sharp as ever.

Sharper. Honed by experience and reflection. But the body, undeniably, was going. Still, it was no good remembering when he was a young cop and could scamper up a fire escape, leap an air shaft, or punch out some gorilla who wanted to remake his face.

His face… The lines were deeper now, the features ruder -everything beginning to look like it had been hacked from an oak stump with a dull hatchet. But the gray hair, cut en brosse, was still thick, and Doc Hagstrorn assured him once a year that the ticker was still pumping away sturdily.

Monica came out of the bathroom in her robe, sat again at the dresser, and began to cream her face. He headed for the shower, pausing to touch her shoulder with one finger. Just a touch.

He bathed swiftly, shampooed his stiff hair. Then he put on his pajamas-light cotton flannel, the pants with a drawstring waist, the coat buttoned as precisely as a Norfolk jacket.

When he came out, Monica was already in her bed, sitting up, back propped with pillows. She had taken the bottle of Rdmy from the bedside table and poured them each a whack of the cognac in small crystal snifters.

"Bless you," he said.

"You smell nice," she said.

"Nothing but soap."

He turned down the thermostat, opened the window a few inches. Then he got into his own bed, propping himself up as she had done.

"So tell me," she said.

"Tell me what?" he asked, wide-eyed.

"Bastard," she said. "You know very well. What did Ivar Thorsen want?"

He told her. She listened intently.

"Ivar's done a lot for me," he concluded.

"And you've done a lot for him."

"We're friends," he said. "Who keeps score?"

"Diane Ellerbee," she said. "The wife-the widow of the man who was killed-I know her."

"You know her?" he said, astonished.

"Well, maybe not know-but I met her. She addressed one of my groups. Her subject was the attraction between young girls and horses."

"Horses?"

"Edward, it's not a joke. Young girls are attracted to horses. They love to ride and groom them."

"And how did Mrs. Diane Ellerbee explain this?"

"Dr. Diane Ellerbee. There was a lot of Freud in it-and other things.

I'll dig out my notes if you're interested."

"Not really. What did you think of her?"

"Very intelligent, very eloquent. And possibly the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Breathtaking."

"That's what Ivar said."

They were silent a few moments, sipping their cognacs, reflecting.

"You're going to do it?" she asked finally.

"Well, as I said, I want to talk to Suarez first. If we can get along, and work out a way I can act like a, uh, consultant, maybe I will. It might be interesting. What do you think?"

She turned onto her side to look at him. "Edward, if it was a poor nobody who got murdered, would Ivar and the Department be going to all this trouble?"

"Probably not," he admitted. "The victim was a white male WASP. Wealthy, educated, influential. His widow has been raising hell with the Department, and his father, who has mucho clout, has been raising double hell. So the Department is calling up all the troops."

"Do you think that's fair?"

"Monica," he said patiently, "suppose a junkie with a snootful of shit is found murdered in an alley. The clunk has a sheet as long as your arm, and he's a prime suspect in muggings, robberies, rapes, and God knows what else. Do you really want the Department to spend valuable man-hours trying to find out who burned him? Come on! They're delighted that garbage like that is off the streets."

"I suppose…" she said slowly. "But it just doesn't seem right that the rich and influential get all the attention."

"Go change the world," he said. "It's always been like that, and always will. I know you think everyone is equal.

Maybe we all are-in God's eyes and under the law. But it's not as clear-cut as that. Some people try to be good, decent human beings, and some are evil scum. The cops, with limited budgets and limited personnel, recognize that. Is it so unusual or outrageous that they'll spend more time and effort protecting the angels than the devils?"

"I don't know," she said, troubled. "it sounds like elitism to me.

Besides, how do you know Dr. Simon Ellerbee was an angel?"

"I don't. But he doesn't sound like a devil, either."

"You're really fascinated by all this, aren't you?"

"Just something to do," he said casually.

"I have a better idea of something to do," she said, fluttering her eyes.

"I'm game," he said, smiling.

The small, narrow townhouse on East 84th Street, between York and East End Avenues, was jointly owned by Drs. Diane and Simon Ellerbee. After its purchase in 1976, they had spent more than $100,000 on renovations, stripping the pine paneling of eleven layers of paint, restoring the handsome staircase, and redesigning the interior to provide four useful floor-throughs.

The first level, up three stone steps from the sidewalk, was occupied by the Piedmont Gallery. It exhibited and sold handwoven fabrics, quilts, and primitive American pottery. It was not a profitable enterprise, but was operated almost as a hobby by two prim, elderly ladies who obviously didn't need income from this commercial venture.

The offices of Dr. Diane Ellerbee were on the second floor, and those of Dr. Simon Ellerbee on the third. Both floors had been remodeled to include living quarters. Living room, dining room, and kitchen were on the second; two bedrooms and sitting room on the third. Each floor had two bathrooms.

The professional suites on both floors were almost identical: a small outer office for a receptionist and a large, roomy inner office for the doctor. The offices of Drs. Diane and Simon Ellerbee were connected by intercom.

The fourth and top floor of the townhouse was a private apartment, leased as a pied-A-terre by a West Coast filmmaker who was rarely in residence.

In addition to the townhouse, the Ellerbees owned a country home near Brewster, New York. It was a brick and stucco Tudor on 4.5 wooded acres bisected by a swift-running stream. The main house had two master bedrooms on the ground floor and two guest bedrooms on the second. A three car garage was attached. In the rear of the house was a tiled patio and heated swimming pool.

Both the Ellerbees were avid gardeners, and their English garden was one of the showplaces of the neighborhood. They employed a married couple, Polish immigrants, who lived out. The husband served as groundsman and did maintenance.

The wife worked as housekeeper and, occasionally, cook.

It was the Ellerbees' custom to stay in their East 84th Street townhouse weekdays-and, on rare occasions, on Saturday.

They usually left for Brewster on Friday evening and returned to Manhattan on Sunday night. Both spent the entire month of August at their country home.

The Ellerbees owned three cars. Dr. Simon drove a new bottie-green Jaguar XJ6 sedan, Dr. Diane a 1971 silver and black Mercedes-Benz SEL 3.5. Both these cars were customarily garaged in Manhattan. The third vehicle, a Jeep station wagon, was kept at their Brewster home.

On the Friday Dr. Simon Ellerbee was murdered, he told his wife-according to her statement to the police-that he had scheduled an evening patient. He suggested she drive back to Brewster as soon as she was free, and he would follow later. He said he planned to leave by 9:00 P.m. at the latest.

Dr. Diane said she left Manhattan at approximately 6:30 P.m. She described the drive north as "ferocious" because of the 40 mph wind and heavy rain. She arrived at their country home about 8:00 P.m. Because of the storm, she guessed her husband would be delayed, but expected him by 10:30 or 11:00.

By 11:30, she stated she was concerned by his absence and called his office.

There was no reply. She called two more times with the same result.

Around midnight, she called the Brewster police station, asking if they had any report of a car THE Fourth DEAL)LYSIN 17 accident involving a Jaguar XJ6 sedan. They had not.

Becoming increasingly worried, she phoned the Manhattan garage where the Ellerbees kept their cars. After a wait of several minutes, the night attendant reported that Dr. Simon Ellerbee's Jaguar had not been taken out; it was still in its slot.

"I was getting frantic," she later told detectives. "I thought he might have been mugged walking to the garage. It happened once before."

So, at approximately 1:15 A.M Dr. Diane called Dr. Julius K. Samuelson.

He was also a psychiatrist, a widower, and close friend and frequent house guest of the Ellerbees. Dr. Samuelson was also president of the Greater New York Psychiatric Association. He lived in a cooperative apartment. at 79th Street and Madison Avenue.

Samuelson was not awakened by Diane Ellerbee's phone call, having recently returned from a concert by the Stuttgart String Ensemble at Carnegie Hall. When Dr. Diane explained the situation, he immediately agreed to taxi to the Ellerbees' house and try to find Dr. Simon or see if anything was amiss.

Samuelson stated he arrived at the East 84th Street townhouse at about 1:45 A.m. He asked the cabdriver to wait. It was still raining heavily.

He stepped from the cab into a streaming gutter, then hurried across the sidewalk and up the three steps to the front entrance. He found the door ajar.

"Not wide open," he told detectives. "Maybe two or three inches."

Samuelson was fifty-six, a short, slender man, but not lacking in physical courage. He tramped determinedly up the dimly lighted, carpeted staircase to the offices of Dr. Simon on the third floor. He found the office door wide open.

Within, he found the battered body.

He checked first to make certain that Ellerbee was indeed dead. Then, using the phone on the receptionist's desk, he dialed 911. The call was logged in at 1:54 A.M. All the above facts were included in New York City newspaper reports and on local TV newscasts following the murder.

Delaney planted himself across the street from Acting Chief Suarez's house on East 87th, off Lexington Avenue. He squinted at it, knowing exactly how it was laid out; he had grown up in a building much like that one.

It was a six-story brownstone, with a flight of eight stone steps, called a stoop, leading to the front entrance. Originally, such a building was an old-law tenement with two railroad flats on each floor, running front to back, with almost every room opening onto a long hallway.

"Cold-water flats," they were sometimes called. Not because there was no hot water; there was if you had a humane landlord. But the covered bathtub was in a corner of the kitchen, and the toilet was out in the hall, serving the two apartments.

Not too many brownstones like that left in Manhattan.

They were being demolished for glass and concrete high-rise coops or being purchased at horrendous prices in the process called "gentrification," and converted into something that would warrant a six-page, four-color spread in Architectural Digest.

Edward X. Delaney wasn't certain that was progress-but it sure as hell was change. And if you were against change, you had to mourn for the dear, departed days when all of Manhattan was a cow pasture. Still, he allowed himself a small pang of nostalgia, remembering his boyhood in a building much like the one across the street.

He saw immediately that the people who lived there were waging a valiant battle against the city's blight. No graffiti.

Washed windows and clean curtains. Potted ivy at the top of the stoop (the pots chained to the railing). The plastic garbage cans in the areaway were clean and had lids. All in all, a neat, snug building with an air of modest prosperity.

Delaney lumbered across the street, thinking it was an offbeat home for an Acting Chief of the NYPD. Most of the Department's brass lived in Queens, or maybe Staten Island.

The bell plate was polished and the intercom actually worked. When he pressed the 3-B button alongside the neatly typed name, M.R. suarez, a childish voice piped, "Who is it?"

Edward X. Delaney here," he said, leaning forward to speak into the little round grille.

There was static, the sound of thumps, then the inner door lock buzzed, and he pushed his way in. He tramped up to the third floor.

The man waiting for him at the opened apartment door was a Don Quixote figure: tall, thin, splintery, with an expression at once shy, deprecatory, rueful.

"Mr. Delaney?" he said, holding out a bony hand. "I am Michael Ramon Suarez."

"Chief," Delaney said. "Happy to make your acquaintance.

I appreciate your letting me stop by; I know how busy you must be."

"It is an honor to have you visit my home, sir," Suarez said with formal courtesy. "I hope it is no inconvenience for you. I would have come to you gladly."

Delaney knew that; in fact, Deputy Commissioner Thorsen had suggested it. But Delaney wanted to meet with the Acting Chief in his own home and get an idea of his life outside the Department: as good a way to judge a man as any.

The apartment seemed mobbed with children-five of them ranging in age from three to ten. Delaney was introduced to them all: Michael, Jr Maria, Joseph, Carlo, and Vita. And when Mrs. Rosa Suarez entered, she was carrying a baby, Thomas, in her arms.

"Your own basketball team," Delaney said, smiling. "With one substitute."

"Rosa wishes to try for a football team," Suarez said dryly.

"But there I draw the line."

They made their guest sit in the best chair, and, despite his protests that he had just dined, brought coffee and a platter of crisp pastries dusted with powdered sugar. The entire family, baby included, had coffee laced with condensed milk. Delaney took his black.

"Delicious," he pronounced after his first cup. "Chicory, Mrs. Suarez?"

"A little," she said faintly, lowering her eyes and blushing at his praise.

"And these," he said, raising one of the sweetmeats aloft.

"Homemade?"

She nodded.

"I love them," he said. "You know, the Italians and French and Polish make things very similar."

"Just fried dough," Suarez said. "But Rosa makes the best."

"I concur," Delaney said, reaching for another.

He got the kids talking about their schools, and while they chattered away he had a chance to look around.

Not a luxurious apartment-but spotless. Walls a tenement green. A large crucifix. One hanging of black velvet painted with what appeared to be a view of Waikiki Beach. Patterned linoleum on the floor. Furniture of orange maple that had obviously been purchased as a five-piece set.

None of it to Delaney's taste, but that was neither here nor there. Any honest cop with six children wasn't about to buy Louis Quatorze chairs or Aubusson carpets. The important thing was that the home was warm and clean, the kids were well fed and well dressed. Delaney's initial impression was of a happy family with love enough to go around.

The kids begged to watch an hour of TV-a comedy special-and then promised to go to their rooms, the younger to sleep, the older to do their homework.

Suarez gave his permission, then led his visitor to the large kitchen at the rear of the apartment and closed the door.

"We shall have a little peace and quiet in here," he said.

"Kids don't bother me," Delaney said. "I have two of my own and two stepdaughters. I like kids."

"Yes," the Chief said, "I could see that. Please sit here."

The kitchen was large enough to accommodate a long trestle table that could seat the entire family. Delaney noted a big gas range and microwave oven, a food processor, and enough pots, pans, and utensils to handle a company of Marines. He figured good food ranked high on the Suarez family's priority list.

He sat on one of the sturdy wooden chairs. The Chief suddenly turned.

"I called you Mr. Delaney," he said. "Did I offend?"

"Of course not. That's what I am-a mister. No title."

"Well… you know," Suarez said with his wry smile, "some retired cops prefer to be addressed by their former rank -captain, chief, deputy… whatever."

"Mister will do me fine," Delaney said cheerfully. "I'm just another civilian."

"Not quite."

They sat across the table from each other. Delaney saw a long-faced man with coarse black hair combed back from a high forehead. A thick mustache drooped. Olive skin and eyes as dark and shiny as washed coal.

A mouthful of strong white teeth. – He also saw the sad, troubled smile and the signs of stress: an occasional tic at the left of the mouth, bagged shadows under the eyes, furrows etched in the brow. Suarez was a man under pressure-and beginning to show it. Delaney wondered how he was sleeping-or if he was sleeping.

"Chief," he said, "when I was on active duty, they used to call me Iron Balls. I never could figure out exactly what that meant, except maybe I was a hard-nosed, blunt-talking bastard. I insisted on doing things my way. I made a lot of enemies."

"So I have heard," Suarez said softly.

"But I always tried to be up-front in what 1. said and what I did. So now I want to tell you this: On the Ellerbee case, forget what Deputy Commissioner Thorsen told you. I don't know how heavily he's been leaning on you, but if you don't want me in, just say so right now. I won't be offended. I won't be insulted. Just tell me you want to work the case yourself, and I'll thank you for a pleasant evening and the chance to meet you and your beautiful family. Then I'll get out of your hair."

"Deputy Thorsen has been very kind to me," he said.

"Kinder than you can ever know."

"Bullshit!" Delaney said angrily. "Thorsen is trying to save his own ass and you know it."

"Yes," Suarez said earnestly, "that is true. But there is more to it than that. How long has it been since you turned in your tin, Mr.

Delaney-five years?"

"A little more than that."

"Then you cannot be completely aware of the changes that have taken place in the Department, and are taking place. A third of all the cops on duty have less than five years' experience. The old height requirement has been junked. Now we have short cops, black cops, female cops, Hispanic cops, Oriental cops, gay cops. At the same time we have more and more cops with a college education. And men and women who speak foreign languages. It is a revolution, and I am all for it."

Delaney was silent.

"These kids are motivated," Suarez went on. "They study law and take courses in sociology and psychology and human relations. It has to help the Department- don't you think?"

"It can't hurt," Delaney said. "The city is changing. If the Department doesn't change along with it, the Department will go down the tube."

"Yes," the Chief said, leaning back. "Exactly. Thorsen realizes that also. So he has been doing whatever he can whenever he can to remake the Department so that it reflects the minority. He has been pushing for more minority cops on the street and for advancement of minorities to higher ranks.

Especially appointive ranks. You think I would have two stars today if it was not for Thorsen's clout? No way! So when you tell me he is trying to save his own ass by bringing you in on the Ellerbee case, I say yes, that is true. But it is also to protect something in which he believes deeply."

"Thorsen is a survivor," Delaney said harshly. "And a shrewd infighter.

Don't worry about Thorsen. I owe him as much as you do. I know damned well what he's up against.

He's fighting the Irish Mafia every day he goes downtown.

Those guys remember the way the Department was thirty years ago, and that's the way they want it to be today-an Irish kingdom. I can say that because I'm a mick myself, but I had my own fights with harps in high places. I agree with everything you've said. I'm just telling you to be your own man. Screw Thorsen and screw me. If you want to work on the Ellerbee case on your own, say so. You'll break it or you won't. Either way, it'll be your way. And God knows if I do come in, there's absolutely no guarantee that I can do a damned bit of good-for you, for Thorsen, or for the Department." There was silence, then Suarez said in a low voice, "I admit that when Deputy Thorsen first suggested that he bring you into the investigation, I was insulted. I know your reputation, of course. Your record of closed files. Still, I thought Thorsen was saying, in effect, that he did not trust me. I almost told him right off that I wanted no help from you or anyone else; I would handle the Ellerbee homicide by myself.

Fortunately, I held my tongue, came home, thought about it, and talked it over with Rosa."

"That was smart," Delaney said. "Women may know shit all about Department politics, but they sure know a hell of a lot about people-and that's what the Department is."

"Well…" Suarez said, sighing, "Rosa made me see that it was an ego thing for me. She said that if I failed on the Ellerbee case, everyone in the city would say, "See, the spic can't cut the mustard." She said I should accept help anywhere I could get it. Also, there is another thing. If the Ellerbee crime is solved, Thorsen will try to get me a third star and permanent appointment as Chief of Detectives when Murphy retires. Did you know that?"

