The third Deadly Sin

CHAPTER 10

Thursday, June 5th…

"All right," Sergeant Abner Boone said, flipping through his notebook, "here's what we've got."

Standing and sitting around the splintered table in Midtown Precinct North. All of them smoking: cigarettes, cigars, and Lieutenant Crane chewing on a pipe. Emptied cardboard coffee cups on the table. The detritus of gulped sandwiches, containers of chop suey, a pizza box, wrappers and bags of junk food.

Air murky with smoke, barely stirred by the air conditioner. Sweat and disinfectant. No one commented or even noticed. They had all smelled worse odors. And battered rooms like this were home, familiar and comfortable.

"Nicholas Telemachus Pappatizos," Boone started. "Aka Nick Pappy, aka Poppa Nick, aka the Magician. Forty-two. Home address: Las Vegas. A fast man with the cards and dice. A smalltime bentnose. Two convictions: eight months and thirteen months, here and there, for fraud and bunko. He got off twice on attempted rape and felonious assault."

"Good riddance," Detective Bentley said.

"The blood on the bathroom floor was definitely not his. Caucasian female. So it's confirmed; it's a female perp we're looking for."

"How do you figure the fight?" Detective Johnson asked.

"The PM shows sexual intercourse just before death," Boone went on, his voice toneless. "It could have been rape; he wasn't a nice guy. So after it's over, she gets her knife into him and starts cutting him up."

"That's another thing," Sergeant Broderick said. "She's obviously got a new knife. My guys are wasting their time trying to track the one that got broke."

"Right," Boone said. "Drop it; we were too late. We can use your guys on people who knew the convention schedule. We've got nearly two thousand names so far."

"Beautiful," Broderick said, but he wasn't really dismayed. No one was dismayed by the enormity of the search.

"Johnson," Boone said, "anything on the Mace?"

"Getting there," the detective said. "The stuff was sold to a lot of security outfits, armored car fleets, and so forth. Anyone who could prove a legitimate need. We're tracking them down. Every can of it."

"Keep on it. Bentley, what about that waitress from the Hotel Coolidge? The Ashley kill. His scarred hands."

"We check with her mother every day, sarge. She still hasn't called in from the Coast. Now we're tracking down her friends in case anyone knows where she is."

"As long as you're following up… Lieutenant? Anything new?"

"Nothing so far on the possibles. Some have moved, some are out of town, some are dead. I wouldn't say it looks promising."

"How did the decoys miss her at the Adler?" Edward X. Delaney demanded.

"Who the hell knows?" Bentley said angrily. "We had both bars in the place covered. Maybe she brought him in off the street."

"No," Delaney said stonily. "That's not her way. She's no street quiff. She knew there were conventions there. The lobby maybe, or the dining room. But it wasn't on the street."

They were all silent for a moment, trying to figure ways to stop her before she hit again.

"It should be about June twenty-ninth," Boone said, "to July second. In that time period. It's not too early to plan what more we can do. Intelligent suggestions gratefully received."

There were hard barks of laughter and the meeting broke up. Sergeant Boone drew Delaney aside.

"Chief," he said, "got a little time?"

"Sure. As much as you want. What's up?"

"There's a guy waiting in my office. A doctor. Dr. Patrick Ho. How's that for a name-Ho? He's some kind of an Oriental. Japanese, Chinese, Korean, or maybe from Vietnam or Cambodia. Whatever. With a first name like Patrick, there had to be an Irishman in there somewhere-right? Anyway, he's with the Lab Services Section. He's the guy who ran the analysis on the blood from the bathroom floor and said it was Caucasian female."

"And?" Delaney said.

Boone shrugged helplessly. "Beats the hell out of me. He tracked me down to tell me there's something screwy about the blood. But I can't get it straight what he wants. Will you talk to him a minute, Chief? Maybe you can figure it out."

Dr. Patrick Ho was short, plump, bronzed. He looked like a young Buddha with a flattop of reddish hair. When Boone introduced Delaney, he bowed and giggled. His hand was soft. The Chief noted the manicured nails.

"Ah," he said, in a high, flutey voice. "So nice. An honor. Everyone has heard of you, sir."

"Thank you," Delaney said. "Now, what's this about-"

"Your exploits," Dr. Ho went on enthusiastically, his dark eyes shining. "Your deductive ability. I, myself, would like to be a detective. But unfortunately I am only a lowly scientist, condemned to-"

"Let's sit down," Delaney said. "For a minute," he added hopefully.

They pulled chairs up to Boone's littered desk. The sergeant passed around cigarettes. The little doctor leaped to his feet with a gold Dunhill lighter at the ready. He closed the lighter after holding it for Boone and Delaney, then flicked it again for his own cigarette.

"Ah," he giggled, "never three on a light. Am I correct?"

He sat down again and looked at them, back and forth, beaming.

He was a jolly sight. A face like a peach with ruby-red lips. Tiny ears hugged his skull. Those dark eyes bulged slightly, and he had the smallest teeth Delaney had ever seen. A child's teeth: perfect miniatures.

His gestures were a ballet, graceful and flowing. His expression was never in repose, but he smiled, frowned, grimaced, pursed those full lips, pouted, made little moues. He was, Delaney decided, a very scrutable Oriental.

"Dr. Ho," the Chief said, "about the blood… There's no doubt it's from a Caucasian female?"

"No doubt!" the doctor cried. "No doubt whatsoever!"

"Then what…?"

Dr. Ho leaned forward, looking at them in a conspiratorial manner. He held one pudgy forefinger aloft.

"That blood," he said in almost a whisper, "has a very high potassium count."

Delaney and Boone looked at each other. "Uh, doctor," the sergeant said, "what does that mean? I mean, what's the significance?"

Dr. Ho leaned back, crossed his little legs daintily. He stared at the ceiling.

"Ah, at the moment," he said dreamily, "it has no significance. It means only what I said: a high potassium count. But I must tell you I feel, I know, it has a significance, if only we knew what it was. Normal blood does not have such a high potassium level."

Edward X. Delaney was getting interested. He hitched his chair closer to Dr. Patrick Ho, got a whiff of the man's flowery cologne, and leaned hastily back.

"You're saying the potassium content of that blood is abnormal?"

"Ah, yes!" the doctor said, grinning, nodding madly. "Precisely. Abnormal."

"And what could cause the abnormality?"