"Yes. Thorsen told me."

"So there are a lot of motives involved- political, ethnic, personal. I cannot honestly tell you which is the strongest. So I gave the whole matter many hours of very heavy thought."

"I'll bet you did," Delaney said. "It's a tough decision to make."

"Another factor…" Suarez said. "I have some very good men in my bureau."

"I trained a lot of them myself."

"I know that. But none have your talent and experience. I don't say that to butter you up; it is the truth. I spoke to several detectives who worked with you on various cases.

They all said the same thing: If you can get Delaney, get him!

So that finally made up my mind. If you would be willing to help me on the Ellerbee homicide, I will welcome your help with deep gratitude and give you all the cooperation I possibly can.

Delaney leaned forward to look at him. "You're sure about this?"

"Absolutely sure."

"You realize I might strike out? Believe me, it wouldn't be the first time I failed. Far from it."

"I realize that."

"All right, let's get down to nuts and bolts. I've been following the case in the papers. Reading between the lines, I'd say you haven't got much."

"Much?" Suarez cried. "We have nothing!"

"Let me tell you what I know about it. Then you tell me what I've got wrong.' Speaking rapidly, Delaney summarized what he had read in newspaper accounts and heard on TV new casts. Suarez listened intently, not interrupting. When Delaney finished, the Chief said, "Yes, that is about it.

Some of the times you mentioned are a little off, but not enough to make any big difference."

Delaney nodded. "Now tell me what you didn't give to the reporters."

"Several things," Suarez said. "They may or may not mean anything. First of all, the victim told his wife he was staying in Manhattan because he was expecting a patient late on Friday evening. We found his appointment book on his desk. The last patient listed was for five P.m. No one listed after five.

The receptionist says that was not unusual. Sometimes the doctor got what they called 'crisis screams." A patient who is really disturbed phones and says he must see the shrink immediately. The doctor makes the appointment and neglects to tell the receptionist. She left at five o'clock anyway, right after the last patient listed in the appointment book arrived."

"Uh-huh," Delaney said. "Could happen…"

"The second thing is this. The Medical Examiner thinks the murder weapon was a ball peen hammer. You know what that is?"

"A ball peen? Sure. It's got a little rounded knob on one side of the head."

"Correct. I asked, and found that such a hammer is used to shape metallike taking a dent out of a fender. Ellerbee was struck multiple blows on the top and back of his skull with the ball peen. They found many round wounds, like punctures."

"Multiple blows? Someone hammering away even after he was a clunk?"

"Yes. The ME calls the attack 'frenzied." Many more blows than were needed to kill him. But that is not all. After Ellerbee was dead, the killer apparently rolled him over onto his back and struck him two more times. In his eyes. One blow to each eye."

"That's nice," Delaney said. "Was the rounded knob of the ballpeen used on the eyes?" t t was. When Dr. Samuelson found the corpse, it was on its back, the eyes a mess."

"All right," Delaney said. "Anything else you didn't give the press?"

"Yes. When Samuelson discovered the body, he called nine-eleven, then went back downstairs to wait for the cops. A car with two uniforms responded. Here is where we got a little lucky-I think. Because those two blues, first on the scene, did everything by the book. One of them hung on to Samuelson and his cabdriver, making sure they would not take off.

Meanwhile, he called in for backup, saying they had a reported homicide.

The second blue went upstairs to confirm the kill. You remember how hard it was raining Friday night?

Well, the uniform who went upstairs saw soaked tracks on the carpet of the hall and the staircase leading to the third floor.

So he was careful to step as close to the wall as he could to preserve the prints."

"That was smart," Delaney said. "Who was he?"

"A big, big black," Suarez said. "I talked with him, and he made me feel like a midget."

"My God!" Delaney said, astonished. "Don't tell me his name is Jason T.

Jason?"

It was Suarez's turn to be astonished. "That is who it was.

You know him?"

"Oh, hell yes. We worked together. They call him Jason Two. A brainy lad. There's detective material if ever I saw it.

He'd never go trampling over everything."

"Well, he did not. So when the Crime Scene Unit arrived, they were able to eliminate his wet prints on the carpet of the staircase and in the receptionist's office where the body was found. A day later, they had also eliminated Dr. Samuelson's footprints. He was wearing street shoes and has very small feet. The kicker is this: That left two sets of unidentified wet prints on the carpet."

"Two sets?"

"Absolutely. The photos prove it. Ellerbee had two visitors that night.

Both were wearing rubbers or galoshes. Indistinct blots, but there is no doubt they were made by two different people."

"Son of a bitch," Delaney said. "Male or female?"

Suarez shrugged. "With rubbers or boots, who knows? But there were two sets of prints left after Samuelson's and Jason's were eliminated."

"Two sets of prints," Delaney repeated thoughtfully. "How do you figure that?"

"I do not. Do you?"

"No. "Well," Suarez said, "that's all the information that has not yet been released. Now let us discuss how we are going to manage your assistance in this investigation. You tell me what you would like and I will make every effort to provide what I can.

They talked for another half-hour. They agreed it would be counterproductive to run two separate investigations of the same crime.

"We'd be walking up each other's heels," Delaney said.

So they would try to coordinate their efforts, with Suarez in command and Delaney offering suggestions and consulting with Suarez as frequently as developments warranted.

"Here's what I'll need," Delaney said. "First of all, a Department car, unmarked. Then I want Sergeant Abner Boone as an assistant to serve as liaison officer with you and your crew. Right now he's heading a Major Crime Unit in Manhattan North. I want him."

"No problem," Suarez said. "I know Boone. Good man.

But he…"

His voice trailed away. Delaney looked at him steadily.

"Yes," he said, "Boone was on the sauce. But he straightened himself out. Getting married helped. He hasn't had a drink in more than two years. My wife and I see him and his wife two or three times a month, and believe me, I know: the man is clean."

"If you say so," Suarez said apologetically. "Then by all means let us have Sergeant Boone."

"And Jason Two," Delaney said. "I want to give that guy a chance; he deserves it."

"In uniform?"

Delaney thought a moment. "No. Plainclothes. I need Boone and Jason because they've got shields. They can flash their potzies and get me in places I couldn't go as a civilian.

Also, I'll want to see copies of everything you've got on the case-reports, memos, photos, the PM, fake confessions, tips, the whole schmear."

"It can be done," Suarez said, nodding. "But you realize of course I will have to clear all this with Deputy Thorsen."

"Sure. Keep him in the picture. That'll keep him off my back."

"Yes," Suarez said sadly, "and on mine."

Delaney laughed. "It comes with the territory," he said.

They sat back and relaxed.

"Tell me, Chief, what have you done so far?"

"At first," Suarez said, "we thought it was a junkie looking to score.

So we leaned on all our snitches. No results. We searched every garbage can and sewer basin in a ten-block area for the murder weapon. Nothing.

We canvassed every house on the street, and then spread out to the whole area.

No one had seen anything-they said. We checked out the license plates of all parked cars near the scene of the crime and contacted the owners.

Again, nothing. We have more or less eliminated the wife and Dr.

Samuelson; their alibis hold up. Now we are attempting to question every one of his patients.

And former patients. Almost a hundred of them. It is a long, hard job."

"It's got to be done," Delaney said grimly. "And his friends and professional associates?"

"Yes, them also. So far we have drawn a blank. You will see all this from the reports. Sometimes I think it is hopeless."

"No," Delaney said, "it's never hopeless. Occasionally you get a break when you least expect it. I remember a case I worked when I was a dick two. This young woman got offed in Central Park. The crazy thing was that she was almost bald.

We couldn't figure it until we talked to her friends and found out she had cancer and was on chemotherapy. The friends said she usually wore a blond wig. We were nowhere on this case, but three weeks later the One-oh Precinct raided an after-hours joint and picked up a transvestite wearing a blond wig. One of the arresting cops remembered the Central Park killing and called up. Same wig. It had the maker's name on a tiny label inside. So we leaned on the transvestite. He hadn't chilled the woman, but he told us who he had bought the wig from, and eventually we got the perp. It was luck-just dumb luck. All I'm saying is that the same thing could happen on this Ellerbee kill."

"Let us pray," Michael Ramon Suarez said mournfully.

After a while Delaney rose to leave. The two men shook hands. Suarez said he would check everything with Deputy Thorsen immediately and call Delaney the following morning.

"I thank you," he said solemnly. "For your honesty and for your kindness. I believe we can work well together."

"Sure we can," Delaney said heartily. "We may scream at one another now and then, but we both want the same thing."

In the living room, Mrs. Rosa Suarez was seated before the darkened television set, placidly knitting. Delaney thanked her for her hospitality, and suggested that she and her husband might like to visit his home.

"That would be nice," she said, smiling shyly. "But with the children and the baby… Well, perhaps we can arrange it."

"Try," he urged. "I have a feeling you and my wife would hit it off."

She looked at her husband. If a signal passed between them, Delaney didn't catch it.

At the door, she put a hand on his arm. "Thank you for helping," she said in a low voice. "You are a good man."

"I'm not so sure about that," he said.

"I am," she said softly.

They were having a breakfast of eggs scrambled with onions and lox.

Delaney was chomping a buttered bagel.

"What are your plans for today?" he asked idly.

"Shopping," Monica said promptly. "With Rebecca. All day. We'll have lunch somewhere. I'll buy the Christmas cards and gifts for the children." :"Good."

"What would you like for Christmas?"

"Me? I'm the man who's got everything."

"That's what you think, buster. How about a nice cigar case from Dunhill?"

He considered that. "Not bad," he admitted. "That old one I've got is falling apart. A dark morocco would be nice. What would you like?"

"Please," she said, "no more drugstore perfume. Surprise me. Are you going shopping?"

"No, I'll hang around awhile. Suarez said he'd call, and I want to be here."

"What would you like for dinner?"

"You know what we haven't had for a long time? Creamed chicken on buttermilk biscuits with--2' "With mashed potatoes and peas," she finished, laughing.

"A real goyish meal. A good Jew wouldn't be caught dead eating that stuff."

"Force yourself," he told her. "I just suffered through a Jewish breakfast, didn't IT' "Some suffering," she jeered. "You gobbled that-"

But then the phone rang, and he rose to answer it.

"Edward X. Delaney here," he said. "Yes, Chief… Good morning… You did? And what was his reaction? Fine. Fine.

I thought he'd go for it. Yes, I'll wait for them. Thank you, Chief* I'll be in touch."

He hung up and turned to Monica.

"Thorsen okayed everything. I'm getting the car, and Boone and Jason T.

Jason will be delegated to me, through Suarez, on temporary assignment.

They're copying the files now and will probably be here before noon."

"Can I tell Rebecca about Abner?"

"Sure. He's probably told her already."

"Are you happy about this, Edward?"

"Happy?" he said, surprised at the word. "Well, I'm satisfied. Yes, I guess I'm happy. It's nice to be asked to do a job."

"They need you," she said stoutly.

"No guarantees. I warned Thorsen and I warned Suarez."

"But the challenge really excites you."

He shrugged.

"You'll crack it," she assured him.

"Crack it?" he said, smiling. "You're showing your age, dear. Cops don't crack cases anymore, and reporters don't get scoops. That was all long ago."

"Goodbye then," she said, "if I'm so dated. You clean up.

I'm going shopping."

"Spend money," he said. "Enjoy."

He did clean up, scraps and dishes and coffeemaker. He shouted a farewell to Monica when she departed, then went into the study to read the morning Times and smoke a cigar.

But then he put the paper aside a moment to reflect.

You just couldn't call it a challenge -as Monica had; there was more to it than that.

Every day hundreds -thousands- of people were dying in wars, revolutions, terrorist bombings, religious feuds; on highways, in their homes, walking down the street, in their beds. Unavoidable deaths, some of them-just accidents. But too many the result of deliberate violence.

So why be so concerned with the killing of a single human being? Just another cipher in a long parade of ciphers. Not so.

Edward X. Delaney could do little about wars; he could not end mass slaughter. His particular talent was individual homicide. Event and avenger were evenly matched.

A life should not be stopped before its time by murder.

That's what it came down to.

He took up his newspaper again, wondering if he was spinning fantastical reasons that had no relation to the truth. His motives might be as complex as those of Michael Ramon Suarez in seeking his help.

Finally, common sense made him mistrust all these soft philosophical musings and he came back to essentials: A guy had been chilled, Delaney was a cop, his job was to find the killer. That defined his role as something of value: hard, simple, and understandable. He could be content with that.

He finished his newspaper and cigar at about the same time, and put both aside. The Times carried a one-column story on the Ellerbee homicide in the Metropolitan Section. It was mostly indignant tirades from Henry Ellerbee and Dr. Diane Ellerbee, denouncing the NYPD for lack of progress in solving the murder.

Acting Chief of Detectives Suarez was quoted as saying that the Department was investigating several "promising leads," and "significant developments" were expected shortly.

Which was, as Delaney well knew, police horse shit for "We ain't got a thing and don't know where to turn next."

The two officers arrived a little after noon, lugging four cartons tied with twine. Delaney led them directly into the study, where they piled the boxes in a high stack. Then they all had a chance to shake hands, grinning at each other. The two cops were wearing mufti, and Delaney took their anoraks and caps to the hall closet. They were still standing when he returned to the study.

"Sit down, for God's sake," he said. "Sergeant, I saw you ten days ago, so I know how you are. Monica's out with Rebecca today, by the way, spending our money. Jason, I haven't seen you in-what's it been?-almost two years.

Don't tell me you've lost some weight?"

"Maybe a few pounds, sir. I didn't think it showed."

"Well, you're looking great. Family okay?"

"Couldn't be better, thank you. My two boys are sprouting up like weeds.

All they talk about is basketball."

"Don't knock it," Delaney advised. "Good bucks there."

The two officers didn't ask any questions about what the deal was and what they were doing there-and Delaney knew they wouldn't. But he felt he owed them a reason for their presence.

Briefly, he told them that Acting Chief of Detectives Suarez had more on his plate than he could handle, and Deputy Commissioner Thorsen had asked Delaney to help out on the Ellerbee homicide because the Department was getting so much flak from the victim's widow and father-both people of influence.

Delaney said nothing about the cutthroat ethnic and political wars being waged in the top ranks of the NYPD. Boone and Jason seemed to accept his censored explanation readily enough.

"Sergeant," Delaney said, "you'll assist in my investigation and liaise with Suarez's crew. Remember, he's in command; I'm just a civilian consultant. Jason, you'll be here, there, everywhere you're needed.

These are temporary assignments. If the case is cleared, or I get bounced, the two of you go back to your regular duties. Okay?"

"Suits me just fine," Jason Two said.

"It'll be a vacation," Sergeant Boone said. "Working just one case."

"Vacation, hell!" Delaney said. "I'm going to run your ass off. Now the first thing the three of us are going to do is go through all the paper on the Ellerbee kill. We'll read every scrap, look at every photo. We'll take a break in an hour or so.

I've got some sandwiches and drinks. Then we'll get back to it until we've emptied the cartons. Then we'll sit around and gas and decide what we do first."

They set to work, opening the cartons, piling the photocopied documents on Delaney's desk. He read each statement first, then handed it to Boone, who scanned it and passed it along to Officer Jason. Most of the stuff was short memos, and those went swiftly. But the Medical Examiner's postmortem and the reports of the Crime Scene Unit were longer and took time to digest.

Delaney smoked another cigar, and the two cops chain smoked cigarettes.

The study fogged up, and Delaney rose to switch on an exhaust fan set in the back window. But there was no conversation; they worked steadily for more than an hour. Then they broke for lunch. Delaney brought in a platter of sandwiches he'd prepared earlier and cans of Heineken for Jason and himself. Abner Boone had a bottle of club soda.

Delaney parked his feet up on his desk.

"Jason," he said, "you did a hell of a job keeping clear of those wet tracks on the carpet."

"Thank you, sir."

"I think your report covered just about everything. Nothing you left out, was there?"

"Nooo," the officer said slowly, "not to my remembrance."

"When you went up the stairs," Delaney persisted, "and into the receptionist's office, did you smell anything?"

"Smell? Well, that was a damned wet night. The inside of that house smelled damp. Almost moldy."

"But nothing unusual? Perfume, incense, cooking odors something like that?"

The big black frowned. "Can't recall anything unusual.

Just the wet."

"That art gallery on the first floor-the door was locked?"

"Yes, sir. And so was the door to Dr. Diane Ellerbee's office on the second floor. And so was that private apartment on- the fourth. The victim's office was the only one open."

"He was lying on his back?"

"Yes, sir. Not a pretty sight."

"Sergeant," Delaney said, swinging his swivel chair to face Boone, "how do you figure those two hammer blows to the eyes? After the poor guy was dead."

"That seems plain enough. Symbolic stuff. The killer wanted to blind him."

"Sure," Delaney agreed. "But after he was dead? That's heavy."

"Well, Ellerbee was a psychiatrist dealing with a lot of crazies. It could have been a patient who thought the doctor was seeing too much."

Delaney stared at him. "That's interesting-and plausible.

Listen, there are three sandwiches left, and I've got more beer and soda. Why don't we finish eating and work at the same time?"

They were done a little after 3:00 P.m and stuffed every thing back in the cartons. Then they all sat back and stared at each other.

"Well?" Delaney demanded. "What do you think of the investigation so far?"

Boone drew a deep breath. "I don't like to put the knock on anyone," he said hesitantly, "but it appears to me that Chief Suarez hasn't been riding herd on his guys. For instance, in her statement Dr. Diane Ellerbee says she called Dr. Julius Samuelson about one-fifteen in the morning. The guy who's supposed to check it out goes to Samuelson and asks, "Did Dr. Diane call you at one-fifteent And Samuelson says, "Yes, she did." Now what kind of garbage is that? Maybe the two of them were in it together and protecting each other's ass. She says she called from their Brewster home.

That's a toll call to Manhattan. So why didn't someone check phone company records to make sure the call was actually made?"

"Right!" Jason T. Jason said loudly. "Ditto her call to the Ellerbees' garage. The night attendant says, "Yeah, she called,' but no one checked to make sure the call was made from Brewster. Sloppy, sloppy work."

"I concur," Delaney said approvingly. "And Samuelson said he was at a concert in Carnegie Hall when Ellerbee was offed. But I didn't see a damned thing in those four cartons that shows anyone checked that out.

Was he at the concert with someone or was he alone? And if he was alone, did anyone see him there? Does he have a ticket stub? Can the Carnegie Hall people place him there that night? Chief Suarez said he had more or less eliminated the widow and Samuelson as suspects. Bullshit! We've got a way to go before I'll clear them. Don't blame Suarez; he's got a zillion other things on his mind besides this Ellerbee kill. But I agree; so far it's been a half-ass investigation."

"So?" Boone said. "Where do we go from here?"

"Jason," Delaney said, pointing a thick forefinger at him, "you take the widow. Check out those two calls she says she made from Brewster. And while you're at it, talk to the Brewster cop she says she phoned to ask if there was a highway accident. Make sure she did call, and ask the cop how she sounded. Was she hysterical, cool, angry-whatever. Boone, you take Samuelson and his alibi. See if you can find out if anyone can actually place him at Carnegie Hall at the time Ellerbee was killed."

"You think the widow and Samuelson might be lying?" Jason said.

"Oh, Jesus," Delaney said. "I lie, you lie, Boone lies, everyone lies.

It's part of the human condition. Mostly it's innocent stuff-just to help us all get through life a little easier. But in this case we've got a stiff on our hands. Yes, the widow and Samuelson might be lying-even if they're not the perps. Maybe they have other reasons. Let's find out."

"What do you plan on doing, sir?" Sergeant Boone asked curiously.

"Me? I want to study those statements about the hassle Dr. Samuelson had with the Department's legal eagles. The argument was about the doctor-patient relationship, which is supposed to be sacred under the law. Ha-ha. But here we have a case where a doctor has been knocked off and the Crime Scene Unit guys grabbed his appointment book. So now we know the names of his patients, but Samuelson claimed the files were confidential. The Department's attorneys said not so; a murder was committed and the public good required that patients be questioned. As I understand it, they came to a compromise. The patients can be investigated, but they cannot be questioned unless they agree to it, because the questioning might involve their illness-the reason they were consulting Ellerbee in the first place. It's a nice legal point, and could keep a platoon of lawyers busy for a year.

But as things stand now, we can check the whereabouts of every patient at the time of Ellerbee's death, but we can't question the patients or examine their files unless they agree to it. Now isn't that as fucked up as a Chinese fire drill?"

"You think the patients will agree to answer questions?" Boone said.

"I think if one of his patients chilled Ellerbee, he or she will agree to be questioned, figuring that if they refuse, they'll be automatically suspected by the cops."

"Oh, wow," Jason Two said, laughing. "You figure crazies can reason like that?"

"First of all we don't know yet just how nutty his patients are. Second, you can be a complete whackc, and still be able to think as rationally as any so-called normal man or woman. I remember a guy we racked up who was a computer whiz. I mean a genius. All his work involved mathematical logic. But he had one quirk: He liked to rape little girls. Except for that, he was an intellectual giant. So don't get the idea that all of Ellerbee's patients are dummies."

"When are we going to get started on the patient list, sir?" Jason asked.

"Another thing," Delaney said, ignoring Jason's question.

"I saw nothing in those cartons to indicate that anyone had thought to run the victim, his widow, his father, and Dr. Samuelson through Records."

"My God," Boone said, "you don't think people like that have jackets, do you?"

"No, I don't-but you never know, do you, and it's got to be done. Ditto the Ellerbees' two receptionists, the old ladies who own the art gallery, and the guy who leases the apartment on the top floor.

Sergeant, you do that. Run them all through Records. For the time being let's concentrate on the people who live and work in that townhouse.

Plus Samuelson and Ellerbee's father. After we've cleared them, we'll spread out to friends, acquaintances, and Ellerbee's patients."

They talked awhile longer, discussing how they'd divide up use of the Department car and how they'd keep in touch with each other. Delaney urged both men to call him any hour of the day or night if they had any problems or anything to report.

Then the two officers left, and Delaney returned to his study. He called Deputy Commissioner Thorsen and was put through immediately.

"All right, Ivar," Delaney said. "We've started."

"Thank God," the Admiral said. "If there's anything I can do to help, just let me know."

"There is something," Delaney said. "The Department has a house shrink, doesn't it?"

"Sure," Thorsen said. "Dr. Murray Walden. He set up alcohol and drug rehabilitation programs. And he's got a family counseling service. A very active, innovative man."

"Dr. Murray Walden," Delaney repeated, jotting the name on his desk calendar. "Would you phone him and tell him to expect a call from me?"

"Of course."

"He'll cooperate?"

"Absolutely. Did you go through the files, Edward?"

"I did. Once."

"See anything?"

"A lot of holes."

"That's what I was afraid of. You'll plug them, won't you?"

"That's what I'm getting paid for. By the way, Ivar, what am I getting paid?"

"A case of Glenfiddich," Thorsen said. "And maybe a medal from the Mayor."

"Screw the medal," Delaney said. "I'll take the scotch."

He hung up after promising the Deputy he'd keep him informed of any developments. Then he tidied up, returning the emptied sandwich platter, beer cans, and soda bottles to the kitchen.

Back in the study, he eyed the cartons of Ellerbee records with some distaste. He knew that eventually all that bumf would have to be divided logically and neatly into separate file folders. He could have told Boone or Jason to do it, but it was donkey labor, and he didn't want their enthusiasm dulled by paperwork.

It took him five minutes to find the two documents he was looking for: the exchange of correspondence and memos between Dr. Julius K. Samuelson and the Department's attorneys regarding the issue of doctor-patient confidentiality, and the photocopies of Dr. Simon Ellerbee's appointment book.

After rereading the papers, Delaney was definitely convinced that their so-called compromise was ridiculous and unworkable. No way could a detective investigate a possible suspect without direct questioning. He decided to ignore the whole muddle, and if he stepped on toes and someone screamed, he'd face that problem when it arose.

What interested him was that Samuelson had made his argument for the inviolability of Ellerbee's files as president of the Greater New York Psychiatric Association. He was, in effect, a professional upholding professional ethics.

But Samuelson was also a witness involved in a murder case and a friend of the victim. Nowhere in his correspondence did he state his personal views about investigating Ellerbee's patients to find the killer.

Even more intriguing, the opinions of Dr. Diane Ellerbee on the subject were never mentioned. Granted that the lady was a psychologist, not a psychiatrist, still the absence of her objection suggested that she was willing to see her husband's patients interrogated.

Delaney pushed the papers away and leaned back in his swivel chair, hands clasped behind his head. He admitted to an unreasonable impatience with lawyers and doctors. In his long career as a detective, they had too often obstructed, sometimes stymied, his investigations. He recalled he had spoken about it to his first wife, Barbara.

"Goddamn it! How can a guy become a lawyer, doctor or even an undertaker, for that matter. All three are making a living on other people's miseries-isn't that so? I mean, they only get paid when other people are in a legal bind, sick, or dead."

She had looked at him steadily. "You're a cop, Edward," she said.

"That's the way you make your living, isn't it?"

He stared at her, then laughed contritely. "You're so right," he said,

"and I'm an idiot."

But still, lawyers and doctors weren't his favorite people.

"Carrion birds," he called them.

Closer inspection of Ellerbee's appointment book proved more rewarding.

It was an annual ledger, and, starting at the first of the year, Delaney attempted to list the name of every patient who had consulted the doctor. He used a long, yellow legal pad which he ruled into neat columns, writing in names, frequency of visits, and canceled appointments.

It was an arduous task, and when he finished, more than an hour later, he peered at the yellow pages through his reading glasses and wasn't sure what in hell he had.

Some patients consulted Ellerbee at irregular intervals.

Some every two or three months. Some once a month. Some eve two weeks.

Some weekly. Many twice or thrice a week.

Two patients five times a week!

In addition, a few patients' names appeared in the appointment book one or two times and then disappeared. And there were entries that read simply: "Clinic." The doctor's hours were generally from 7:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.m five days a week.

But sometimes he worked later, and sometimes he worked Saturdays.

No wonder the whole month of August was lined through and marked exultantly: VACATION!

Delaney knew from other reports that Dr. Simon had charged a hundred dollars for a forty-five-minute session. A break of fifteen minutes to recuperate, then on to the next patient. Dr. Diane Ellerbee charged seventy-five dollars for the same period.

He did some rough figuring. Assuming fifty consultations a week for both Dr. Simon and Dr. Diane Ellerbee, the two were hauling in an annual take of about $420,000. A sweet sum, but it didn't completely explain the townhouse, the Brewster country home, the three cars.

But the victim had been the son of Henry Ellerbee, who owned a nice chunk of Manhattan. Maybe Daddy was coming up with an allowance or there was a trust involved. And maybe Dr. Diane was independently wealthy.

Delaney knew nothing about her background.

He remembered an old detective, Alberto Di Lucca, a pasta fiend, who had taught him a lot. That was years ago, and Big Al and he were working Little Italy. One day they were strolling up Mott Street, picking their teeth after too much linguine with white clam sauce at Umberto's, and Delaney expressed sympathy for the shabbily dressed people he saw around him.

"They look like they haven't got a pot to piss in," he said.

Big Al laughed. "You think so, do you? See the old gink leaning in the doorway of that bakery across the street? You could read the News through his pants, they're so thin. Well, he owns that bakery, which just shits money. I also happen to know he owns three mil of AT amp;T."

"You're kidding!"

"I'm not," Di Lucca said, shaking his head. "Don't judge by appearances, kiddo. You never know."

Big Al had been right. When it came to money, you never knew. A beggar could be a millionaire, and a dude hosting a party of eight at Lutce could be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

So maybe the Drs. Ellerbee had sources of income Suarez's men hadn't gotten around to investigating. Another hole that had to be plugged.

Edward X. Delaney liked Michael Ramon Suarez, liked his wife, liked his children and his home. But so far the Acting Chief of Detectives's investigation had been a disaster.

It offended Delaney's sense of order. He realized that he and his two assistants would really have to start from scratch, He finished the warm dregs of his ale, then went into the kitchen to set the table. He hoped Monica wouldn't forget the buttermilk biscuits.

"Edward X. Delaney here," he said.

There was an amused grunt. "And Doctor Murray Walden here," a raspy voice said. Thorsen told me you'd be calling.

What can I do for you, Delaney?"

"An hour of your time?"

"I'd rather lend you money-and I don't even know you. I suppose you want it today?"

"If possible, doctor."

There was a silence for a moment, then: "Tell you what I've got to come uptown for a hearing. It's supposed to adjourn at one o'clock, which means it'll break up around two, which means I'll be so hungry I won't be able to see straight.

This business of yours-can we talk about it over lunch?"

"Sure we can," Delaney said, preferring not to.

"Delaney- that's Irish. Right?"

"Yes."

"You like Irish food?" the psychiatrist asked.

"Some of it," Delaney said cautiously. "I'm allergic to corned beef and cabbage."

"Who isn't?" Walden said. "There's an Irish pub on the East Side-Eamonn Doran's. You know it?"

"Know it and love it. They've got J.C. ale and Bushmill's Black Label-if the bartender knows you."

"Well, can you meet me there at two-thirty? I figure the lunch crowd will be cleared out by then and we'll be able to get a table and talk."

"Sounds fine. Thank you, doctor."

"You'll have no trouble spotting me," Walden said cheerfully. "I'll be the only guy in the place with no hair."

He wasn't joking. When Delaney walked through the bar into the back room of Eamonn Doran's and looked around, he spotted a lean man seated alone at a table for two. The guy's pate was completely naked. A black mustache, no larger than a typewriter brush, didn't make up for it.

"Doctor Walden?" he asked.

"Edward X. Delaney?" the man said, rising and holding out a hand.

"Pleasure to meet you. Sit. I just ordered two of those J.C. ales you mentioned. Okay?"

"Couldn't be better."

Seated, they inspected each other. Walden suddenly grinned, displaying a mouthful of teeth too good to be true.

Then he ran a palm over his shiny scalp.

"Yul Brynner or Telly Savalas I'm not," he said. "But I had so little fringe left, I figured the hell with it and shaved it all off."

"A rug?"

Delaney suggested.

"Nah, who needs it? A sign of insecurity. I'm happy with a head of skin.

People remember me."

The waitress brought their ales and menus. The police psychiatrist peered at his digital wristwatch, bringing it up close to his eyes.

"I promised you an hour," he said, "and that's what you're going to get; no more, no less. So let's order right now and start talking."

"Suits me," Delaney said. "I'll have the sliced steak rare with home fries and a side order of tomatoes and onions."

"Make that two, please," Walden told the waitress. "Now then," he said to Delaney, "what's this all about? Thorsen sounded antsy."

"It's about the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee. Did you know the man?"

"We weren't personal friends, but I met him two or three times professionally."

"What was your take?"

"Very, very talented. A gifted man. Heavy thinker. The last time I met him, I got the feeling he had problems-but who hasn't?"

"Problems? Any idea what kind?"

"No. But he was quiet and broody. Not as outgoing as the other times I met him. But maybe he'd just had a bad day. We all do."

"It must be a strain dealing with, uh, disturbed people every day."

"Disturbed people?" Dr. Walden said, showing his teeth again. "You weren't about to say 'nuts,' or 'crazies,' or 'whackos,' were you?"

"Yes," Delaney admitted, "I was."

"Tell me something," Walden said as the waitress set down their food,

"have you ever felt guilt, depression, grief, panic, fear, or hatred?"

Delaney looked at him. "Sure I have."

The psychiatrist nodded. "You have, I have, everyone has.

Laymen think psychotherapists deal with raving lunatics. Actually, the huge majority of our patients are very ordinary people who are experiencing those same emotions you've felt-but to an exaggerated degree. So exaggerated that they can't cope. That's why, if they've got the money, they go to a therapist. But nuts and crazies and whackos they're not."

"You think most of Ellerbee's patients were like that-essentially ordinary people?"

"Well, I haven't seen his files," Dr. Walden said cautiously, "but I'd almost bet on it. Oh, sure, he might have had some heavy cases schizoids, patients with psychosexual dysfunctions, multiple personalities: exotic stuff like that. But I'd guess that most of his caseload consisted of the kind of people I just described: the ones with emotional traumata they couldn't handle by themselves."

"Tell me something, doctor," Delaney said. "Simon Ellerbee was a psychiatrist, and his wife-his widow-is a psychologist. What's the difference?"

"He had an MD degree; his widow doesn't. And I expect their education and training were different. As I understand it, she specializes in children's problems and runs group therapy sessions for parents. He was your classical analyst. Not strictly Freudian, but analytically oriented. You've got to understand that there are dozens of therapeutic techniques. The psychiatrist may select one and never deviate or he may gradually develop a mix of his own that he feels yields the best results. This is a very personal business. I really don't know exactly how Ellerbee worked."

"By the way," Delaney said when the waitress presented the bill, "this lunch is on me."

"Never doubted it for a minute," Walden said cheerily.

"You said before that most of Ellerbee's patients were probably ordinary people. You think any of them are capable of violence? I mean against the analyst."

Dr. Walden sat back, took a silver cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, and snapped it open.

"It doesn't happen too often," he said, "but it does happen.

The threat is always there. Back in 1981 four psychiatrists were murdered by their patients in a six-week period. Scary.

There are a lot of reasons for it. Psychoanalysis can be a very painful experience -worse than a root canal job, believe me!

The therapist probes and probes. The patient resists. That guy behind the desk is trying to get him to reveal awful things that have been kept buried for years. Sometimes the patient attacks the doctor for hurting him. That's one reason. Another is that the patient fears the therapist is learning too much, peering into the patient's secret soul."

"I'm telling you this in confidence," Delaney said sternly, "because it hasn't been released to the press. After Ellerbee was dead, the killer rolled him over and hit him two or more times in the eyes with a ball peen hammer. One of my assistants suggested it might have been an attempt to blind the doctor because he saw, or was seeing, too much.

What do you think of that theory?"

"Very perceptive. And quite possible. I think that most assaults on therapists are made by out-and-out psychotics. In fact, most of the attacks are made in prisons and hospital wards for the criminally insane. Still, a number do occur in the offices of high-priced Park Avenue shrinks. What's worse, the psychiatrist's family is sometimes threatened and occasionally attacked."

"Could you estimate the percentage of therapists who have been assaulted by patients?"

"I can give you a guess. Between one-quarter and onethird. Just a guess."

"Have you ever been attacked, doctor?"

"Once. A man came at me with a hunting knife."

"How do you handle something like that?"

"I pack a handgun. You'd be surprised at how many psychiatrists do. Or keep it in the top drawer of their desk.

Usually slow, soft talk can defuse a dangerous situation-but not always."

"Why did the guy come at you with a knife?"

"We were at the breaking point in his therapy. He had a lech for his fifteen-year-old daughter and couldn't or wouldn't acknowledge it. But he was taking her clothes to prostitutes and making them dress like the daughter. Sad, sad, sad."

"Did he finally admit it?" Delaney asked, fascinated.

"Eventually. I thought he was coming along fine; we were talking it out.

But then, about three weeks later, he left my office, went home, and blew his brains out with a shotgun. I don't think of that case very often-not more than two or three times a day."

"Jesus," Delaney said wonderingly. "How can you stand that kind of pressure?"

"How can a man do open-heart surgery? You go in, pray, and hope for the best. Oh, there's another reason patients sometimes assault their therapists. It involves a type of transference. The analysand may have been an abused child or hate his parents for one reason or another. He transfers his hostility to the therapist, who is making him dredge up his anger and talk about it. The doctor becomes the abusive parent.

Conversely, the patient may identify with the aggressive parent and try to treat the psychiatrist as a helpless child. As I told you, there are many reasons patients might attack their therapists. And to confuse you further, I should add that some assaults have been made for no discernible reason at all."

"But the main point," Delaney insisted, "is that murderous attacks on psychiatrists are not all that uncommon, and it's very possible that Doctor Ellerbee was killed by one of his patients."

"It's possible," Walden agreed.