"Oh, many things. Many, many things."

Again, Delaney and Boone glanced at each other. The sergeant's shoulders rose slightly in a small shrug.

"Well, doctor," Boone said, sighing, "I don't see how that's going to help our investigation."

Dr. Patrick Ho frowned, then showed his little teeth, then pouted. Then he leaned forward, began to speak rapidly.

"Ah, I have said I wish to be a detective. I am but a lowly scientist-let me speak the truth: I am but a lowly technician; nothing more-but in a way, I am a detective. I detect what can be learned from a drop of blood, a chip of paint, a piece of glass, a hair. And about this high-potassium blood, I have a suspicion. No, I have a-a-what is the word?"

"A hunch?" Delaney offered.

The doctor laughed with delight. "What a word! A hunch! Exactly. Something is wrong with this blood. The high potassium should not be there. So I would like to make a much more thorough analysis of this puzzling blood."

"So?" Sergeant Boone said. "Why don't you?"

Dr. Ho sighed deeply. His face collapsed into such a woebegone expression that he seemed close to tears. This time he held up two fingers. He gripped one by the tip. He talked around his shortened cigarette, tilting his head to keep the smoke out of his eyes.

"One," he said, "we are, of course, very busy. A certain amount of time must be allotted to each task. I have, at this moment, many things assigned to me. All must be accomplished. I would like to be relieved-temporarily, of course," he added hastily- "of everything but the detection of this strange blood. Second," he said, folding down one finger, switching his grip to the other, "second, I must tell you in all honesty that we do not have the equipment in our laboratory necessary for the subtle blood analysis I wish to make."

"And where is this equipment available?" Delaney asked.

"The Medical Examiner has it," Dr. Ho said sorrowfully.

"So?" Boone said again. "Ask them to do the analysis."

That expressive face twisted. "Ah," the doctor said in an anguished voice, "but then it is out of my hands. You understand?"

Delaney looked at him intently. This little man was trying to score points, to further his career. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, in the right circumstances, it might be admirable. But he also might be wasting everyone's time.

"Let me get this straight," the Chief said. "What you'd like is to be temporarily relieved of all your other duties and assigned only to the analysis of the blood found on the bathroom floor at the Hotel Adler. And then you'd like to use the machines or whatever in the Medical Examiner's office to make that analysis. Have I got it right?"

Dr. Ho slapped his plump thigh. His eyes glowed with happiness… briefly.

"Exactly," he said. "Precisely." Then his face fell; the glee disappeared. "But you must understand that between my section and the Medical Examiner's office there is, ah, I would not say bad feeling, oh no, but there is, ah… what shall I say? Competition! Yes, there is competition. Professional jealousy perhaps. A certain amount of secrecy involved. You understand?" he pleaded.

Indeed, Edward X. Delaney did understand. It was nothing new and nothing unusual. Since when was there perfect, wholehearted cooperation between the branches of any large organization, even if their aims were identical?

The FBI vs. local cops. The army vs. the air force. The navy vs. the Marines. The Senate vs. the House of Representatives. The federal government vs. the states. Infighting was a way of life, and it wasn't all bad. Competing jealousies were a good counter for smug indolence.

"All right," the Chief said, "you want us to get you assigned full time to this analysis and you want us to get the ME's office to cooperate. Correct?"

Dr. Patrick Ho bent forward from the waist, put a soft hand on Delaney's arm.

"You are a very sympathetic man," he said gratefully.

The Chief, who hated to be touched by strangers, or even by friends, jerked his arm away. He rose swiftly to his feet.

"We'll let you know, doctor. As soon as possible."

There was a round of half-bows and handshaking. They watched Dr. Ho dance from the room.

"A whacko," Sergeant Boone said.

"Mmm," Delaney said.

They slumped back in their chairs. They stared at each other.

"What do you think, Chief?"

"A long shot."

"I think it's a lot of bullshit," Boone said angrily. "Thorsen is the only man who could give Ho what he wants, and he'd have to pull a lot of strings and crack a lot of skulls to do it. I just don't have the juice."

"I understand that."

"But if I go to Thorsen with that cockamamie story of potassium in the blood, he'll think I'm some kind of a nut."

"That's true," Delaney said sympathetically. "On the other hand, if you turn him down cold, that crazy doctor is liable to go over your head. Then, if he gets action and it turns out to be something, your name is mud."

"Yeah," the sergeant said miserably, "I know."

"It may be nothing, but I think you should move on it."

"That's easy-" Boone started to say, then shut his mouth so abruptly that his teeth clicked. The Chief looked at him steadily.

"I know what you're thinking, sergeant-that I've got nothing to lose, but you have. I understand all that. But I don't think you can afford to do nothing. Look, suppose we do this… I'll call Thorsen and tell him the doctor came to see me, but you sat in on the meet. I'll recommend he gets Dr. Ho what he wants and I'll tell him you'll go along. That way the blame is on me if it turns sour. I couldn't care less. If it turns out to be something, you'll be on record as having been on it from the start."

Abner Boone thought it over.

"Yeah," he said finally. "Let's do it that way. Thanks, Chief."

Delaney tried to call Thorsen from Boone's office, but the Deputy Commissioner was in a meeting. The Chief said he'd try him later from home.

He waved so-long to the sergeant and walked home slowly through Central Park. It was a hot, steamy day, but he didn't take off his hat or doff his jacket. He rarely complained about the weather. He was constantly amazed at people who never seemed to learn that in the summer it was hot and in the winter it was cold.

As usual, Monica was out somewhere. He went upstairs to take off jacket, vest, and tie. Then he peeled off his sodden shirt and undershirt and wiped his torso cool with a soaked washcloth. He pulled on a knitted polo shirt of Sea Island cotton.

He inspected the contents of the refrigerator. On the previous night, they had had veal cutlets dredged in seasoned flour (with paprika) and then sauteed in butter with onion flakes and garlic chips. There was enough cold veal left over to make a decent sandwich.

He used white bread spread thinly with Russian dressing. He added slices of red onion and a light dusting of freshly ground pepper. He carried the sandwich and a cold can of Ballantine Ale into the study.

While he ate and drank, he searched through his home medical encyclopedia and found the section on potassium. All it said was that potassium was a chemical element present in the human body, usually in combination with sodium salts.

The section on blood was longer and more detailed. Among other things, it said that the red fluid was a very complex substance, and plasma (the liquid part of the blood) carried organic and inorganic elements that had to be transported from one part of the body to another.

The blood also carried gases and secretions from the endocrine glands (hormones) as well as enzymes, proteins, etc. Serious imbalance in blood chemistry, the encyclopedia said, was usually indicative of physiological malfunction.

He put the book aside and finished his sandwich and beer. He called Thorsen again, and this time he got through. He told the Deputy Commissioner about the visit of Dr. Patrick Ho, from the Lab Services Section.

He made it sound like the doctor had come to see him, and that Sergeant Boone was present at the meeting. He explained what it was Dr. Ho wanted and urged that they cooperate. He said Sergeant Boone agreed. Ivar Thorsen was dubious.

"Pretty thin stuff, Edward," he said. "As I understand it, he hasn't got a clue as to why there's so much potassium in the blood or what it means."

"That's correct. That's what he wants to find out."

"Well, suppose he does find out, and the killer is popping potassium pills for some medical reason-how does that help us? My God, Edward, maybe the Hotel Ripper is a banana freak. She wolfs down bananas like mad. That would account for the potassium. So what? Are we going to arrest every woman in New York who eats bananas?"

"Ivar, I think we ought to give this guy a chance. It may turn up zilch. Granted. But we haven't got so goddamned much that we can afford to ignore anything."

"You really think it might amount to something?"

"We'll never know until we try, will we?"

Thorsen groaned. "Well… all right. The Lab Services Unit will be no problem. I can get this Ho assigned to us on temporary duty. The Medical Examiner's office is something else again. I don't swing much clout there, but I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Ivar."

"Edward," Thorsen said, almost pleading, "are we going to get her?"

Delaney was astounded. "Of course," he said.

Newspapermen and television commentators reported no progress was being made in the investigation, search for ripper stalled, one headline announced. The public seemed to take a ghoulish pleasure in reading how many summer conventions, hotel reservations, and tours had been canceled.

The Mayor's office took the flak from the business community and passed it along to the Police Commissioner. The PC, in turn, leaned on Deputy Commissioner Thorsen. And he, being a decent man, refused to scream at the men in his command, knowing they were doing everything that could be done, and working their asses off.

"But give me something," he begged. "Anything! A bone we can throw to the media."

Actually, progress was being made, but it was slow, tedious, foot-flattening labor, and didn't yield the kind of results that make headlines. The list of women who had access to the convention schedule was growing, and Detective Aaron Johnson's men were checking out every can of Chemical Mace and other tear gas delivered to the New York area.

Dr. Patrick Ho had been given what he wanted, and three days later he reported back to Sergeant Boone and Delaney. He was flushed and breathless.

"Ah, it is looking good," he said in his musical voice. "Very, very good."

"What?" Boone demanded. "What did you find out?"

"Listen to this," Ho said triumphantly. "In addition to the high potassium content, the sodium, chloride, and bicarbonate levels are very low. Isn't that wonderful!"

Boone made a sound of disgust.

"What does that mean, doctor?" Delaney asked.

"Ah, it is much too early to say," Dr. Ho said judiciously. "Bud definite abnormalities exist. Also, we have isolated two substances we cannot identify. Is that not exciting?"

"Maybe it would be," the sergeant said, "if you knew what they were."

"Where do you go from here?" the Chief asked.

"There are, in this marvelous city, two excellent hospitals with splendid hematology departments. They have beautiful hardware. I shall take our slides and samples to these hospitals, and they will tell me what these unidentified substances are."

"Listen," Sergeant Boone said hoarsely, "are we going to have to pay for this?"

"Oh no," Dr. Patrick Ho said, shocked. "It is their civic duty. I shall convince them."

Delaney looked at the little man with admiration.

"You know, doctor," he said, "I think you will."

Later, Boone said, "We're getting scammed. The guy's a loser."

On June 16th, Detective Daniel Bentley arrived late for the morning meeting at Mid town Precinct North. He came striding into the room, glowing.

"Bingo!" he shouted. "We got something."

"Oh Lord," Ivar Thorsen intoned, "let it be something good."

"Twice a day," Bentley said, "we been checking with the mother of that cocktail waitress who worked the New Orleans Room at the Hotel Coolidge the night Jerome Ashley got washed. The girl went out to the Coast and she hasn't called her mother yet. So we started checking out her pals. We found a boyfriend who's on probation after doing eighteen months for B-and-E. So we could lean on him-right? He gets a call last night from this chick…" Here Bentley consulted his notebook. "Her name is Anne Rogovich. Anyway, she calls her old boyfriend, they talk, and she gives him her number out there. Then he calls us like he's been told. I called the girl an hour ago. It's early in the morning on the Coast and I woke her up-but what the hell."

"Get to it," Boone said.

"Yeah, she worked the New Orleans Room the night Ashley was offed. Yeah, she remembers serving a guy with badly scarred hands. She says he was sitting with a woman. Not much of a physical description: tall, slender, darkish, heavy on the makeup. Strawberry blond wig. But she remembers the clothes better. Very flashy. A green silk dress, skimpy as a slip. Skinny shoulder straps. This Anne Rogovich remembers because she really dug that dress and wondered what it cost. Also, the woman with Ashley was wearing a bracelet. Gold links. With big gold letters that spelled out why not?"

"why not?" Boone said. "Beautiful. The dress she can change, but that bracelet might be something. Broderick, how about your guys checking itout? Who makes it and who sells it. Trace it to the -stores. Maybe it was bought on a charge; you never can tell." '"Yeah," Broderick said, "we'll get on it."

"Did she remember anything else?" the sergeant asked.

"That's all I could get out of her," Bentley reported. "But she was half-asleep. I'll try her again later today."

"Good, good, good," the Deputy Commissioner said, rubbing his palms together. "Can this Anne Rogovich make the woman with Ashley if she sees her again?"

"She says no," Bentley said. "The clothes, yes; the woman, no."

"Still," Thorsen said happily, "it's something. The media will have a field day with that bracelet, why not? That should keep them off our backs for a while."

"Deputy," Edward X. Delaney said, "could I see you outside for a minute? Alone?"

"Sure, Edward," Thorsen said genially. "We're all finished in here, aren't we?"