Then, when Delaney saw the doctor glance at his watch, he said, "I should warn you, I may bother you again if I need the benefit of your advice."

"Anytime. You keep buying me steak and I'm all yours."

They rose from the table and shook hands.

"Thank you," Delaney said. "You've been a big help."

"I have?" Dr. Murray Walden said, stroking his bald pate.

"That's nice. One final word of caution. If you're thinking of questioning Ellerbee's patients, don't come on strong. Play it very lowkey.

Speak softly. These people feel threatened enough without being leaned on by a stranger."

"I'll remember that."

"Of course," Walden said thoughtfully, "there may be some from whom you'll get the best results by coming on strong, shouting and browbeating them."

"My God!" Edward X. Delaney cried. "Isn't there anything definite in your business?"

"Definitely not," Walden said.

The three sat in the study, hunched forward, intent.

"All right, Jason," Delaney said, "you go first."

The black officer flipped through his pocket notebook to find the pages he wanted. "The widow lady is clean as far as those Brewster calls go.

She did phone the Manhattan garage at the time she says she did. Ditto the call later to Doctor Samuelson. The phone company's got a record. I talked to the Brewster cop who took her call when she asked about an accident involving her husband's car. He says she wasn't hysterical, but she sounded worried and anxious. So much for that.

Then, just for fun, I dropped by that Manhattan garage to ask when the lady claimed her car on that Friday night."

"Smart," Delaney said, nodding.

"Well, she checked her car out at six twenty-two in the evening, which fits pretty close to her statement. No holes that I could find."

"Nice job," Delaney said. "Sergeant?"

Boone peered down at his own notebook. "Samuelson seems to be clean, too. Before the concert he had dinner with two friends at the Russian Tea Room. They swear he was there. He picked up the tab and paid with a credit card. I got a look at his signed check and the restaurant's copy of his credit card bill. Everything looks kosher. Then Samuelson and his friends went to the concert.

They say he never left, which is probably true because after the concert was over, the three of them dropped by the St. Moritz for a nightcap.

All this covers Ellerbee's time of death, so I guess we can scratch Doctor Samuelson."

Delaney didn't say anything.

"Now, about Records…" the Sergeant continued. "I checked out Ellerbee, his widow, his father, the two receptionists, the two old dames who own the art gallery on the first floor, the part-time super who takes care of the building, and the guy who leases the top floor.

The only one with a jacket is the last-the West Coast movie producer who keeps that fourth-floor apartment to use when he's in town. His name is J. Scott Hergetson, and his sheet is minor stuff. traffic violations, committing a public nuisance-he peed on the sidewalk while drunk-and one drug bust. This disco was raided and he was pulled in with fifty other people. No big deal. Charges dropped."

"So that's it?" Delaney asked.

"Not all of it," Boone said, flipping his notebook. "The ME says Ellerbee died about nine P.m. This is where all these people claim they were at that time… "Doctor Diane Ellerbee was up in Brewster, waiting for her husband to arrive.

"Henry Ellerbee was at a charity dinner at the Plaza Hotel.

I confirmed his presence there at nine o'clock.

"Doctor Samuelson was at the Carnegie Hall concert. Confirmed.

"One of the receptionists was home watching television with her mother.

Mommy says yes, she was. Who knows?

"The other receptionist says she was shacked up with her boyfriend in his apartment. He says yes, she was. Who knows?

"The super was playing pinochle at his basement social club. The other guys in the game say yeah, he was there.

"The two ladies who run the art gallery were at a private dinner with eight other people of the Medicare set. Their presence is confirmed.

Besides, the two of them are so frail I don't think they could lift a ball peen hammer.

"The top-floor movie producer was at a film festival in the south of France. His presence there is confirmed by news reports and photographs.

Scratch him.

"And that's it."

Delaney looked admiringly from Boone to Jason and back again. "What the hell does Suarez need me for? You two guys can break this thing on your own.

Well, here's what I've got.

It isn't much."

He gave them a prcis of his conversation with the police psychiatrist and told them what Dr. Walden had said about the incidence of attacks on therapists by their patients.

"He guessed about one-quarter to one-third of all psychiatrists have been assaulted. Those percentages look good. After what you've just told me, I'm beginning to think Ellerbee's patient list may be our best bet."

Then he said that Walden had agreed with Boone's theory about those hammer blows to the eyes: It could be a symbolic effort to blind the doctor.

"After he was dead?" Jason said.

"Well, Walden thinks most attacks on therapists are made by psychotics.

I didn't tell him about the two sets of unidentified footprints. That could mean there were two psychotics working together, or Ellerbee had two visitors that night at different times. Any ideas?"

Jason and Boone looked at each other, then shook their heads.

"All right," Delaney said briskly. "Here's where we go from here. I want to see that townhouse and I want to meet Doctor Diane Ellerbee. Maybe we can do both at the same time. Sergeant, suppose you call her right now.

Tell her you'd like to see her as soon as possible, as part of the investigation into her husband's death. Don't mention that I'll be with you."

Rather than dig through the records in the cartons for Diane Ellerbee's phone number, Boone looked it up in the Manhattan directory. He identified himself and asked to speak to the doctor. He ended by giving Delaney's phone number. Then he hung up.

"She's with a patient," he reported. "The receptionist said she'll give the doctor my message and she'll probably call back as soon as she's free."

"We'll wait," Delaney said. "It shouldn't be more than forty-five minutes.

Meanwhile, there's something else I want to know more about. Boone, do you know a dick one named Parnell? I think his first name is Charles."

"Oh, hell, yes," the Sergeant said, smiling. "I know him.

They call him Daddy Warbucks. He's still on active duty."

"That's the guy," Delaney said. He turned to Jason.

"You've got to realize that some detectives make a good career for themselves by specializing, Now this Parnell, he's a financial whiz. You want a money picture on someone and he can come up with it. He's got good contacts with banks, stockbrokers, credit agencies, accountants, and for all I know, the IRS. He knows how to read wills, trusts, and reports of probate.

He's just the guy we need to get a rundown on the financial status of the deceased and his widow. Sergeant, tell Chief Suarez everything we've done so far-don't leave anything out-and then ask him to have Daddy Warbucks check out the net worth of the dead guy and Doctor Diane Ellerbee."

He paused a moment, pondering. Then: "And throw in Doctor Julius K.

Samuelson for good measure. Let's find out how fat his bank account is."

"Will do," Boone said, making some quick jottings in his notebook.

"Sir " Jason T. Jason said hesitantly, "would you mind telling me the reason for this?"

"Cui bono, " Delaney said promptly. "Who benefits? In this case, who stands to gain from the death of Simon Ellerbee? I'm not saying money was the motive here, but it might have been. It sure as hell has been in a lot of homicides where the perp turns out to be a member of the family or a beneficiary. It's something that's got to be checked out."

"I'll get on it right-" Boone started to say, but then the phone rang.

"That may be Doctor Diane," Delaney said. "You better answer, Sergeant." e talked briefly, then hung up and turned to them.

Six o'clock tonight," he said. "She'll be finished with her patients by then."

"How did she sound?" Delaney asked.

"Furious. Trying to keep her cool. I'm not looking forward to that meeting, sir."

"Has to be done," Delaney said stubbornly. "The lady is said to be a real beauty-if that's any consolation. Well, we've got about eight hours. Boone, why don't you contact Suarez and get Charlie Parnell working on the financial reports. Jason, you take the car and go up to Brewster. The Ellerbees have a married couple who take care of their place.

The man does maintenance and works around the grounds.

Talk to him. He may have a toolshed or workshop on the premises."

"Oh-ho," Jason T. Jason said. "You want to know if he owns a ball peen hammer-right?"

"Right. And if he does, has he still got it? And if he has, you grab it."

"Oh, yeah," Jason said.

"And while you're at it, get a look at the house and grounds. I'd like your take on it."

"I'm on my way."

"And so am I," Boone said, as both officers rose.

"Sergeant, I'll meet you at the Ellerbees' townhouse at five-thirty.

It'll give us a chance to look around the neighborhood before we brace the widow."

"I'll be there," Abner Boone promised.

After they left, Delaney returned to his study and looked at the cartons of files with dread. It had to be done, but he didn't relish the task.

He set to work, dividing the records into separate folders: the victim, Dr. Diane Ellerbee, Dr. Julius Samuelson, the ME's reports and photographs, the reports, photos, and map of the Crime Scene Unit, statements of everyone questioned.

Then he added notes of his conversation with Dr. Murray Walden, and what Sergeant Boone and Jason T. Jason had just told him.

It went faster than he had anticipated, and by 12:30 he had a satisfyingly neat stack of labeled file folders that included all the known facts concerning the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee.

It was time, he decided, for a sandwich.

He went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and inspected the possibilities. There was a single onion roll in there, hard as a rock, but it could be toasted. And there were a few slices of pork left over from a roast loin. Some German potato salad. Scallions he could slice.

Maybe a wee bit of horseradish.

He slapped it all together and ate it leaning over the sink.

Monica would have been outraged, but she was gone, doing volunteer work at a local hospital. She kept nagging him about his addiction, and she was right; he was too heavy in the gut. It was hard to convince her that the Earl of Sandwich had been one of civilization's great benefactors.

He returned to the study and stared at the stack of Ellerbee file folders.

He had a disturbing bunch that this was going to be a "loose-ends case."

That's what he called investigations in which nothing was certain, nothing could be pinned down. A hundred suspects, a hundred alibis, and no one could say yes or no.

You had to live with that confusion and, if you were lucky, discard the meaningless and zero in on the significant. But how to tell one from the other? False trails and time wasted chasing leads that dribbled away.

Meanwhile, Thorsen was sweating to have a murder cleaned up, neat and clean, by the holidays. So his man could be promoted.

Two sets of unidentified footprints and two blows to the victim's eyes.

Was there any meaning in that? Or in Ellerbee telling his wife he had scheduled a late patient, presumably meaning someone after 6:00 P.m. But he had died at approximately nine o'clock. Would he have waited that long for a late patient? Someone who would arrive, say, at 8:00 P.m.

No signs of forced entry. So Ellerbee buzzed someone in, someone he was expecting. One person or two? And why leave that street door open when they left?

"The butler did it," Delaney said aloud, and then pulled his yellow legal pad toward him, put on his reading glasses, and began making notes on how much he didn't know. It was a long, depressing list. He stared at it and had an uneasy feeling that he might be missing the obvious.

He remembered a case he had worked years ago. There had been a string of armed robberies on Amsterdam Avenue; six small stores had been hit in a period of two months. Apparently the same cowboy was pulling all of them-a young punk with a Fu Manchu mustache, waving a nickel-plated pistol.

One of the six places allegedly robbed at gunpoint was a mom-and-pop grocery storenear78th Street. The owners lived in a rear apartment. The old lady opened the store every morning at 7:30. Her husband, who had a weakness for slivovitz, usually joined her behind the counter a half-hour or hour later.

On this particular morning, the old man said, his wife had gone into the store to open up as usual. He was dressing when he heard a gunshot, rushed out, and found her lying behind the counter. The cash register was open, he said, and about thirty dollars' worth of bills and coin were gone.

The old lady was dead, hit in the chest with what turned out to be a.38 slug. Delaney and his partner, a Detective second grade named Loren Pierce, chalked it up to the Fu Manchu punk with the shiny pistol. They couldn't stake out every little shop on Amsterdam Avenue, but they haunted the neighborhood, spending a lot of their off-hours walking the streets and eyeballing every guy with a mustache.

They finally got lucky. The robber tried to rip off a deli, not knowing the owner's son was on his knees, out of sight behind a pile of cartons, putting stock on the shelves. The son rose up and hit Fu Manchu over the head with a five-pound canned ham. That was the end of that crime wave.

It turned out the punk was snorting coke and robbing to support a $500-a-day habit. Even more interesting, his nickel-plated weapon was a .22, the barrel so dirty it would have blown his hand off if he had ever fired it.

Detectives Delaney and Pierce looked at each other and cursed. Then they went back to the mom-and-pop grocery store, but only after they had checked and discovered that Pop had a permit to keep a.38 handgun in the store. They leaned on him and he caved almost immediately.

"She was always nagging at me," he complained.

That was what Delaney meant when he worried about missing the obvious.

He and Pierce should have checked immediately to see if the old man had a gun.

It never hurt to get the simple, evident things out of the way first. It was a mistake to think all criminals were great brains; most of them were stupes.

He pondered all the known facts in the Ellerbee homicide and couldn't see anything simple and obvious that he had missed. He thought the case probably hinged on the character of the dead man and his relationship with his patients.

He reflected awhile and admitted he had an irrational contempt for people who sought aid for emotional problems. He would never do it; he was convinced of that. The death of Barbara, his first wife, had left him numb for a long time. But he had hulled his way out of that funk-by himself.

Still, he had no hesitation in seeking help for physical ills.

A virus, a twinge of the liver, a skin lesion that wouldn't heal-and off he went to consult a physician. So why this disdain for people who took their inner torments to a trained practitioner?

Because, Delaney.supposed, there was an element of fear in his prejudice. Psychologists and psychiatrists were dealing with something you couldn't see.

There was a mystery there, and dread. It was like taking your brain to a witch doctor.

Still, Delaney knew that if he was going to get anywhere on the Ellerbee case he'd have to cultivate and evince sympathy for those who fled to the witch doctor.

He left the house early, deciding to walk to the Ellerbees' townhouse to meet Abner Boone. It was a dull day with a cloud cover as rough as an elephant hide. The air smelled of snow, and a hard northwest wind made him grab for his homburg more than once.

On impulse, he stopped in at a First Avenue hardware store. All the clerks were busy, for which he was thankful. He found a display of hammers and picked up a ball peen. He hefted it in his hand, swinging it gently in a downward chop.

So many useful tools made lethal weapons. He wondered which came first.

If he had to guess, he'd say weapons evolved into tools.

That shiny round knob could puncture a man's skull if swung with sufficient force-no doubt about that. A man could do it easily, but then so could a woman if she were strong and determined. He replaced the hammer in the display, having learned absolutely nothing.

Boone was waiting for him across the street from the townhouse. He was huddling in his parka, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

"That wind's a bitch," he observed. "My ears feel like tin."

"I feel the cold in my feet," Delaney said. "An old cop's complaint. The feet are the first to go. Did you talk to Suarez?"

"Yes, sir, I did. On the phone. He was tied up with a million other things."

"I imagine."

"He sounds like a patient man. Very polite. Said to thank you for keeping in touch, and he's grateful for what we've done so far."

"What about Parnell?"

"He'll get him going on the financial reports immediately. I think he was a little embarrassed that he hadn't thought of it himself."

"He's got enough to think about," Delaney said absently, staring across the street. "That's the place-the gray stone building?"

"That's the one, sir."

"Smaller than I thought it would be. Let's wander around a little first."

They walked over to East End Avenue, inspecting buildings on both sides of 84th Street. The block contained a mix of apartment houses with marbled lobbies, crumbling brownstones, a school, smart townhouses, dilapidated tenements, and a few commercial establishments on the avenue corners.

They looked at the East River, turned, and walked back to York.

"Plenty of areaways," Boone observed. "Open lobbies and vestibules with the outer door unlocked. The perp could have gone into any of them to get out of the rain."

"Could have," Delaney agreed. "But then how did he get into the Ellerbees' building? No signs of forced entry. What I'm wondering about is what the killer did afterward. Walk away in the rain, leaving the front door open?

Or did the killer have a car parked nearby? Or maybe stroll over to York or East End and take a cab? Both avenues are two-way."

"My God, sir," the Sergeant said, "you're not thinking of checking taxi trip-sheets for that night, are you? What a job!"

"We won't do it right now, but it may become necessary.

Besides, there couldn't have been so many cabs working that Friday night. It wasn't just raining; it was a flood. Well, this street isn't going to tell us anything; let's go talk to the widow; it's almost six."

The outer door of the Ellerbee townhouse was unlocked, leading to a lighted vestibule with mailboxes and a bell plate of polished brass.

Boone tried the inner door.

"Locked," he reported. "This is the inner door Doctor Samuelson found open when he arrived."

"Fine door," Delaney said. "Bleached oak with beveled glass. You can ring now, Sergeant."

Boone pressed the button alongside the neatly printed nameplate: DR.

DIANE ELLERBEE. The female voice that answered was unexpectedly loud:

"Who is it?"

"Sergeant Abner Boone, New York Police Department. I spoke to you earlier today."

The buzzer sounded and they pushed in. They stood a brief moment in the entrance way. Delaney tried the door of the Piedmont Gallery. It was locked.

They looked about curiously. The hall and stairway were heavily carpeted. Illumination came from a small crystal chandelier hung from a high ceiling.

"Very nice," Delaney said. "And look at that banister.

Someone did a great restoration job. Well, let's go up. Sergeant, you do the talking."

"Don't let me miss anything," Boone said anxiously.

Delaney grunted.

The woman who greeted them at an opened door on the second floor was tall, stiff. Braided flaxen hair, coiled atop her head, made her appear even taller.

A Valkyrie, was Delaney's initial reaction.

"May I see your identification, please?" she said crisply.

"Of course," Boone said, and handed over his case with shield and ID card.

She inspected both closely, returned the folder, then turned to Delaney.

"And who are you?" she demanded.

He was not put off by her loud, assertive voice. In fact, he admired her caution; most people would have accepted Boone's credentials and not questioned anyone accompanying him.

"Edward X. Delaney, ma'am," he said in a quiet voice. "I am a civilian consultant assisting the New York Police Department in the investigation of your husband's death. If you have any questions about my presence here-any doubts at all-I suggest you telephone First Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen or Acting Chief of Detectives Michael Ramon Suarez.

Both will vouch for me. Sergeant Boone and I can wait out here in the hall while you make the call."

She stared at him fixedly. Then: "No," she said, "that won't be necessary; I believe you. It's just that since -since it happened, I've been extra careful,"

"Very wise," Delaney said.

They stepped into the receptionist's office, and both men noted that Dr.

Diane Ellerbee double-locked and chained the door behind them.