Delaney closed the door of Sergeant Boone's office. Thorsen took the swivel chair behind the desk. Delaney remained standing. Slowly, methodically, he bit the tip off a cigar, threw it into the wastebasket. Then he twirled the cigar in his lips, lighted it carefully, puffed.

He stood braced, feet spread. His hands were clasped behind him, cigar clenched in his teeth. He looked at Thorsen critically through the smoke.

"Ivar," he said coldly, "you're a goddamned idiot."

Thorsen rose from his chair slowly, his face white. Chilled eyes stared directly at Delaney. He leaned forward until his knuckles were pressing the desktop. The Admiral's body was hunched, rigid.

"You're going to release it all, aren't you?" Delaney went on.

"The physical description, the clothes, the bracelet… You're going to go public."

"That's right," the Deputy Commissioner said tightly. "Then I'll tell you exactly what's going to happen. As soon as this woman reads it in the papers, the next time she goes out to kill she's going to change the color of her wig or leave it off completely. She's going to dress like a schoolmarm or a librarian. And she's going to drop that bracelet down the nearest sewer."

"We'll have to take that chance," Thorsen said tonelessly.

"Goddamnit!" Delaney exploded. "You release that stuff, and we're back to square one. Who the hell are the decoys going to look for? Without the wig and flashy clothes and bracelet, she'll look like a million other women. You're making the same stupid mistake Slavin did-talking too much."

"My responsibility is to alert possible victims," Thorsen said. "To circulate as complete a description as possible so people know who to look for. My first job is to protect the public."

"Bullshit!" Delaney said disgustedly. "Your first job is to protect the NYPD. The money men and the media are dumping all over you, so you figure to toss them a bone to prove the Department is on the job and making progress. So for the sake of your fucking public relations, you're going to jeopardize the whole goddamned investigation."

They glared at each other, eyes locked, both pressing forward aggressively. Their friendship would survive this, they knew. Their friendship wasn't at issue. It was their wills that were in conflict-and not for the first time.

Ivar Thorsen sat down again, as slowly as he had stood up. He sat on the edge of the chair. His thin fingers drummed silently on the desk. He never took his eyes from Delaney's.

"All right," he said, "there's some truth in what you say. Some truth. But you're getting your ass in an uproar because you can't or won't see the value of good public relations. I happen to believe the public's perception of the Department-the image, if that's what you want to call it-is just as important as the Department's performance. We could be the greatest hotshot cops in the world, and what the hell good would that do if we were perceived as a bunch of nincompoops, Keystone Kops jumping in the air and chasing dogs? I'm not saying the image is primary; it's not. Performance comes first, and is the foundation of the image. You want more cops on the street, don't you? You want better pay, better training, better equipment? How the hell do you expect us to ask for those things if the politicians and the public see us as a disorganized mob of hopeless bunglers?"

"I'm just saying that for the sake of keeping the press off your neck for a few days, you're making it a lot tougher to break this thing."

"Maybe," Thorsen said. "And what do you think would happen if we tried to keep this Anne Rogovich under wraps and the papers got onto it somehow? How would I explain why the public wasn't alerted to what the killer looks like and what she wears? They'd crucify us!"

"Look," Delaney said, "we can go around and around on this. We have different priorities, that's all."

"The hell we do," the Admiral said. "I want to put her down as much as you do. More. But it's an ego thing with you. Isn't that right-isn't it an ego thing?"

Delaney was silent.

"You've got tunnel vision on this case, Edward. All you can see is stopping a killer. Fine. You're a cop; that's all you're supposed to be thinking about. But there are other, uh, considerations that I've got to be aware of. And the Department's reputation is one of them. You're involved in the present. I am, too. But I've also got to think about the future."

"I still say you're fucking up the investigation," Delaney said stubbornly.

Ivar Thorsen sighed. "I don't think so. Possibly making it more difficult, but I think the benefits outweigh the risks. I may be wrong, I admit, but that's my best judgment. And that's the way it's going to be."

They were silent, still staring at each other. Finally Thorsen spoke softly…

"By the way, I happen to know we'd never have gotten onto this Anne Rogovich if you hadn't sent Bentley's men back to question if anyone remembered a man with scarred hands. That was good work."

The Chief grunted.

"Edward," the Deputy said, "you want off?"

"No," Delaney said, "I don't want off."

"What is it?" Monica said. "You've been a pain in the ass all night."

"Have I?" he said morosely. "I guess I have."

They were in their beds, both sitting up, both trying to read. The overhead light was on, and the bedside lamp. The window air conditioner was humming, and would until they agreed it was time to sleep. Then it would be turned off and the other window opened wide.

Now Monica had pushed her glasses atop her head. She had closed her book, a forefinger inserted to mark her place. She had turned toward her husband. Her words might have been challenging, but her tone was troubled and solicitous.

He told her about his run-in with Ivar Thorsen, repeating the conversation as accurately as he could. She listened in silence. When he finished, and asked, "What do you think?," she was quiet a moment longer. Then:

"You really think that's what she'll do? I mean, leave off the wig and bracelet and dress plainly?"

"Monica," he said, "this is not a stupid woman. She's no bimbo peddling her ass or a spaced-out whacko with a nose full of shit. Everything so far points to careful planning, smart reactions to unforeseen happenings, and very, very cool determination. She's going to read that description in the papers-or hear it on TV- and she's going to realize we're on to her disguise. Then she'll go in the opposite direction."

"How can you be sure it is a disguise? Maybe she dresses that way ordinarily."

"No, no. She was trying to change her appearance; I'm sure of it. First of all, a woman of her intelligence wouldn't ordinarily dress that way. Also, she knew the chances were good that someone would see her with one of the victims and remember her. So she'd want to look as different as possible from the way she does in everyday life."

"What you're saying is that in everyday life she looks like a schoolmarm or librarian-like you told Ivar?"

"Well… I'd guess she's a very ordinary looking lady. Dresses conventionally. Acts in a very conservative manner. Maybe even a dull woman. That's the way I see her. Mousy. Until she breaks out and kills."

"You make her sound schizophrenic."

"Oh no. I don't think she's that. No, she knows who she is. She can function in society and not make waves. But she's a psychopath. A walking, functioning psychopath."

"Thank you, doctor. And why does she kill?"