"Ma'am," Boone said, "is the floor plan of this office the same as-uh, the one upstairs?"

"You haven't seen it?" she asked, surprised. "Yes, my husband's and my office are identical. Not in decorations or furnishings, of course, but the layout of the rooms is the same."

She ushered them into her private office, leaving open the connecting door to the receptionist's office. She got them seated in two cretonne-covered armchairs with low backs.

"Not too comfortable, are they?" she said-the first time she had smiled: a shadow of a smile. "Deliberately so. I don't want my young patients nodding off. Those chairs keep them twisting and shifting. I think it's productive."

"Doctor Ellerbee," Boone said solemnly, leaning forward, "I'd like to express the condolences of Mr. Delaney and myself on the tragic death of your husband. From all accounts he was a remarkable man. We sympathize with you on your loss."

"Thank you," she said, sitting behind her desk like a queen. "I appreciate your sympathy. I would appreciate even more your finding the person who killed my husband."

During this exchange, Delaney had been examining the office, trying not to make his inspection too obvious.

The room seemed to him excessively neat, almost to the point of sterility. Walls were painted a cream color, the carpet a light beige.

There was one ficus tree (which looked artificial) in a rattan basket.

The only wall decorations were two framed enlargements of Rorschach blots that looked as abstract as Japanese calligraphy.

"Both of us," Boone continued, "have read your statement to the investigating officers several times. We don't want to ask you to go over it again. But I would like to say that occasionally, after a shocking event like this, witnesses recall additional details days or even months later. If you are able to add anything to your statement, it would help if you'd contact us immediately."

"I certainly hope it's not going to take months to find my husband's killer," she said sharply.

They looked at her expressionlessly, and she gave a short cough of laughter without mirth.

"I know I've been a pain in the ass to the police," she said.

And so has Henry-my father-in-law, Henry Ellerbee. But I have not been able to restrain my anger. All my professional life I have been counseling patients on how to cope with the injustices of this world.

But now that they have struck me, I find it difficult to endure. Perhaps this experience will make me a better therapist. But I must tell you in all honesty that at the moment I feel nothing but rage and a desire for vengeance -emotions I have never felt before and which I seem unable to control."

"That's very understandable, ma'am," Boone said. "Believe me, we're just as anxious as you to identify the killer.

That's why we asked for this meeting, hoping we might learn something from you that will aid our investigation. First of all, would it hurt too much to talk about your husband?"

"No," she said decisively. "I'll be thinking about Simon and talking about Simon for the rest of my life."

"What kind of a man was he?"

"A very superior human being. Kind, gentle, with a marvelous sympathy for other people's unhappiness. I think everyone in the profession who knew him or met him recognized how gifted he was. In addition to that, he had a first-class mind. He could get to the cause of a psychiatric problem so fast that many of his associates called it instinct."

As she spoke, Delaney, while listening, observed her closely. Ivar Thorsen and Monica had been right: Diane Ellerbee was a regal beauty.

A softly sharp profile suitable for a coin. Sky-blue eyes that seemed to change hue with her temper. A direct, challenging gaze. A porcelain complexion. A generous mouth that promised smiles and kisses.

She was wearing a severely tailored suit of pin-striped flannel, but a tent couldn't have concealed her figure. She didn't move; she flowed.

What was so disconcerting, almost frightening, was the woman's completeness. She wasn't a Valkyrie, he decided; she was a Brancusi sculpture- something serene that wooed the eye with its form and soothed with its surface. "Marvelous" was the word that came to his mind-meaning something of wonder. Supernatural.

"Don't get me wrong," she said, fiddling with a ballpoint pen on her desk and looking down at it. "I don't want to make Simon sound like a perfect man. He wasn't, of course. He had his moods. Fits of silence.

Rare but occasional outbursts of anger. Most of the time he was a sunny, placable man. When he was depressed, it was usually because he felt he was failing a patient. He set for himself very high goals indeed, and when he felt he was falling short of his potential, it bothered him."

"Did you notice any change in him in, say, the last six months or a year?" Boone asked.

"Change?"

"In his manner, his personality. Did he act like a man with worries or, maybe, like a man who had received serious threats against his life?"

She pondered that for a moment. "No," she said finally, "I noticed no change."

"Doctor Ellerbee," Boone said earnestly, "we are currently investigating your husband's patients, under the terms of an agreement negotiated between Doctor Samuelson and the NYPD. Are you familiar with that compromise?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "Julie told me about it."

"Do you think it possible that one of the patients may have been the assailant?"

"Yes, it's possible."

"Have you yourself ever been attacked by one of your patients?"

"Occasionally."

"And how do you handle that?"

"You must realize," she said with a wry smile, "that most of my patients are children. Still, my first reaction is to protect myself. And I am a strong woman. I refuse to let myself be bullied or suffer injury."

"You fight back?"

"Exactly. You'd be surprised at how effective that technique can be."

"Did you and your husband talk business when you were alone together?"

"Business?" she said, and the smile became broader and more charming.

"Yes, we talked business-if you mean discussing our cases. We did it constantly. He sought my reactions and advice and I sought his.

Sergeant, this is not a profession that ends when you lock your office door for the night."

"The reason I asked, ma'am, is this: Your husband had a great number of patients, particularly if you include all he'd discharged. It's going to take a lot of time and a lot of work to investigate them all. We were hoping you might be able to help us speed up the process. If your husband discussed his cases with you-as you say he did-would you be willing to pick out those patients you feel might be violent?"

She was silent, staring at them both, while her long, tapered fingers played with the pen on the desk top.

"I don't know," she said worriedly. "It's a troublesome question, involving medical ethics. I'm not sure how far I should go on this.

Sergeant, I'm not going to say yes or no at this moment. I think I better get some other opinions. Julie Samuelson's, for one. If I acted on impulse, I'd say, hell, yes, I'll do anything I can to help. But I don't want to do the wrong thing. Can I get back to you? It shouldn't take more than a day or so."

"The sooner the better," Boone said, then glanced swiftly at Delaney, signaling that he was finished.

Delaney, who was pleased with the way the Sergeant had conducted the interrogation, hunched forward in his chair, hands clasped between spread knees, and stared at Diane Ellerbee.

"Doctor," he said, "I have a question-a very personal question you may find offensive. But it's got to be asked. Was your husband faithful to you?"

She threw the ballpoint pen across the desk. It fell to the floor, and she didn't bother to retrieve it. They saw her spine stiffen, jaw tighten. Those sky-blue eyes seemed to darken.

She glared at Edward X. Delaney.

"My husband was faithful," she said loudly. "Faithful from the day we were married. I realize people say that the wife is always the last to know, but I swear to you I know my husband was faithful. We worked at our marriage, and it was a happy one. I was faithful to Simon, and he was faithful to me."

"No children?" Delaney said.

She gave a slight grimace-pain, distaste?

"You go for the jugular, don't you?" she said harshly. "No, no children.

I'm incapable. Is that going to help you find my husband's killer?"

Delaney rose to his feet, and a second later, Sergeant Boone jumped up.

"Doctor Ellerbee," Delaney said, "I want to thank you for your cooperation.

I can't promise that what you've told us will aid our investigation-but you never know. It would help a great deal if you'd be willing to name those of your husband's patients you feel might be capable of homicidal violence."

"I'll talk to Julie," she said, nodding. "If he approves, I'll do it.

Either way, I'll be in touch as soon as I can."

Boone handed over his card. "I can be reached at this number, Doctor Ellerbee, or you can leave a message. Thank you for your help, ma'am."

Outside, they walked west to York Avenue, fists jammed into their pockets, shoulders hunched against the cutting wind.

"Nice job," Delaney said. "You handled that just right."

"A beautiful, beautiful woman," Boone said. "But what did we get?

Zilch."

"I'm not so sure. It was interesting. And yes, she's a beautiful woman."

"You think she was telling the truth, sir? About her husband being faithful?"

"Why not? You're faithful to Rebecca, aren't you? And I know I'm faithful to Monica. Not all husbands sleep around.

Sergeant, I think you better make an appointment for us with Doctor Samuelson as soon as possible. Maybe we can convince him to tell her to pick out the crazies from her husband's patient list."

"She sure seems to rely a hell of a lot on his opinion."

"Oh, you noticed that too, did you?"

They parted on York. Boone headed uptown to his apartment; Delaney walked down to his brownstone.

He had left a note for Monica, telling her that he might be late and to go ahead and have dinner if she was hungry. But she had waited for him, keeping a casserole of veal and onions warm in the oven.

While they ate, he told her about the interview with Dr. Diane Ellerbee.

He wanted to get her reaction.

"She sounds like a woman under very heavy pressure," Monica said when Delaney finished describing the interview.

"Oh, hell, yes. The death of her husband has gotten to her-no doubt of that. That's why she's been leaning on the Department; at least it gives her the feeling that she's doing something. Both Abner and I thought she put unusual reliance on Doctor Samuelson. Granted that he's the president of an important professional association, still it sounded like she doesn't want to make a move without consulting him. A curious relationship. Abner is going to set up a meet with Samuelson. Maybe we'll learn more."

"Do you believe her about her husband being faithful?"

"I have no reason not to believe," he said cautiously i've never heard even a whisper of gossip about them," Monica said. "Things like that usually get out-one way or another."

"I suppose so. But I think Diane Ellerbee is a very complex woman. She's going to take a lot of study."

"You don't suspect her, do you, Edward?"

He sighed. "Oh, hell-I suspect everyone. You know I go by percentages, and most homicides are committed by relatives or close friends. So, sure the widow has got to be a suspect. But up to now, I admit, there isn't an iota of evidence to make me doubt her innocence. Well, we're just beginning."

He helped Monica clean up and put the dishes in the washer. Then he went into the study, poured himself a small Rdmy, and put on his reading glasses. He wrote out a complete report of the interrogation of Dr.

Diane Ellerbee and slid it into the file folder neatly labeled with her name.

He was interrupted twice. The first phone call came from Boone, who said that he had made an appointment with Samuelson for 7:00 A.M. the following morning.

"Seven o'clock! I'm just dragging myself out of bed at that hour."

"Me, too," Boone said mournfully. "But these psychiatrists apparently start the day early-to take patients before they go off to work."

"Well, all right, we'll make it at seven. What's the address?"

The second call was from Jason, who had just returned to the city from Brewster.

"No ball peen hammer, sir," he reported. "The handyman says he doesn't own one and never has. I think he's telling the truth."

"Probably," Delaney agreed. "It was just a gamble and had to be checked out."

"And the victim wasn't very mechanical," Jason went on.

"He owned maybe a tack hammer and a screwdriver-fiveand-ten tools like that.

Whenever any repairs had to be done, even like changing a washer, the caretaker was called in."

"You got to see the house?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Not as big as I thought it would be, but really beautiful. Even with all the trees bare, you can imagine what that place must look like in spring and summer. Plenty of land with a sweet little brook running through. Patio, garden, swimming pool-the whole bit."

"It sure sounds great," Delaney said. "I've got to get up there and take a look. Jason, we've got Parnell working on the financial backgrounds of the two Ellerbees and Doctor Samuelson. What I'd like you to do is dig into their personal backgrounds. Ages, where born, living relatives, education, professional careers, and so forth. You can get most of that stuff from Who's Who, records of colleges, universities and hospitals, yearbooks of professional societies, and any other sources you can think of. Dig as deep as you think necessary."

"Well… sure," Jason said hesitantly. "But I've never done anything like that before, sir."

"Then it's time you learned. Don't lean on anyone too hard, but don't let them fluff you off either. It'll be a good chance to make contacts.

You never know when you might be needing them again."

"Get started on it in the morning. When do you want this stuff, sir?"

"Yesterday," Delaney said. "Get a good night's sleep."

A little after midnight, in the upstairs bedroom, he went in to shower first, leaving Monica brushing her hair at the dressing table. She came into the open bathroom after he finished, catching him sucking in his gut and examining his body in the full-length mirror.

"Now I know you met Diane Ellerbee today," she said.

He gave her a sour grin. "You really know how to hurt a guy, don't you?"

She laughed and patted his bare shoulder. "You'll do for me, pops."

"Pops?" he said in mock outrage. "I'll pop you!"

They giggled, wrestled a moment, kissed.

Later. when they were in their beds, he said, "Well, she is a beautiful woman. Incredible. Correct me if I'm wrong, but can't great physical beauty be a curse?"

"How so?"

"It seems to me that a young woman who starts out tremendously lovely would have no incentive to develop her mind or talents or skills. I mean people worship her automatically. Some rich guy grabs her off and buys her everything she wants-so where's her ambition to be anything?

She thinks she deserves her good fortune, and her looks will last forever."

"Well, that obviously didn't happen to Diane Ellerbee.

She's a respected professional and she's got brains to spare.

Maybe some beautiful women go the route you said, but not her. She's made her own good fortune. I told you I heard her speak, and the woman is brilliant."

"You don't think there's something cold and detached about her?"

"Cold and detached? No, I didn't get that impression at all,"

"Maybe it was a poor choice of words. Forceful and selfassured. Will you agree to that?"

"Yes," Monica said slowly, "I think that's fair. But of course a psychotherapist has to be self-assured-or at least give that impression.

You're not going to get many patients if you seem as neurotic as they are."

"You're probably right," he admitted. "But something about her disturbs me. It's the same feeling I get when I see a great painting or sculpture at the Met. It's pleasing visually, but there's something mysterious there. I've never been able to figure it out. I can look at a painting and really admire it, but sometimes it saddens me, too. It makes me think of death."

"Great beauty makes you think of death?"

"Sometimes."

"Did you ever consider seeking professional help?"

"Never," he said, laughing. "You're my therapist."

"Do you think Diane Ellerbee is more beautiful than I am?"

"Absolutely not," he said immediately. "To me, you're the most beautiful woman in the world."

"You really know what's good for you, don't you, buster?"

"You better believe it," he said, reaching out for her.

Dr. Samuelson's apartment was on the 18th floor of the co-op at 79th Street and Madison Avenue. His office was on the ground floor of the same building. It was not unusual for him to descend to work in the automatic elevator, wearing a holey wool cardigan and worn carpet slippers.

Delaney and Boone huddled under the marquee of the building for a moment, trying to keep out of a sleety rain that had been falling all night.

"Just for the fun of it," Delaney said, "let's both of us go after this guy. Short, punchy questions with no logical sequence. Biff, bang, pow!

We'll come at him from all angles."

"So he won't be able to get set?" Boone asked.

"Partly that. But mostly because he got me up so early on a miserable morning."

Dr. Samuelson opened the door to his office himself; there was no visible evidence that he employed a receptionist. He took their wet coats and hats and hung them away. He ushered them into a cluttered inner office in which all the furnishings seemed accumulated rather than selected. The place had a musty air, and the few good antiques were in need of restoration. A stuffed barn owl moldered atop a bookcase.

In addition to an old horsehair patient's couch, covered with an Indian blanket, there were two creaky Morris chairs in the office. These Samuelson pulled up facing his massive desk. He sat behind it in a wing chair upholstered in worn maroon leather.

Sergeant Boone displayed his ID, introduced Delaney, and explained his role in the investigation.

"Oh, yes," Samuelson said in a high-pitched voice, "after you called last night I thought it best to make some inquiries.

You both are highly recommended. I am willing to cooperate, of course, but I have already told the police everything I know' "About the events of that Friday night," Delaney said, "when Ellerbee was killed. But there are things we need that are not included in your statement."

"For instance," Boone said, "how well did you know the victim?"

"Very well. Ever since he was my student in Boston."

Delaney: "Did you know his wife as well?"

"Of course. We visited frequently here in New York, and I was often their house guest up in Brewster."

Boone: "Do you think a patient could have killed Ellerbee?"

"It's possible. Unfortunately, assaults on psychiatrists are not all that uncommon."

Delaney: "Was it a happy marriage?"

"The Ellerbees'? Yes, a very happy, successful marriage.

They loved each other and, of course, had an additional link in their work."

Boone: "What kind of patient would attack Ellerbee?"

"A psychopath, obviously. Or someone temporarily deranged by the trauma of his analysis. It is sometimes an extremely painful process." Delaney:

"You said his analysis. You believe the killer was a man?"

"The nature of the crime would seem to indicate it. But it could have been a woman."

Boone: "Was Diane Ellerbee also your student?"

"No, she was Simon's student. That's how they metwhen he was teaching."

Delaney: "Did he convince her to start her own practice?"

"He persuaded her, yes. We often joked about their Pygmalion-Galatea relationship."

Boone: "You mean he created her?"

"Of course not. But he recognized her gifts, her talents as a therapist.

Before she met him, I understand, she was somewhat of a dilettante. But he saw something in her he thought should be encouraged. He was right.

She has done-is doing -fine work."

Delaney: "How do you account for those two hammer blows to the victim's eyes?"

Samuelson exhibited the first signs of unease at this fusillade of rapid questions. He fiddled with some papers and they noted his hand trembled slightly.

He was a wisp of a man with narrow shoulders and a disproportionately large head balanced on a stalky neck. His complexion was grayish, and he wore wire-rimmed spectacles set with thick, curved lenses that magnified his eyes.

Surprisingly, he had wavy russet hair that appeared to have been carefully blown dry.

He sipped his coffee and seemed to regain his poise.

"What was your question?" he asked.

Boone: "rhose two hammer blows to the victim's eyes could they have been a symbolic attempt to blind the dead man?"

"It is a possibility."

Delaney: "Do you think Simon Ellerbee was faithful to his wife?"

"Of course he was faithful! And she to him. I told you it was a happy, successful marriage. There are such things. I really don't see how all this is going to help you find the person who committed this despicable act."

Boone: "Diane Ellerbee was younger than her husband?"

"By about eight years. Not such a great gap."

Delaney: "She's a very beautiful woman. But you're certain she was faithful?"

"Of course I'm certain. There was never any gossip about them, never a rumor. And I was their closest friend. I would have heard or noticed something."

Boone: "Did you notice any change in Simon Ellerbee in the last six months or a year?"

"No, no change."

Delaney: "Nervousness? Fear? Sudden fits of silence or outbursts of anger? Anything like that?"

"No, nothing."

Boone: "Did he ever say he had been threatened by any of his patients?"

"No. He was an extremely competent man. I'm sure he would have known how to handle such threats-if any had been made."

Delaney: "Have you ever been married?"

"Once. My wife died of cancer twenty years ago. I never remarried."

Boone: "Children?"

"One son killed in an automobile accident."

Delaney: "So the Ellerbees were the only family you had?"

"I have brothers and sisters. But the Ellerbees were very close friends.

Two beautiful people. I loved them both."

Boone: "They never fought?"

"Of course they fought occasionally. What married couple doesn't But always with good humor."

Delaney: "When you went over to the Ellerbees' townhouse that Friday night and went upstairs, did you hear anything? Like someone might still be in the house, moving around?"

"No, I heard nothing."

Boone: "Did you smell anything unusual? Perfume, incense, a strong body odor-anything like that?"

"No. Just the damp. It was a very wet night."

Delaney: "There were no signs of forced entry, so we assume the victim buzzed the door open for someone he was expecting or knew. Now we're back to the possibility of one of Ellerbee's patients putting him down.

We want Doctor Diane to go through her husband's caseload and select those she thinks might be capable of murder."

"Yes, she told me that. Last night. Boone: "She relies on your opinion.

Will you advise her to cooperate?"

"I have already so advised her. The law prevents her from giving you her husband's files, but I think that here the public good demands she at least name those parties she thinks might be capable of violence. You have the complete list and I assume will run a basic check on them all."

Delaney: "Checking that many alibis is almost impossible, so I'm glad you've encouraged Mrs. Ellerbee to cooperate.

She obviously respects your opinions. Are you a father figure?" Dr.

Samuelson, confidence regained, relaxed. His enlarged eyes glittered behind the heavy glasses.

"Oh, I doubt that," he said softly. "Diane is a very independent woman.

Her beauty warms the heart. But she is very intelligent and capable.

Simon was a lucky man. I told him that often, and he agreed."

"Thank you for your help," Delaney said, rising abruptly.

"I hope we may consult you again if we need more information."

"Of course. Anytime. You think you will find the person who did this thing?"

"If we're lucky," Delaney said.

Outside, they dashed across Madison to a luncheonette that had not yet filled up with the breakfast crowd. They ordered black coffee and jelly doughnuts and took them to a small, Formica-topped table alongside the tiled wall.

"I'm proud of you," Delaney said.

"How so?"

"You knew about Pygmalion and Galatea."

Boone laughed. "Blame it on crossword puzzles. You pick up a lot of useless information."

"Funny thing," Delaney said, "but just last night I was talking to Monica about the fact that so many beautiful women make a career out of just being beautiful. But from what Samuelson said, Simon was the one who convinced Diane she had a brain in addition to looks."

I think the good doctor is in love with her."

"That wouldn't be hard. But what chance would he have?

Did you see the photos of Ellerbee in the file? A big, handsome guy.

Samuelson looks like a gnome compared to him."

"Maybe that's why he snuffed him," Boone said.

"You really think that?"

"No. Do you?" I can't see it," Delaney said. "But there's a hell of a lot I can't see about this thing. For instance, I asked Samuelson if Simon had fits of silence or outbursts of anger. Now that was an almost word-for-word quote from Diane. She said her husband was a lovely man, but occasionally had fits of silence and outbursts of anger. Samuelson, supposedly a close friend, says he never noticed anything like that."

"Maybe he thought it was of no consequence, or maybe he was trying to protect the memory of a dead friend."

"Right now, I'd say we can scratch Diane and Samuelson," Delaney said,

"unless Parnell or Jason can come up with something. That leaves the victim's patients as our best bet.

Will you call the widow and set up a meet to get the list of possibles from her?"

"Sure. I also better check in with Suarez's crew and find out how many of the patients they've already tossed."

"Right. You know, so far this whole thing is smoke-you realize that, don't you?"

"No doubt about that."

"Nothing hard," Delaney said fretfully, "nothing definite.

It's really the worst part of a case-the opening, when everything is mush."

"No great hurry to clear it," the Sergeant said. "Is there?"

Delaney didn't want to tell him there was-that it had to be closed by the end of the year if Deputy Thorsen wanted that third star for Michael Suarez, but the Sergeant was a sharp man and probably aware of the Departmental politics involved.

"I'd just like to tidy it up fast," he said casually, "or admit failure and get back to my routine. Can you drop me?"

"Of course," Boone said, "if I can get that clunker started."

The Sergeant was driving his personal car, an old, spavined Buick he had bought at a city auction of towed-away cars. But the wheels turned, and he delivered Delaney to his brownstone.

"Give you a call, sir," he said, "as soon as I set up something with Doctor Diane."

"Good enough," Delaney said. "And brief Suarez on our talk with Samuelson.

I promised to keep him in the picture."

Monica was in the living room, watching a women's talk show on television.

"What's the topic this morning?" Delaney inquired pleasantly. "Premature ejaculation?"

"Very funny," Monica said. "How did you make out with Samuelson?"

He was tempted to tell her about the doctor's comments about the Ellerbees' Pygmalion-Galatea relationship, but he didn't mention it, fearing it would sound like gloating.

"We got nothing you can hang your hat on," he said. "Just general background stuff. I'll tell you about it tonight."

He went into his study, sat at his desk, and wrote out a full report on the interrogation of Dr. Julius K. Samuelson, doing his best to recall the psychiatrist's exact words.

There was something in that interview that disturbed him, but he could not for the life of him think of what it was. He read over his report of the questioning, and still could not pinpoint it. But he was convinced something was there.

His vague disquiet was characteristic of the entire case, he decided. So far, the investigation of the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee was all obscure overtones and subtle shadings. The damned case was a watercolor.

Most homicides were oils-great, bold slashings of pigment laid on with a wide brush or palette knife. Killings were generally stark, brutal affairs, the result of outsize passions or capital sins.

But this killing had the whiff of the library about it, something literary and genteel, as if plotted by Henry James. ' Perhaps, Delaney admitted, he felt that way because the scene of the crime was an elegant townhouse rather than a roach-infested tenement. Or maybe because the people involved were obviously educated, intelligent, and with the wit to lie smoothly if it would serve their purpose.

But murder was murder. And maybe a delicate, polite case like this needed a lumbering, mulish old cop to strip away all the la-di-dah pretense and pin an artful, perceptive, refined killer to the goddamned wall.

"We ought to start thinking about Thanksgiving," Monica said at breakfast. "It'll be here before you know it. A turkey, I suppose…

"Oh… I don't know," Delaney said slowly.

"How about a goose?"

"A roast goose," he said dreamily. "Maybe with wild rice and brandied apples. Sounds good. You do the goose and I'll do the apples. Okay?"

"It's a deal."

"Are the girls coming down?"

"No, they're going to a friend's home. But they'll be here for Christmas."

"Good. Would you like to invite Rebecca and Abner for Thanksgiving dinner?

We can't eat a whole goose by ourselves."

"That would be fun. I think they'd like it. How about Jason and his family?"

"That guy could demolish a roast goose by himself. But if I ask Boone, I'll have to ask Jason. I suspect he'll want to have Thanksgiving dinner at home with his family, but I'll check and let you know."

"What are your plans for today, Edward?"

"I want to stick around in case Abner calls to tell me when we're going to meet with Doctor Diane. Where are you off "More Christmas shopping. I want to get it all done and out of the way so I can relax and enjoy the holiday season."

"Until the bills come in," he said. "Have fun."

He went into the study to read the morning Times and smoke his breakfast cigar. He was halfway through both when the phone rang. He expected it to be Boone, but it was not.

"Edward X. Delaney here," he said.

"Good morning. This is Detective Charles Parnell."

"Oh, yes. How are you?"

"Fine, sir, And you?"

"Surviving," Delaney said. "You probably don't remember, but you and I have met. It was at a retirement party for Sergeant Schlossman."

"Sure," Parnell said, laughing. "I remember. I tried to chug-a-lug a quart bottle of Schaefer and upchucked all over Captain Rogers' new uniform. I haven't had a promotion since! Listen, Abner Boone said you wanted these financial reports on the people in the Ellerbee case as soon as possible."

"Don't tell me you've got them already?"

"Well, I may not be good, but I'm fast. I've got a single typed page on each of them. It's not Dun amp; Bradstreet, but it should give you what you want. I was wondering if I could bring them by and go over them with you. Then if there's anything else you need, you can steer me in the right direction.

"Of course," Delaney said promptly. "I'll be in all morning. You have my address?"

"Yep. Be there in half an hour."

Delaney relighted his cigar and finished the Times. It was perfect timing; he had put the newspaper together neatly and was taking it into the living room to leave for Monica when the front door bell chimed.

The detective they called Daddy Warbucks was wearing a black bowler with a rolled brim, and a double-breasted topcoat THE Fourth DEAMY Sin 77 of taupe gabardine. He carried an attache case of polished calfskin.

Seeing Delaney blink, Pamell grinned. "It's my uniform," he explained.

"I work with bankers and stockbrokers. It helps if I look like I belong to the club. Off duty, I wear cord jeans and a ratty sweatshirt."

"Haven't seen a derby in years," Delaney said admiringly.

"On you it looks good."

After his hat and coat had been hung away in the hall closet, the detective was revealed in all his conservative elegance: a three-piece suit of navy flannel with muted pin-stripe, light blue shirt with starched white collar and cuffs, a richly tapestried cravat, and black shoes with a dull gloss-wingtips, of course.

"Sometimes I feel like a clown in this getup," he said, following Delaney back to the study, "but it seems to impress the people I deal with. Beautiful home you've got here." :"Thank you."

"You own the whole house?"

That's right."

If you ever want to rent out a floor, let me know. The wife and I and two kids are jammed into a West Side walk-up."

But his comments were without bitterness, and Delaney pegged him for a cheerful, good-natured man.

" Tell me something," he asked Pamell, "that suit fits so snugly, where do you carry your piece?"

"Here," Daddy Warbucks said. He turned, lifted the tail of his jacket, and revealed a snub-nosed revolver in a belt holster at the small of his back. "Not so great for a quick draw, but it's a security blanket. Do you carry?"

"Only on special occasions," Delaney said. "Listen, can I get you anything -coffee, a cola?"

"No, but thanks. I'm up to my eyeballs in coffee this morning."

"Well, then," Delaney said, "why don't you sit in that armchair and make yourself comfortable."

"I smell cigar smoke," Parnell said, "so I guess it's okay if I light a cigarette."

"Of course."

While the detective lit up, Delaney studied the man.

Crew-cut pepper-and-salt hair. A horsey face with deep furrows and laugh crinkles at the corners of the eyes. A good set of strong choppers. A blandly innocent expression. A rugged ugliness there, but not without charm. He looked like a good man to invite to a party.

"Well…" Parnell said, leaning over to snap open his attachd case,

"how do you want to do this? Want to read the stuff first or should I give you the gist of it?"

"Suppose you summarize first," Delaney said. "Then I'll ask questions if I've got any."

"Okay," Parnell said. "We'll start with Doctor Julius K. Samuelson. His net worth is about one mil, give or take.

Moneywise, he's a very cautious gentleman. CDS, Treasury nds d tax-free municipals. He owns his co-op apartment. checking account, but like I said financewise. No stocks, no tax shelters. He's made three irrevocable charitable trustsall to hospitals with major psychiatric research departments.

Nothing unusual. Nothing exciting. Any questions?"

"I guess not," Delaney said. "I don't suppose you got a look at his will?"

"No, I can't do that. I was lucky to learn about those charitable trusts. I really don't think there's anything in Samuelson for you, sir-lootwise. I mean, he's not rich-rich, but he's not hurting either."

"You're probably right," Delaney said, sighing. "What about the Ellerbees?"

"Ah," Charles Parnell said, "now it gets mildly interesting.

If you were thinking maybe the wife knocked off the husband for his assets, it just doesn't work. He was doing okay, but she's got megabucks of her own."

"No kidding?" Delaney said, surprised. "How did she do that?"

"Her father died, leaving a modest pile to her mother. Two years later, her mother died. She had some money of her own as well. Diane Ellerbee inherited the whole bundle. Then, a year after that, a spinster aunt conked, and Diane really hit the jackpot-almost three mil from the aunt alone."

"Diane was an only child?"

"She had a younger brother who got scragged in Vietnam.

He had no family of his own-no wife or kids, I mean-so she picked up all the marbles."

"How many marbles?" Delaney asked.

"Her husband's will hasn't been filed for probate yet, but even without her take from him, I estimate the lady tips the scales at close to five mil."

"Wow!" Delaney said. "Beautiful and rich."

"Yeah," Parnell said, "and she handles it all herself. No business manager or investment counselor for her. She's been doing great, too.

She's smart enough to diversify, so she's into everything: stocks, bonds, real estate, tax shelters, mutual funds, municipals, commercial paper-you name it."

Delaney shook his head in wonder. "Beautiful and rich and shrewd."

"You better believe it, And she's got nerve. Some of her investments are chancy stuff, but I've got to admit she's had more winners than losers."

"What about the victim?" Delaney asked. "How was he fixed?"

"Like Samuelson, he wasn't hurting. But nothing like his wife. I'd guess his estate at maybe a half-mil, after taxes.

Here's something interesting: She handled his investments for him."

"Really?" Delaney said thoughtfully. "Yes, that is interesting."

"Maybe he didn't have the time, or just had no great desire to pile it up buckwise. Anyway, she did as well for him as she did for herself.

They have no joint accounts. Everything is separate. They don't even file a joint return."

"What about his father?" Delaney asked. "Was he giving Simon anything?"

Daddy Warbucks smiled. "Henry Ellerbee, the great real estate tycoon?

That's a laugh. I had to do a money profile on the guy about six months ago.

He's a real cowboy. Got a million deals working and he hasn't got two nickels to rub together. He lost control of Ellerbee Towers and he's mortgaged to the hilt. If everyone calls in his paper at once, the only place he'll be sleeping will be in bankruptcy court. I'll bet you and I have more hard cash than he does. Help out Simon? No way! More likely he was leaning on his son. Well, that's about all I've got. Do you have any more questions?"

Delaney pondered a moment. "I don't think so. Not right now. If you'll leave me your typed reports, I'll go over them.

Then I may need your help on some details."

"Sure," Parnell said. "Anytime. When Simon Ellerbee's will is filed for probate, I'll be able to get the details for you."

"Good," Delaney said. "I'd appreciate that." He looked at the detective narrowly. "You like this kind of work?" he asked.

"Love it," the other man said immediately. "You know what I drag down per year. Snooping into other people's private money affairs is a kind of fantasy life for me. I'm fascinated by their wealth, and I imagine how I'd handle it-if I had it!"

"You working on anything interesting right now?"

"Oh, yeah," Daddy Warbucks said. "It's lovely-a computerized writing scam. This guy worked in the computer section of a big Manhattan bank. He knows banking and he knows computers -right? So he starts out writing checks, opening accounts at three or four New York City banks under phony names with fake ID he bought on the street. He started out small with a ten-G investment. Within six months, taking advantage of the float, he's shuffling deposits and transfers up to a quarter of a mil."

"Good God!" Delaney said. "I thought there were safeguards against that."

"It's the float!" Pamell cried. "That wonderful, marvelous, goddamned float! You can't safeguard against that. Anyway, like most check-writers, this guy couldn't stop. He could have cashed in, grabbed his profits, and taken off for Brazil. But the scam was working so well, he decided to go for broke. He starts opening accounts in New Jersey, Connecticut, and so forth. longer float, more profits. Then he realizes that if he had accounts in California, he'll have maybe a ten-day or two-week float. So, on his vacation, he flies out to the West Coast and opens a dozen accounts, using the same phony names as in New York and giving the New York banks as references! How do you like that?"

"As you said, it's lovely."

"The kicker is this," the detective said. "By this time the nut has got so many accounts and so many names, with checks flying all over the country, that he can't keep track of it all. So he writes his own program and fits it into one of the computers at the bank where he works. His personal program that can only be tapped by a code word, and he's the only one who knows that.

So now his bank's computer is running this guy's writing con. Can you believe that he had run his total up to more than two mil before the roof fell in?"

"How did they catch up with him?"

"It was an accident. Some smart lady in an Arizona bank was supposed to monitor heavy out-of-state deposits and transfers. She was out sick for a week, and when she got back to work, she found her desk piled high.

She began to wade through the stuff, dividing it up by account numbers.

She spotted all these deposits and transfers made by the same person, gradually increasing in size. She knew what that probably meant, and blew the whistle. It'll take at least a year to straighten out the mess.

Meanwhile the guy is languishing in durance vile because he can't make bail. And a few months ago he could have cashed in and skipped with two mil. I figure it wasn't just greed that kept him going. I think he was absolutely mesmerized by the game. He just wanted to see how far he could go."

"A fascinating case," Delaney agreed.

"Yeah, but right now it's a mess. I mean, every state where he operated wants a piece of this guy, plus the Feds, plus the banks, and God knows who else. The funniest thing is that nobody lost any money. In fact, practically everyone made money because they were putting his fake deposits to work until he transferred the funds. The only one who lost was the perp. And all he lost was his original ten grand. There's a moral there somewhere, but I don't know what it is."

Delaney offered Parnell a beer, but the detective reluctantly declined, saying he had to get down to Wall Street for lunch with two hotshot arbitragers.

He handed over three typewritten reports and his card in case more information was needed. They went out into the hallway and Delaney helped Daddy Warbucks on with his natty coat.

"Really a great home," Parnell said, looking around. "I'd like one exactly like it. Well, maybe someday."

"Just don't start writing checks," Delaney warned.

"Not me," the detective said, laughing. "I haven't got the chutzpah.

Besides, I can't work a computer."

They shook hands and Delaney thanked the other man for his help. Parnell departed, bowler cocked at a jaunty angle, attache case swinging.

Delaney went back to the kitchen, smiling. He had enjoyed the company of Daddy Warbucks. He was always interested in other dicks' cases-especially new scams and innovative criminal techniques.

He made a "wet" sandwich, leaning over the sink to eat it.