"Who the hell knows?" he said crossly. "She has her reasons. Maybe they wouldn't make sense to anyone else, but they make sense to her. It's a completely different kind of logic. Oh yes, crazies have a logic all their own. And it does make sense-if you accept their original premises. For instance, if you really and truly believe that the earth is flat, then it makes sense not to travel too far or you might fall off the edge. The premise is nutty, but the reasoning that follows from it is logical."

"I'd really like to know her," Monica said slowly. "I mean, talk to her. I'd like to know what's going through her mind."

"Her mind?" Delaney said. "I don't think you'd like it in there. Listen, when I was having that go-around with Ivar, he said something that bothers me. That's why I've been so grouchy all night. He said, 'It's an ego thing with you.'"

"What did he mean by that?"

"I think he was saying that this case has become a personal thing with me. That I'm out to prove that I'm smarter than the Hotel Ripper. That I can plan better, react faster, outthink her. That I'm superior to her."

"You mean you don't want a woman to get the better of you?"

"Come on! Don't get your feminist balls in an uproar. No, Ivar just meant that I see this thing as a personal challenge."

"And is he right?"

"Oh shit," he said roughly. "Who the hell has a coherent philosophy or a beautifully organized chart of beliefs that doesn't get daily scratching-outs and additions? Maybe the ego thing is part of it, but it's not all of it. There are other things."

"Like what?"

"Like the simple, basic belief that killing is wrong. Like the belief that the law, with all its stupidities and fuck-ups, is still the best we've been able to devise after all these thousands of years, and any assault on the law should be punished. And also, homicide isn't only an assault on the law, it's an attack against humanity."

"That I don't follow."

"All right, then murder is a crime against life. Does that make more sense?"

"You mean all life? Cows? And the birds and the bees and the flowers?"

"You should have been a Jesuit," he said, smiling. "But you know what I mean. I'm just saying that human life should not be taken lightly. Maybe there are more important things, but life itself is important enough so that anyone who destroys it for selfish motives should be punished."

"And you think this woman, this Hotel Ripper, has selfish motives?"

"All killers have selfish motives. Even those who say they were just obeying the command of God. When you get right down to it, they're just doing it because it makes them feel good."

She was incredulous. "You think this woman is killing because it makes her feel good?"

"Sure," he said cheerfully. "No doubt about it."

"That's awful."

"Is it? We all act from self-interest, don't we?"

"Edward, you don't really believe that, do you?"

"Of course I do. And what's so awful about it? The only problem is that most people spend their lives trying to figure out where their best interest lies, and nine times out of ten they're wrong."

"But I suppose you know where your best interest lies?"

"That's easy. In your bed."

"Pig."

About an hour later he turned off the air conditioner.

Delaney had no sooner settled down in the study to read his morning Times when the phone rang. The caller was Sergeant Abner Boone.

"Good morning, Chief."

"Morning, sergeant."

"Sorry to bother you so early, sir, but I was wondering if you were planning to drop by the precinct today."

"I wasn't, no. Should I?"

"Well, ah, I'm going to ask a favor."

"Sure. What gives?"

"I got a call from that Dr. Patrick Ho. He's got the hospital reports on the blood analysis and wants to come over to talk to me. He told me a little about it on the phone, and, Chief, I can't make any sense out of it at all. I'm up to my ass in paperwork and I was wondering if you'd be willing to talk to Dr. Ho at your place. Keep him out of my hair."

Delaney reflected that Boone was beginning to show the pressure. He was becoming increasingly dour and snappish. He should be pushing Dr. Ho for results, not trying to weasel out of talking to the man.

"You don't like him much, do you, sergeant?" he said. "No, sir, I don't," Boone said. "He smells like a fruitcake and he treats this whole thing like some kind of scientific riddle. I still think he's just trying to make points and wasting our time in the process."

"Could be," Delaney said, thinking that maybe Boone simply wanted to disassociate himself from a loser. "Will you deal with him, sir?"

"Sure," the Chief said genially. "Give him my address. I'll be in all morning."

Dr. Patrick Ho arrived about an hour later and made an immediate hit with Monica. She was in the kitchen, preparing a salad, and the doctor insisted on showing her how to make radish rosettes and how to slice a celery stalk so it resembled an exotic bloom.

Delaney finally got him into the study and provided him with a cup of tea. He then sat in his swivel chair, benignly watching Dr. Ho flip through a stack of papers he pulled from a battered briefcase.

"So?" the Chief said. "How did you make out with the hospitals?"

"Ah, splendid," the beaming little man said. "They were very cooperative when I explained why their aid was absolutely vital. And it was something to tell their families and friends-no? That they worked on the Hotel Ripper case."

"And were you able to identify the two unknown substances in the killer's blood?"

"Ah, yes. Where is it? Ah, here it is. Yes, yes. High potassium, low sodium, chloride, and bicarbonate, as we already knew. The two previously unidentified substances were high levels of ACTH and MSH."

He looked up at Delaney, delighted but modest, as if expecting a round of applause.

"ACTH and MSH?" the Chief asked.

"Exactly. Abnormally high levels."

"Doctor," Delaney said with great patience, "what are ACTH and MSH?"

"Pituitary hormones," Dr. Ho said happily. "They would not be present at such levels in normal blood. And something I find very, very interesting is that MSH is a melanocyte-stimulating hormone. I would be willing to venture the opinion that the woman whose blood this is has noticeable skin discolorations. A darkening, like a very heavy suntan, but perhaps grayish or dirty-looking."

"All over her body?"

"Oh no. I doubt that. But in exposed portions of the skin. Face, neck, hands, and so forth. Possibly on the elbows and nipples. Points of friction or pressure."

"Interesting," Delaney said, "what you can deduce from a blood analysis. Tell me, doctor, is it possible to identify an individual from an analysis of the blood? Like fingerprints?"

"Oh no," Dr. Ho said. "No, no, no. Perhaps, someday, genetic code, but not the blood. You see, this liquid is affected by what we eat, what we drink, drugs that may be ingested, and so forth. The chemical composition of the blood is constantly changing, weekly, daily, almost minute to minute. So as a means of positive identification, I fear it would be without value. However, a complete blood profile can be a marvelous clue to the physical condition of the donor. And that is what we now have: a complete blood profile."

"Those hormones you mentioned-what were they?"

"ACTH and MSH."

"Yes. You said they were present in abnormally high levels in the killer's blood?"

"That is correct."

"Well, why is that? I mean, what would cause those high levels?"