Slices of canned Argentine corned beef with a layer of sauerkraut and a few potato chips for crunch. And Dijon mustard.

All on thick slabs of sour rye. Washed down with dark Heineken.

Finished, he cleaned up the kitchen and returned to the study. He put on his reading glasses and went over the three financial statements Parnell had given him. He saw nothing of importance that Daddy Warbucks hadn't covered in his oral report.

The detective was right: The idea that Diane Ellerbee might have chilled her husband for his gelt just didn't wash; she had ten times his wealth and Delaney couldn't see her as an inordinately avaricious woman.

So that, he supposed, was that. Unless Jason T. Jason came up with something in the biographies, the only way to go was investigation of Simon Ellerbee's patients.

And right on cue, the telephone rang. This time it was Abner Boone. He said Dr. Diane Ellerbee would see them that evening at nine o'clock.

"Suppose I pick you up about fifteen minutes early," Boone suggested.

"Make it a half-hour early," Delaney said. "Charlie Parnell stopped by, and I want to bring you up to date on what he found out."

Delaney turned sideways on the front passenger seat, looking at Abner Boone as he filled him in on Charlie Parnell's report.

They were parked near the East 84th Street townhouse.

Boone was a tall, gawky man who walked with a shambling lope, wrists and ankles protruding a little too far from his cuffs. He had short, gingery hair, lightly freckled complexion, big, horsey teeth. There was a lot of "country boy" in his appearance and manner, but Delaney knew that masked a sharp mind and occasionally painful sensitivity.

"Well, sir," the Sergeant said when Delaney had finished, "The lady sure sounds like a powerhouse. All that money to manage, two houses, and a successful career. But you know who interests me most in this thing?"

"The victim?" Delaney guessed.

"That's right. I can't get a handle on him. Everyone says how brilliant he was. Maybe that's so, but I can't get a mental picture of him-how he dressed, talked, what he did on his time off. From what-Doctor Diane and Samuelson told us, he seems almost too good to be true."

"Well, you can't expect his widow and best friend to put him down. I'm hoping his patients will open up and tell us a little more about him. I guess it's about time; we don't want to keep the doctor waiting."

On the lobby intercom, Dr. Diane Ellerbee told them to come up to the third floor, then buzzed them in. They tramped up the stairway, carrying their hats. She met them in the hallway and shook hands firmly with both of them.

"This may take a little time," she said briskly, "so I thought we'd be more comfortable in the sitting room."

She was wearing a long-sleeved jumpsuit of black silk, zipped from high collar to shirred waist. Her wheaten hair was down, splaying about her shoulders in a silken skein. As she led the way toward the rear of the house, Delaney admired again her erect carriage and the flowing grace of her movements.

She ushered them into a brightly lighted chamber, comfortably cluttered with bibelots, framed photos, bric-a-brac. One wall was a ceiling-high bookcase jammed with leather-bound sets, paperbacks, magazines.

"The rooms downstairs are more formal than this," she said with a half-smile. "And neater. But Simon and I spent most of our evenings here.

It's a good place to unwind. Let me have your coats, gentlemen. May I bring you something-coffee, a drink?" They both politely declined.

She seated them in soft armchairs, then pulled up a ladderback chair with a cane seat to face them. She sat primly, spine straight, chin lifted, head held high.

"Julie--!" she started, then: "Doctor Samuelson approves of my cooperating with you, but I must say I am not absolutely certain I am doing the right thing. The conflict is between my desire to see my husband's murderer caught and at the same time protect the confidentiality of his patients."

"Doctor Ellerbee," Delaney said, "I assure you that anything you tell us will be top secret as far as we're concerned."

"Well…" she said, "I suppose that's as much as I can hope for. One other thing: The patients I have selected as potential assailants are only six out of a great many more."

"We've got to start somewhere, ma'am," Boone said. "It's impossible for us to run alibi checks on them all."

"I realize that," she said sharply. "I'm just warning you that my judgment may be faulty. After all, they were my husband's patients, not mine. So I'm going by his files and what he told me. It's quite possible -probable, in fact-that the six people I've selected are completely innocent, and the guilty person is the one I've passed over."

"Believe me," Delaney said, "we're not immediately and automatically going to consider your selections to be suspects.

They'll be thoroughly investigated, and if we believe them to be innocent, we'll move on to others in your husband's caseload. Don't feel you are condemning these people simply by giving us their names. There's more to a homicide investigation than that."

"Well, that makes me feel a little better. Remember, psychotherapy is not an exact science-it is an uncertain art.

Two skilled, experienced therapists examining the same patient could very likely come up with two opposing diagnoses.

You have only to read the opinions of psychiatrists testifying in court cases to realize that."

"We used to call them alienists," Delaney said. "Usually they confused a trial more than they helped."

"I'm afraid you're right," she said with a wan smile. "Objective criteria are hard to recognize in this field. Well, having said all that, let me show you what I've done."

She rose, went over to a small Sheraton-styled desk, came back with two pages of typescript.

"Six patients," she told them. "Four men, two women. I've given you their names, ages, addresses. I've written a short paragraph on each, using my husband's notes and what he told me about them. Although I've listed their major problems, I haven't given you definitive labelsschizoid, psychotic, manic-depressive, or whatever. They were not my patients, and I refuse to attempt a diagnosis. Now let me get started."

She donned a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses.

Curiously, these old-fashioned spectacles softened her chiseled features, gave her face a whimsical charm.

"I should warn you," she said, "I have listed these people in no particular order. That is, the first mentioned is not, in my opinion, necessarily the most dangerous. All six, I believe, have the potential for violence. I won't read everything I've written-just give you a very brief synopsis… "Number One: Ronald J. Bellsey, forty-three. He saw my husband three times a week. Apparently a violent man with a history of uncontrollable outbursts of anger. Ronald first consulted my husband after injuring his wife in a brutal attack. At least he had sense enough to realize he was ill and needed help.

"Number Two: Isaac Kane, twenty-eight. He was one of my husband's charity patients, treated once a week at a free clinic. Isaac is what they call an idiot savant, although I hate that term. He is far from being an idiot, but he is retarded.

Isaac does absolutely wonderful landscapes in pastel chalk.

Very professional work. But he has, on occasion, attacked workers and other patients at the clinic.

"Number Three: Sylvia Mae Otherton, forty-six. She saw my husband twice a week, but frequently made panic calls.

Sylvia suffers from heavy anxieties, ranging from agoraphobia to a hatred of bearded men. On the few occasions when she ventured out in public, she made vicious and unprovoked attacks against men with beards."

"Was your husband bearded, ma'am?" Boone asked.

"No, he was not. Number Four: L. Vincent Symington, fifty-one.

Apparently his problem is a very deep and pervasive paranoia. Vince frequently struck back at people he believed were persecuting him, including his aged mother and father.

He saw my husband three times a week.

"Number Five: Joan Yesell, thirty-five. She is a very withdrawn, depressed young woman who lives with her widowed mother. Joan has a history of three suicide attempts, which is one of the reasons I have included her. Suicide, when tried unsuccessfully so often, often develops into homicidal mania.

"And finally, Harold Gerber, thirty-seven. He served in Vietnam and won several medals for exceptional valor. Harold apparently suffers intensely from guilt-not only for those he killed in the war, but because he came back alive when so many of his friends died. His guilt is manifested in barroom brawls and physical attacks on strangers he thinks have insulted him.

"And that's all I have. You'll find more details in this typed report.

Do you have any questions?"

Delaney and Boone looked at each other.

"Just one thing, doctor," Delaney said. "Could you tell us if any of the six was being treated with drugs."

"No," she said immediately. "None of them. My husband did not believe in psychotropic drugs. He said they only masked symptoms but did nothing to reveal or treat the cause of the illness. Incidentally, I hold the same opinion, but I am not a fanatic on the subject as my husband was. I occasionally use drugs in my practice-but only when the physical health of the patient warrants it."

"Are you licensed to prescribe drugs?" Delaney asked.

She gave him a hard stare. "No," she said, "but my husband was."

"But of course," Boone said hastily, "it's possible that any of the six could be using drugs on their own."

"It's possible," Dr. Ellerbee said in her loud, assertive voice. "It's possible of anyone. Which of you gets this report?"

"Ma'am," Delaney said softly, "you have just the one copy?"

"That's correct. I made no carbon."

"You wouldn't happen to have a copying machine in your office, would you?

It would help a great deal if both Sergeant Boone and I had copies.

Speed things up."

"There's a copier in my husband's outer office," she said, rising.

"It'll just take a minute."

"We'll come along if you don't mind," Delaney said, and both men stood up.

She looked at them. "If you're thinking about my safety, I thank you-but there's no need, I assure you. I have lived in this house since Simon died. There are people here during the day, but I'm alone at night. It doesn't frighten me. I won't let it frighten me. This is my home."

"If you'll allow us," Delaney said stubbornly, "we'll still come along.

It'll give us a chance to see the scene-to see where it happened."

"If you wish," she said tonelessly.

She took a ring of keys from the desk drawer, then led the way down the hall. She unlocked the door of her husband's office and turned on the light.

The floor of the receptionist's room was bare boards.

"I had the carpeting taken up and thrown out," she said. "It was stained, and I didn't wish to have it cleaned."

"Have you decided what to do with this space, ma'am?" Boone asked.

"No," she said shortly. "I haven't thought about it."

She went over to the copier in the corner and switched it on. While she was making a duplicate of her report, they looked about.

There was little to see. The outer office was identical in size and shape to the one on the second floor. It was aseptically furnished with steel desk, chairs, filing cabinet. There was no indication it had been the scene of murderous frenzy.

Dr. Ellerbee turned off the copier, handed each of them her two-page report.

"I wouldn't care to have this circulated," she said sternly.

"It won't be," Delaney assured her. "Doctor, would you mind if we took a quick look into your husband's office?"

"What for?"

"Standard operating procedure," he said. "To try to learn more about your husband. Sometimes seeing where a victim lived and where he worked gives a good indication of the kind of man he was."

She shrugged, obviously not believing him, but not caring.

"Help yourself," she said, gesturing toward the inner door.

She sat at the receptionist's desk while they went into Dr. Simon Ellerbee's private office. Boone switched on the overhead light.

A severe, rigorous room, almost austere. No pictures on the white walls.

No decorations. No objects d'art, memorabilia, or personal touches. The room was defined by its lacks.

Even the black leather patient's couch was as sterile as a hospital gurney.

"Cold," Boone said in a low voice.

"You wanted a handle on the guy," Delaney said. "Here's a piece of it:

He was organized, logical, emotionless. Notice how all the straight edges are parallel or at right angles? A very precise, disciplined man.

Can you imagine spending maybe twelve hours a day in a cell like this?

Let's go; it gives me the willies."

They reclaimed their coats and hats from the sitting room, thanked Dr.

Diane Ellerbee for her assistance, and said they'd keep her informed of the progress of the investigation.

"I warn you," Delaney said, smiling, "we may call on you for more help."

"Of course," she said. "Anytime." She seemed tired.

Out on the street, walking slowly to the car, Boone said, "Ballsy lady.

Most women would have gone somewhere else to live or asked a friend to stay awhile after something like that happened."

"Mmm," Delaney said. "She claims she's not frightened and I believe her.

By the way, did you notice how she referred to those patients by their first names? I wonder if all shrinks do that. It reminds me of the way cops talk to suspects to bring them down."

"I thought it was just to-you know-to show how sympathetic you are."

"Maybe. But using a suspect's first name diminishes him, robs him of his dignity. It proves that you're in a position of authority. You call a Mafia chief Tony when he's used to being called Mr. Anthony Gelesco and it makes him feel like a twobit punk or a pushcart peddler. Well, all that's smoke and getting us nowhere. Tomorrow morning check to see if Chief Suarez's men have talked to any of those six patients. We better start with their whereabouts at the time of the homicide."

"Even if Suarez's guys have talked to them, you'll still want them double-checked, won't you, sir?"

"Of course. As far as I'm concerned, this investigation is just starting. And get hold of Jason Two; see how he's coming along on the biographies. I'd like him to finish up as soon as possible; we're going to need his help knocking on doors."

Sergeant Boone drove Delaney home. Outside the brownstone, before Delaney got out of the car, Boone said, "What did you think of Doctor Diane's selections, sir? They all seem like possibles to me."

"Could be. You know, when I talked to Doc Walden, he tried to convince me that most people who go to psychotherapists aren't nuts or crazies or weirdos; they're just poor unfortunates with king-size emotional hangups. But all these people on Doctor Diane's list sound like half-decks. Good night, Sergeant."

Monica was in the living room, working the Times crossword puzzle. She looked up as Delaney came in, peering at him over the top of her Ben Franklin glasses.

"How did it go?" she asked.

"I need something," he said. "Maybe a tall scotch with a lot of ice and a lot of soda."

He mixed the drinks in the kitchen and brought them back to the living room. Monica held her glass up to the light.

"You have a heavy hand with that scotch bottle, kiddo," she said. She tried a sip. "But I forgive you. Now tell me how did it go?"

Delaney slumped in his high wing chair covered with bottle-green leather worn glassy smooth. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and sighed.

"It went all right. She gave us a list of six possibles."

"Then what are you so grumpy about?"

"Who says I'm grumpy?"

"I do. You've got that squinchy look around the eyes, and you're gritting your teeth."

"I am? Well, it's not going to work."

"What's not going to work?"

"The investigation. My investigation. Now we've got six people to check out, and I have only Boone and Jason. I can't do any legwork myself without a tin to flash. So, in effect, there are two men to investigate six suspects. Oh, it could be done if we had all the time in the world, but Thorsen wants this thing cleared up by the end of the year."

"Only one answer to that, isn't there? Ask Ivar for more help."

"I don't know how Chief Suarez would take that. He said he'd cooperate in any way he could, but I have a hunch he still sees me as competition."

"Then instead of asking Ivar for more men, ask Suarez.

That makes him part of the team, doesn't it? Gives him a chance to share the success if you find out who killed Simon Ellerbee."

He stared at her reflectively. "I knew I married a great beauty," he said.

"Now I realize I also married a great brain."

She sniffed. "You're just finding that out? Why don't you call Suarez right now."

"Too late," Delaney said. "I'll wake up that family of his.

I'll get hold of him first thing in the morning. Meanwhile I've got a little work to do. Don't wait up for me; go to bed whenever you like."

He rose, lumbered over to her, swooped to kiss her cheek.

Then he took his drink into the study. He closed the connecting door to the living room in case Monica wanted to watch the Johnny Carson show.

He sat at his desk, put on his heavy black-rimmed glasses, and slowly read through Dr. Diane's two-page report. Then he read it again.

There was more there than she had given them in her oral summary. The six paragraphs described very disturbed people who showed every evidence of being out of control. Any one of them seemed to have the potential for ungovernable violence Delaney sat back and gently tinked the rim of his highball glass against his teeth. He thought about Simon Ellerbee.

What was it like, he wondered, to spend your life working with people whose thought processes were so chaotic? it was, he supposed, like being in a foreign country where all the natives were hostile, spoke a strange language, and even the geography of their world was terra incognita.

He imagined that any man who deliberately ventured into the alien land might suffer from bewilderment and disorientation. He'd have to clamp a tight hold on his own feelings to keep from being swept away by disorder.

Delaney remembered that cold, disciplined office of Dr. Simon Ellerbee.

Now he could understand why a psychiatrist would want to work in rigidly geometric surroundings where parallel lines never met and hard edges reminded that arrangement and sequence did exist, and logic was not dead.

Isaac Kane had been going to the clinic every Wednesday. He was given endless tests. Sometimes, with the permission of his mother, he was handed pills or liquids to swallow. They made him do things with wooden blocks and photographed him on videotape. Then he would spend an hour with Dr. Simon.

Kane didn't mind talking to the doctor. He was a nice, quiet man and really seemed interested in what Isaac had to say. In fact, Dr. Simon was about the only one who listened to Isaac; his mother wouldn't listen, and other people made fun of the way he talked. There was so much Kane wanted to say, and sometimes he couldn't get it out fast enough. Then he went, "Bub-bub-bub," and people laughed.

But Dr. Simon stopped coming to the clinic, so Kane stopped, too. They tried to get him to continue coming in every Wednesday, but he just wouldn't do it. They kept at him, and finally he had to hit some of them. That did the trick, all right, and they didn't bother him anymore.

So now he could spend all his days at the Harriet J. Raskob Community Center on West 79th Street. The clinic had been painted all white-Isaac didn't like that-but the Center was pink and green and blue and yellow.

It was warm in there, and they let him work on his pastel landscapes.

The head of the Center, Mrs. Freylinghausen, sold some of Kane's landscapes and gave the money to his mother. But she kept enough to buy him a wonderful box of at least a hundred pastel crayons in all colors and hues, an easel, paper, and panels. When he ran out of supplies, Mrs.

Freylinghausen bought him more-Isaac wasn't very good at shopping-and locked up all his property when the Center closed at 9:00 P.m.

Most of the people who came to the Center were very old, some in wheelchairs or on walkers. They were as nice to Isaac Kane as Mrs.

Freylinghausen. But there were younger people, too, and some of them weren't so nice. They mimicked Isaac's "Bub-bub-bub" and they tripped him or pushed his elbow when he was working or tried to steal his chalks. One girl liked to touch him all over.

Sometimes they got him so mad that he had to hit them. He was strong, and he could really hurt someone if he wanted to.

One afternoon-Kane didn't know what day it was-Mrs. Freylinghausen came out of her office with two men and headed for the corner where Isaac had set up his easel under a skylight. Both the men were big. The older wore a black overcoat and the other a dark green parka. Both carried their hats.

"Isaac," Mrs. Freylinghausen said, "I'd like you to meet two friends of mine who are interested in your work. This gentleman is Mr. Delaney, and here is Mr. Boone."

Isaac shook hands with both of them, leaving their palms smeared with colored chalk. They both smiled and looked nice. Mrs. Freylinghausen moved away.

"Mr. Kane," Delaney said, "we just saw some of your landscapes, and we think they're beautiful."