"Illness," the doctor said with delight. "I would say that almost certainly the woman who owned this blood is suffering from some disease. Or at least some serious physiological malfunction. Chief Delaney, this is very odd blood. Very peculiar indeed."

"Would you care to make a guess as to what the illness might be?"

"Ah, no," Dr. Patrick Ho confessed, frowning sorrowfully. "That is beyond my experience and training. Also, the hematologists I consulted were unable to hazard a guess as to the illness, disease, or perhaps genetic fault that might be producing this curious blood."

"Well…" Delaney said, rocking back in his chair, lacing fingers across his stomach, "then I guess we're stymied, aren't we? End of the road."

Dr. Ho was horrified. His dark eyes widened, rosy lips pouted, plump hands fluttered in the air.

"Ah, no!" he protested. "No, no, no! I have obtained the names of the three best diagnosticians in New York. I will take our blood profile to these doctors and they will tell me what the illness is."

Delaney laughed. "You never give up, do you?"

Dr. Patrick Ho sobered. He looked at the Chief with eyes suddenly shrewd and piercing.

"No," he said, "I never give up. Do you?"

"No," Delaney said and stood to shake hands.

On the way out, Dr. Ho stopped at the kitchen and showed Monica how to slice raw carrots into attractive curls.

On June 25th, at the morning meeting of the Hotel Ripper task force in Midtown Precinct North, certain personnel changes were decided on.

Lieutenant Wilson T. Crane's squad was reduced to a minimum and most of his men assigned to the task of compiling and organizing the list of women who might have had access to the convention schedule. Lieutenant Crane was put in command of this group.

Detective Daniel Bentley's squad was also reduced, the men being switched to Detective Aaron Johnson's small army who were attempting to track down purchases of Chemical Mace and other tear gases in the New York area.

Detective Bentley was assigned to work with a police artist on sketches prepared from the scant description furnished by cocktail waitress Anne Rogovich.

Sergeant Thomas K. Broderick was given additional men to expedite the questioning of clerks in department stores and jewelry shops where the why not? bracelet was sold.

Everyone recognized that all these personnel shifts were merely paper changes and represented no significant breakthroughs. Still, progress was being made, and it was estimated that within a week, questioning of individual women on the convention schedule access list could begin.

And Detective Johnson reported that at the same time his men could start personal visits to the purchasers of tear gas. Every container, gun, and generator would be physically examined by Johnson's crew-or an explanation demanded for its absence.

It was decided that everyone in the task force-deskmen and street cops alike-would be on duty during the nights of June 29th through July 2nd. Midtown Manhattan would be flooded with uniformed and plainclothes officers from 8:00 p.m., to 2:00 A.M.

In addition, squad cars and unmarked vehicles would continually tour the streets of this section, and some would be parked in front of the larger hotels that were hosting conventions. The Crime Scene Unit was alerted and a command post established once again in Midtown Precinct South.

A larger number of policewomen in mufti were added to the stakeout crews in hotel bars and cocktail lounges. The reasoning here was that the women might be better able to spot suspicious behavior in another female.

It was debated whether or not an appeal should be issued asking the public to avoid the midtown area on the nights in question. It was decided the warning would be counterproductive.

"We'd have whackos flocking in from Boston to Philly," was the consensus.

When the meeting broke up, Delaney and Sergeant Boone walked out into the corridor to find a beaming Dr. Patrick Ho awaiting them. The sergeant gave the Chief a look of anguished entreaty.

"Please," he begged in a low voice, "you take him. Use my office." He hurried away.

After an exchange of polite pleasantries, during which the doctor inquired after the health of the Chief's wife, the two men went into Boone's office. Delaney closed the door to muffle the loud talk, laughter, and shouts in the hallway.

He took the swivel chair. Dr. Ho sat in a battered wooden armchair and crossed his short legs delicately, smoothing his trouser crease to avoid wrinkles.

"Well…" Delaney said, "I hope you have some good news to report."

"Ah, regrettably no," Dr. Ho said sadly, making his face into a theatrical mask of sorrow.

Then Delaney wondered if Boone might be right. Perhaps this busy little man was jerking them around and wanted nothing but a vacation from his regular job.

"You saw the diagnosticians?" he asked, more sharply than he had intended.

"I did indeed," the doctor said, nodding vigorously. "These are very big, important men, and they were exceedingly kind to lend their assistance."

"But no soap, eh?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"They couldn't say what the illness was?"

"Ah, no, they could not. All three agreed it is a most unusual blood profile, completely unique in their experience. Two of them refused to venture any opinion, or even a guess. They said that in the absence of an actual physical examination, they would require much more documentation: X rays, tissue samples, urinalysis, electrocardiograms, scans, sputum and feces tests, and so forth. The third man also would not offer an opinion solely on the basis of the blood profile. However, he suggested a hyperactive pituitary might be involved, but beyond that he would not go."

"Uh-huh," Delaney said. "Well, I can't really blame them. We didn't give them a whole hell of a lot to go on. So that's it? We've taken it as far as we can go?"

"Oh no!" Dr. Patrick Ho said. "No, no, no! I have more, ah, arrows in my quiver."

"I thought you might," the Chief said. "What now?"

Dr. Ho leaned forward, serious and intent.

"There are, in this marvelous country, several diagnostic computers. A fine one at the University of Pittsburgh, another at Stanford Medical, one at the National Library of Medicine, and so forth. Now these computers have stored in their memory banks many thousand symptoms and manifestations of disease. When a series of such manifestations is given to the machine, it is able, sometimes, to make a diagnosis, name the disease, and prescribe treatment."

Delaney sat upright.

"My God," he said, "I had no idea such computers existed. That's wonderful!"

"Ah, yes," the doctor said, gratified by the Chief's reaction, "I think so, too. If insufficient input is fed to the computers, they cannot always make a firm diagnosis, of course. But in such cases they can sometimes furnish several possibilities."

"And you want to send your blood profile to the computers?"

"Precisely," Dr. Ho said, blinking happily. "I would also include the sex of the subject and what physical description we have. I have prepared long telegrams telling the authorities the nature of the emergency and requesting computer time for a diagnosis."

"I don't see why not," Delaney said slowly. "Having started this, we might as well see it through."

"Ah, there is one small problem," the doctor said, almost shyly. "These telegrams will be costly. I would like official authorization."