"They're okay, I guess," Isaac said modestly. "Sometimes they're not, you know, what I want. I can't always get the colors just right."

"Have you ever seen Turner's paintings?" Delaney asked.

"Turner? No. Who is he?"

"An English painter. He worked in oil and watercolor. He did a lot of landscapes. The way you handle light reminds me of Turner."

"Light!" Isaac Kane cried. "That's very hard to do." And then, because he wanted to say so much about light, he began to go "Bub-bub-bub…"

They waited patiently, not laughing at him, and when he got out what he wanted to say, they nodded understandingly.

"Mr. Kane," Boone said, "I think we may have a mutual friend. Did you know Doctor Ellerbee?"

"No, I don't know him."

"Doctor Simon Ellerbee?"

"Oh, Doctor Simon! Sure, I know him. He stopped coming to the clinic.

What happened to him?"

Boone glanced at Delaney.

"I'm afraid I have bad news for you, Mr. Kane," Delaney said. "Doctor Simon is dead. Someone killed him."

"Gee, that's too bad," Isaac said. "He was a nice man. I liked to talk to him."

He turned back to his easel, where a sheet of grainy paper had been pinned to a square of cardboard. He was working on an idyllic farm scene with a windmill, thatched cottage, a running brook. There were plump white clouds in the foreground and, beyond, dark menacing rain clouds.

The rendition of shadows and the changing light saved the work from mawkishness.

"What did you talk to Doctor Simon about?" Delaney asked.

"Oh… everything," Isaac said, working with a white chalk to get a little more glitter on the water's surface. "He asked me a lot of questions."

"Mr. Kane," Boone said, "can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Doctor Simon?"

He turned to face them. They saw a rudely handsome young man clad in stained denim overalls, a red plaid shirt, tattered running shoes. His brown hair was cut short enough to show pink scalp. Dark eyes revealed nothing, but there was a sweet innocence in his expression.

"That's the way some people are," he said sadly. "They want to hurt you."

"Do people hurt you, Mr. Kane?" Delaney asked.

"Sometimes they try, but I don't let them. I hit them and then they stop. I don't like mean people."

"But Doctor Simon never hurt you, did he?"

"Oh, no-he was a nice man! I never-he would-we talked and-' But then there was so much he wanted to say about Dr. Simon that he began to stutter again. They waited, but he had nothing intelligible to add.

"Well, we've got to get going," Delaney said. "Thank you for giving us so much time." He looked down at Kane's ragged running shoes. "I hope you have boots or galoshes," he said, smiling. "It's snowing outside."

"I don't care," Isaac said. "I just live around the corner. I don't need boots."

They all shook hands. Delaney and Boone headed for the doorway. A young girl with disheveled hair was propped up against the wall of the vestibule.

She looked at them with glazed eyes and said, "Oink, oink." Out on the sidewalk, Boone said, "She had us pegged."

"Stoned out of her skull," Delaney said grimly.

They were double-parked on 80th Street. Boone had propped a Police officer on Duty card inside the windshield, and for once it had worked:

He still had his hubcaps.

They got in, started the engine, turned on the wheezy heater, sat a few moments, shivering, and watched the wet snow drift down.

"Poor guy," Boone observed. "Not much there."

"No," Delaney agreed. "But you never know. He seems to be quick with his fists when he thinks someone is out to hurt him."

"How could Simon Ellerbee hurt him?"

"Maybe he asked one question too many. It's possible."

"What was the business about the boots and galoshes?"

Boone said.

"Those two sets of unidentified tracks on the Ellerbees' carpet.

"Jesus!" the Sergeant said disgustedly. "I forgot all about them."

"Well, we still don't know if Kane owns boots. All he said was that he wasn't wearing them today. I think we better get back to my place, Sergeant.

Chief Suarez said he'd call at noon, and I have a feeling he's a very prompt man."

"You think he's checking with Thorsen, sir?"

"Of course. If I was in Suarez's place I'd say something like this:

"Deputy, Delaney wants six more detectives. That's okay with me, but I don't want to give him any of the people working the case for me. It would hobble what we're doing.

So I'd like to assign six new bodies to Delaney."

"You think Thorsen will go for that?"

"Sure he will. He's got no choice."

With the holiday traffic getting heavier and the snow beginning to pile up, it took them almost a half-hour to get over to the East Side. Boone parked in front of the 251st Precinct house, leaving his on Duty card on display. Then they trudged next door to Delaney's brownstone.

"How about a sandwich?" Delaney suggested. "We've got some cold roast beef, sweet pickle relish, sliced onions.

Maybe a little pink horseradish. How does that sound?"

"Just right," Boone said. "A hot coffee wouldn't go bad either." Delaney spread old newspapers on the kitchen table and they ate their lunch hunched over that.

"Now let's see…" Delaney said. "You told me that Suarez's men have checked out four of the names on our list?"

"That's right, sir. Just their whereabouts at the time of the homicide.

As of this morning, they hadn't gotten around to Otherton or Gerber."

"We'll have to double-check them all anyway. If we get the six new people, I want to assign one to each possible. But I want to question each of the patients personally. That means you or Jason Two will have to come with me to show your ID."

"I talked to Jason. He says he'll be finished with the biogs by tonight.

He'll call you."

"Good. I want you there when he makes his report. We'll hit Otherton this afternoon. We won't call her first; just barge in. The other four we'll have to brace in the evening or over the weekend. Sergeant, can you think of anything we should be doing that we're not?"

Boone had finished his sandwich. He sat back, lighted a cigarette.

"I'd like to get a lead on that ball peen hammer," he said.

"We didn't ask Isaac Kane if he had one."

"Don't worry," Delaney said. "We'll be getting back to that lad again. I can't see the two women owning a hammer like that-but you never know.

We'll have to lean on the four men. Maybe one of them is a do-it-yourself nut or does his own car repairs or something like that."

"How do you get rid of a hammer?" Boone said. "You can't burn it. The handle maybe, but not the head. And the first crew on the scene checked every sewer, catch basin, and garbage can in a ten-block area."

"If I was the killer," Delaney said, "I'd throw it in the river. Chances are good it'd never be found."

"Still," Boone said, "the perp might have--" But just then the phone rang, and Delaney rose to answer it. "I hope that's Suarez," he said.

"Edward X. Delaney here… Yes, Chief… Uh-huh.

That's fine… Monday will be just right… Of course. Maybe you and I can get together next week… Whenever you say… Thank you for your help, Chief."

He hung up and turned to Boone. "He didn't sound too happy about it, but six warm bodies are coming in Monday morning. I'll want you there; maybe you know some of those guys. More coffee?"

"Please. I'm just getting thawed."

"Well, drink up. Then we'll descend on Sylvia Mae Otherton. Sure as hell no woman with agoraphobia is going out on a day like this."

She lived in an old battleship of an apartment house on East 72nd Street between Park and Lexington Avenues. Boone drove around the block twice, trying to find a parking space, then gave up. He parked in front of the marquee, and when an indignant doorman rushed out, the Sergeant flashed his shield and quieted him down.

The cavernous lobby was lined with brownish marble that needed cleaning, and the steel Art Deco elevator doors obviously hadn't been polished in years. The carpeting was fretted, and the whole place had a musty odor.

"A mausoleum," Delaney muttered.

There was a marble-topped counter manned by an ancient wearing an old-fashioned hearing aid with a black wire that disappeared into the front of his alpaca jacket. Boone asked for Miss Sylvia Mae Otherton.

"And who shall I say is calling?" the gaffer asked in sepulchral tones.

The Sergeant showed his ID again, and the white eyebrows slowly rose.

The lobby attendant picked up the house phone and punched a three-digit number with a trembling forefinger. He turned his back to them; all they could hear was murmurs.

Then he turned back to them.

"Miss Otherton would like to know the purpose of your visit."

"Tell her we want to ask a few questions," Boone said. "It won't take long."

More murmurs.

"Miss Otherton says she is not feeling well and wonders if you can come back another time."

"No, we cannot come back another time," Boone said, beginning to steam.

"Ask her if she prefers to see us in her home or should we take her down to the station house and ask the questions there."

The white eyebrows rose even farther. More murmurs.

Then he hung up the phone.

"Miss Otherton will see you now," he said. "Apartment twelve-C." Then, his bleary eyes glistening, he leaned over the counter. "Is it about that doctor who got killed?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

They turned away.

"She was devastated," he called after them. "Just devastated."

"Damned old gossip," the Sergeant said angrily in the elevator. "By tonight everyone in the building will know Otherton had a call from the cops."

"Calm down," Delaney said. "Everyone loves a gruesome murder-especially an unsolved one. They'd like to think the perp will get away with it."

Boone looked at him curiously. "You really believe that, sir?"

"Sure," Delaney said cheerfully. "It feeds their fantasies.

They can dream of knocking off wife, husband, boss, lover, or that pain in the ass next door-and walking away from it scot-free." Boone pushed the buzzer at the door of apartment 12-C.

They waited. And waited. Finally they heard sounds of bolts being withdrawn, and the door opened a few inches, held by a chain still in place.

A muffled voice said, "Let me see your identification."

Obediently, the Sergeant passed his ID wallet through the chink. They waited. Then the door closed, the chain came off, and the door was opened wide.

.Wipe your feet on the mat," the woman said, "before you come in." They obeyed.

The apartment was so dimly lighted-heavy drapes drawn across all the windows-that it was difficult to make out much of anything. Heavy furniture loomed along the walls, and they had a muddled impression of an enormous overstuffed couch and two armchairs placed about a round cocktail table.

Delaney smelled sandalwood incense, and, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw vaguely Oriental wall hangings, a torn shoji used as a room divider.

The woman who faced them, head bowed, wadded tissue clutched in one hand, seemed as outlandish as her overheated apartment. She wore a loose garment of black lace over a lining of deep purple satin. The pointed hem came to her ankles, and her small feet were shod in glittery evening slippers.

She wore a torrent of necklaces: pearls and rhinestones and shells and wooden beads. Some were chokers and some hung to her shapeless waist.

Her plump fingers were equally adorned: rings on every finger, and some with two and three rings. And as if that weren't enough, stacks of bracelets climbed both arms from wrists to elbows.

"Miss Sylvia Mae Otherton?" Sergeant Boone asked.

The bowed head bobbed.

"I wonder if we might take off our coats, ma'am. We won't stay long, but it is warm in here."

"Do what you like," she said dully.

They took off their coats, and, holding them folded, hats; top, took seats on the couch. It was down-filled, and unexictedly they sank until they were almost swaddled.

The only illumination in the room came from a weak, blue-tinted bulb in an omate floor lamp of cast bronze shaped like a striking cobra. In this watery light they strained to see the features of Sylvia Mae Otherton when she folded herself slowly into one of the armchairs opposite them.

They could smell her perfume; it was stronger than the incense.

"Miss Otherton," Boone said gently, "as I suppose you've guessed, this concerns the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee.

We're talking to all his patients as part of our investigation. I know you'll want to help us find the person responsible for Doctor Ellerbee's death."

"He was a saint," she cried. "A saint!"

She raised her head at this last, and they got a clear look at her for the first time.

A fleshy face, now riddled with grief. Chalky makeup, round patches of rouge, and lips so caked with lipstick that they were cracked. Her black hair hung limply, uncombed, and long glass pendants dangled from her ears. Under brows plucked into thin carets her eyes were swollen and brimming.

"Miss Otherton," Boone continued, "it's necessary that we establish the whereabouts of Ellerbee's patients on the night of the crime. Where were you that Friday evening?"

"I was right here," she said. I very, very rarely go out."

"Did you have any visitors that night?"

"No. "Did you see any neighbors-in the lobby or the hallways?"

"No."

"Did you receive any phone calls?"

"No. Boone gave up; Delaney took over.

"How did you spend that evening, Miss Otherton?" he asked. "Read? Watch television?"

"I worked on my autobiography," she said. "Doctor Simon got me started.

He said it would help if I tried to recall everything and write it down."

"And did you then show what you had written to Ellerbee?"

"Yes. And we'd discuss it. He was so sympathetic, so understanding. Oh, what a beautiful man!"

"You saw him twice a week?"

"Usually. Sometimes more when 1-when I had to."

"How long had you been seeing Doctor Ellerbee?"

"Four years. Four years and three months."

"Did you feel he was helping you?"

"Oh, yes! My panic attacks are much less frequent now.

And I don't do those-those things as often. I don't know what's going to happen to me with Doctor Simon gone. His wife-his widow-is trying to find another therapist for me, but it won't be the same.", "What things?" Boone said sharply. "You said you don't do those things as often. What were you referring to?"

She raised her soft chin. "Sometimes when I go out, I hit people."

"Have they done anything to you?"

"No' "Just anyone?" Delaney said. "Someone on the street or in a restaurant?"

"Men with beards," she said in a husky voice, her head slowly bowing again.

"Only men with beards. When I was eleven years old, I was raped by my uncle."

"And he had a beard?"

She raised her head and stared at him defiantly. "No, but it happened in his office, and he had an old engraving of Ulysses Grant on the wall."

It's Looney Tunes time, Delaney thought, and was vaguely ashamed they had dragged that confession from this hapless woman.

"But your assaults on bearded men became less frequent after you started seeing Doctor Ellerbee?"

"Oh, yes! He was the one who made the connection between bearded men and the rape."

"When was the last time you made an attack on a stranger')"

"Oh… months ago."

"How many months?"

"One or two."

"It must have been very painful for you-when Doctor Ellerbee told you the reason for your hostility toward bearded men. "He didn't tell me. He never did that. He just let me discover it for myself."

"But that was painful?"

"Yes," she said in a whisper. "Very. I hated him then, for making me remember."

"Was this a recent discovery?"

"Months ago."

"How many months?"

"One or two," she said again.

"But earlier you called Doctor Simon a saint. So your hatred of him didn't last."

"No. I knew he was trying to help me.

Delaney glanced at the Sergeant. -Miss Otherton," Boone said, "did you know any of Doctor Simon's other patients?"

"No' I rarely saw them, and we never spoke-" Do you know Doctor Diane Ellerbee?"

"I met her twice and spoke to her once on the phone."

"What do you think of her?" Boone asked.

"She's all right, I guess. Awfully skinny. And cold. She doesn't have Doctor Simon's personality. He was a very warm man.

"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm him? Anyone who threatened him?"

"No. Who would want to kill a doctor? He was trying to help everyone."

"Did you ever attack Doctor Simon?"

"Once," she said and sobbed. "I slapped him."

"Why did you do that?"

"I don't remember."

"How did he reactt "He slapped me back, not hard. Then we hugged each other, laughing, and it was all right."

She seemed willing enough to continue talking-eager in fact. But the sandalwood incense, her perfume, and the steamy heat were getting to them.

"Thank you, Miss Otherton," Delaney said, struggling out of the depths of the couch. "You've been very cooperative.

Please try to recall anything about Doctor Simon that might help us.

Perhaps a name he mentioned, or an incident. For instance, do you think his manner or personality changed in, say, the last six months or year?"

"Strange you should ask that," she said. "I thought he was becoming a little quieter, more thoughtful. Not depressed, you understand, but a little subdued. I asked him if anything was worrying him, and he said no."

"You've been very helpful," Boone said. "We may find it necessary to come back and ask you more questions. I hope you won't mind."

"I won't mind," she said forlornly. "I don't have many visitors."

"I'll leave my card," the Sergeant said, "in case you remember something you think might help us."

In the elevator, going down, Delaney said, "Odd. She says he was such a warm guy. That's not the feeling I got from that private office of his."

"I wonder what was bothering him," Boone said. "If anything was."

"The question is," Delaney said, "did she hate him enough to dust him?

She says she hated him after he made her recall the rape. Maybe he dredged up something else out of her past that really set her off."

"You think she's strong enough to bash in his skull?"

"When the adrenaline is flowing, a flyweight could do that, and she's a hefty woman."

"Yeah. That's why I'm going home and shave. I don't want to take any chances!"

That night, after dinner, Delaney told Monica about his day. She listened intently, fascinated.

"Those poor people," she mourned when he had finished.

"Yes. They're not exactly demented, but neither Isaac Kane nor Sylvia Mae has both oars in the water. And there are four more patients I want to meet."

"It depresses you, Edward?"

"It's not exactly a million laughs."

He had started a small fire in the grate and turned off the living room lamps. They sat on the couch, close together, staring into the flames.

Suddenly he put his arm about her shoulders.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "But it's cold out there, and dark."

"It's going to be a mixed-up weekend," he warned Monica on Saturday morning. "I want to brace the other four patients before the new boys report in on Monday morning. And Jason called; he's coming by this afternoon."

"Don't forget to ask Boone and Jason about Thanksgiving dinner."

"I'll remember," he promised.

He went into the study to scribble a rough schedule, consulting the patients' addresses on Dr. Diane Ellerbee's list. He decided to hit Ronald J. Bellsey and L. Vincent Symington on Saturday and Joan Yesell and Harold Gerber on Sunday.

He and Boone would have to return to the brownstone to hear Jason's report, and it was possible some of the patients wouldn't be home. But if all went well, Delaney could spend Sunday evening bringing his files up to date in preparation for briefing the six new detectives.

By the time Boone arrived, Delaney had the weekend organized. Everything but the weather. It was a miserable day, with lowering clouds, sharp gusts of rain, and a mean wind that came out of the northwest, whipping coattails and snatching at hats.

Bellsey lived on East 28th Street. They drove south on Second Avenue, windshield wipers working in fits and starts, and the ancient heater fighting a losing battle against the windchill factor.

"I keep hoping someone will steal this heap," the Sergeant said.

"But I guess even the chop shops don't want it. One of these days I'll hit the lottery and get a decent set of wheels.

By the way, I talked to the dick who checked out Bellsey. The subject claims he was home on the night Ellerbee got snuffed.

His wife confirms. Not much of an alibi."

"Not much," Delaney agreed.

"Did you find out what Bellsey does for a living?"

"Yeah. He's manager of a big wholesale butcher on West Eighteenth Street. They handle high-class meats and poultry, and sell only to restaurants and hotels."

"That reminds me," Delaney said.