"Sure," Delaney said, shrugging. "In for a penny, in for a pound. Send them from this phone right here. If you get any flak, say they were authorized by Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen. I'll square it with him."

"Ah, thank you very much, sir. You are most understanding, and I am in your debt."

Dr. Ho rummaged through his scruffy briefcase and brought out several sheets of paper. Delaney let him have the swivel chair and the doctor prepared to phone.

"Tell me, Dr. Ho," the Chief said, "just as a matter of curiosity… If the computers don't come up with a diagnosis, what will you do then?"

"Oh," the little man said cheerfully, "I'll think of something."

Delaney stared at him.

"I'll bet you will," he said.

On July 1st, a Tuesday, at 10:14 a.m., a call was received at 911 reporting a violent death at the Tribunal Motor Inn on 49th Street west of Tenth Avenue. The caller identified himself as the Tribunal's chief of security.

The alert was forwarded to Midtown North. The precinct duty sergeant dispatched a foot patrolman in the vicinity via radio, two uniformed officers in a squad car, and two plainclothesmen in an unmarked car.

He also informed commanders of the Hotel Ripper task force who were, at the time, holding their morning meeting upstairs in the precinct house. Sergeant Abner Boone sent Detectives Bentley and Johnson to check it out.

While they were waiting for the Yes or No call, the others sat in silence, smoking, sipping stale coffee from soggy cardboard containers. Edward X. Delaney rose to locate the Tribunal on a precinct map Scotch-taped to the wall. Deputy Commissioner Thorsen joined him.

"What do you think, Edward?" he asked in a low voice.

"Not exactly midtown," the Chief replied, "but close enough."

They sat down again and waited. No one spoke. They could hear the noises of a busy precinct coming from the lower floors. They could even hear the bubbling sound as Lieutenant Crane blew through his pipe stem to clear it.

When the phone rang, all the men in the room jerked convulsively. They watched Boone pick it up in a hard grip, his knuckles white.

"Sergeant Boone," he said throatily.

He listened a moment. He hung up the phone. He turned a tight face to the others.

"Let's go," he said.

They went with a rush, chairs clattering over, men pouring from offices, feet pounding down the stairs.

"What's the goddamn hurry?" Sergeant Broderick said in a surly voice. "She's long gone."

Then engines starting up, blare of horns, the wail of sirens. Delaney rode in Deputy Thorsen's car, the uniformed driver swinging wildly onto Eighth Avenue, west on 55th Street to Ninth Avenue, south to 49th Street.

"She fucked us again," the Admiral said wrathfully, and the Chief mused idly on how rarely Thorsen used language like that.

By the time they pulled up with a squeal of brakes in front of j the Tribunal, the street was already choked with police vehicles, vans, an ambulance. A crowd was growing, pushed back by precinct cops until barricades could be erected.

The hotel was already cordoned: no one in or out without showing identification. Motor inn staff, residents, and visitors were being lined up in the lobby for questioning. A uniformed officer guarding the elevator bank sent them up to the fifth floor.

There was a mob in the corridor, most of them clustered about Room 508. Sergeant Boone stood in the doorway, his face stony.

"It was her all right," he said, his voice empty. "Throat slashed, stab wounds in the nuts. The clunk was Chester LaBranche, twenty-four, from Barre, Vermont. He was here for some kind of a college convention."

"A convention again," Thorsen said bitterly. "And twenty-four. A kid!"

"Did we have any decoys in the place?" Delaney asked.

"No," Boone said shortly. "The place is small and this neighborhood isn't exactly Times Square, so we didn't cover it."

The Deputy Commissioner started to say something, then shut his mouth.

Tommy Callahan came to the doorway.

"Naked," he reported. "Half-on and half-off the bed. No signs of a struggle. Looks like the early kills when she came up behind them. All the blood appears to be his. We'll scrape the bathroom drains, but it doesn't look good."

Lou Gorki shouldered him out of the way. The Crime Scene Unit man was holding a wineglass by two fingers spread wide inside. There was a half-inch of amber liquid at the bottom. The outside of the glass was whitened with powder.

"It's wine all right," Gorki said. "I dipped a finger. Chablis. Vintage of yesterday. But the kicker is that there's also a half-empty bottle of beer and a glass. No guy is going to drink beer and wine at the same time. Good prints on both. I figure this wineglass was hers."

"Check it out," Boone said.

"Sure," Gorki said. "We'll take everything downtown for the transfers. At least now we got a make if we ever pull someone in on this thing."

"Sarge," Detective Johnson said from behind them, "I think maybe we lucked onto something. I got a waiter upstairs who says he might have seen her."

They trooped after him to a staircase at the end of the corridor, closed off with a red Exit sign above the door.

"This guy's name is Tony Pizzi," Johnson said as they climbed the concrete stairs. "He's on the day shift today, but yesterday he worked from six until two. He hustles drinks in the outdoor lounge by the pool. Then, when the pool and bar closed at midnight, he went downstairs to help out in the main bar. He thinks he served LaBranche and a woman up here. Bottled beer and white wine."

Anthony Pizzi was a sleepy-eyed man, short, chunky rather than fat. He was wearing a white apron cinched up under his armpits. The apron bulged with the bulk of his belly.

He had a fleshy, saturnine face cut in half with a narrow black mustache, straight across, cheek to cheek. His teeth were almonds, and he had a raspy New York voice. Delaney figured the accent for Brooklyn, probably Bushwick.

They got him seated at a corner table and hunched around him on metal chairs. A bartender, polishing one glass, watched them intently, but a man cleaning the pool with a long-handled screen paid no attention.

"Tony," Detective Johnson said, "will you go through it again, please, for these men? When you came on duty, what you did, what you saw. The whole schmeer."

"I come on duty at six o'clock," Pizzi started, "and-"

"This was yesterday?" Boone interrupted sharply.

"Yeah. Yesterday. Monday. So I come on duty at six o'clock, and there's a few people in the pool, not many, but at that time we're busy at the bar. The cocktail crowd, y'unnerstan. Martinis and Manhattans. We got one waiter here, me, and one bartender. In the afternoon, you can buy a sandwich, like, but not after six. So's people will go down to the dining room, y'unnerstan. So the crowd thins out like till nine-ten, around there, and then we begin to fill up again, and people come up for a swim."

Sergeant Boone was the interrogator.

"What time do you close?"

"Twelve. On the dot. Then anyone he wants to keep on drinking, he's got to go down to the lobby bar. Unless he wants to drink in his room, y'unnerstan. Anyways, last night about ten-eleven, like that, a couple of people in the pool, all the tables taken… Not that I'm all that rushed, y'unnerstan, with the tables filled. This is a small place; look around. Mostly couples and parties of four. Two guys by theirselves and one dame. The guys are double bourbons on the rocks and bottled Millers. The dame is white wine. The bourbon guy is like maybe fifty, around there, lushing like there's no tomorrow, and the beer guy is nursing his bottles. The wine dame is sipping away, not fast, not slow."

"You allow unescorted women up here?"

"Why not? If they conduct theirselves in a ladylike manner, y'unnerstan, they can drink up a storm-who cares?"

"Describe the young guy, Tony. The one drinking beer by himself."

"He's like-oh, about twenty-five, I'd guess. Tall, real tall, and thin. He's got long blond hair, like down to his shoulders and all over his ears, and a beard. But not a hippie, y'unnerstan. He's clean and dressed nice."

"What was he wearing-do you remember?"

"Khaki pants and a sports jacket."

They looked at Boone. The sergeant nodded grimly.

"Those were the clothes he took off," he said. "That was him. What about the woman, Tony. Can you describe her?"

"I din get a good look. She's sitting over there at that small table. See? Next to the palms. At night, most of the light comes from around the pool, so she's in shadow, y'unnerstan. About forty, I'd guess, give or take."

"Tall?"

"Yeah, I'd say so. Maybe five-six or seven."

"Wearing a hat?"

"No hat. Brown hair. Medium. Cut short."

"How was she dressed?"

"Very plain. Nothing flashy. White turtleneck sweater. One of those denim things with shoulder straps."

"Was she pretty?"

"Nah. You'd never look at her once. Flat-chested. Flat heels. No makeup. A nothing."

"All right, now we got the woman by herself drinking white wine and the young blond guy by himself drinking beer. How did they get together?"

"The kid stands up, takes his bottle and glass, and goes over to her table. I'm watching him, y'unnerstan, because if she screams bloody murder, then I'll have to go over and tell him to cool it. But he talks and she talks, and I see them smiling, and after a while he sits down with her, and they keep talking and smiling, so I couldn't care less."

"Did you hear what they were talking about?"

"Nah. Who wants to listen to that bullshit? When they signal me, I bring another round of drinks. That's all I'm getting paid for. Not to listen to bullshit."

"When they left, did they leave together?"

"Sure. They were the last to go. That's how come I remember them so good. The place emptied out and I had to go over and tell them we was closing. So they paid their bill and left."

"Who paid the bill?"

"They each paid their own tabs. That was okay by me; they; both left a tip so I did all right."

"Did you see where they went? To the elevators?"

"I din see. I went to the bar with the money and checks. When I come back, they was gone. My tips was on the table. Also, they took their glasses with them."

"Wasn't that unusual?"

"Nah. People staying here at the hotel, they don't finish a drink, they take it down to their rooms with them. The maids find the glasses and return them up here. No one loses."

"So they left around midnight?"

"Right to the minute."

Sergeant Boone looked at Delaney. "Chief?" he asked.

"Tony," Delaney said, "this woman-can you tell us more about her?"

"Like what?"

"Can you guess what she weighed?"

"Skinny. Couldn't have been more than one-twenty. Probably less."

"What about her voice?"

"Nothing special. Low. Polite."

"Her posture?"

"I din notice. Sorry."

"You're doing fine. You didn't happen to notice if she was wearing a gold bracelet, did you?"

"I don't remember seeing no gold bracelet."

"You said she was plain looking?"

"Yeah. A kind of a long face."

"If you had to guess what kind of work she does, what would you guess?"

"A secretary maybe. Like that."

"Did she touch the young guy?"

"Touch him?"

"His cheek. Stroke his hair. Put her hand on his arm. Anything like that?"

"You mean was she coming on? Nah, nothing like that."

"Did you ever see either of them before?"

"Never."

"Together or separately? Never been here before?"

"I never saw them."

"Did they act like they knew each other? Like old friends meeting by accident?"

"Nah. It was a pickup, pure and simple."

"When they left at midnight, would you say they were drunk?"

"No way. I could look up the bill, but I'd say he had three-four beers and she had three-four wines. But they wasn't drunk."

"Feeling no pain?"

"Not even that. Just relaxed and friendly. No trouble. When I told them we was closing, they din make no fuss."

"Do you remember the color of the woman's eyes?"

"I din see."

"Guess."

"Brown."

"Did you think they were guests here at the hotel?"

"Who knows? They come and go. Also, we get a lot of outsiders stop by for a drink. Off the street, y'unnerstan."

"Was the woman wearing perfume?"

"Don't remember any if she was."

"Anything at all you recall about her? Anything we haven't asked?"

"No, not really. She was nothing special, y'unnerstan. Just another woman."

"Uh-huh. Thank you, Tony. That's all I've got. Sergeant?"

"Thanks for your help, Tony," Boone said. "Detective Johnson will take you over to the station house and get a signed statement. Don't worry about getting docked; we'll make it right with your boss."

"Sure, I don't mind. You think this woman put him under?"

"Could be."

"She the Hotel Ripper?"

"Johnson," Boone said, gesturing, and the detective led Anthony Pizzi away.

"Good witness," Delaney said. "Those hooded eyes fooled me. He doesn't miss much. Hit him again in a day or so, sergeant. He'll be thinking about it, and maybe he'll remember more things."

"I suppose you blame me, Edward," Ivar Thorsen said.

"Blame you? For what?"

"She did what you said she'd do-left off the wig and bracelet, dressed plainly. After she read the newspaper stories."

Delaney shrugged. "Under the bridge and over the dam. Even if she had dressed up like a tart, I think she would have murdered LaBranche and walked away. Maybe it worked out for the best; now we got a firmer description of what she really looks like. Sergeant, don't forget to have Bentley take Anthony Pizzi to the police artist. Maybe they can refine that sketch."

"Do it today," Boone promised. "Anything else, Chief?"

"Nooo, not really."

"Something bothering you, Edward?"

"Up to now she's been so goddamned clever. Made sure she picked up her victims in a big, crowded place so no one would remember her. Made sure she wiped her prints clean. Now, all of a sudden, she meets the guy in a small place. Lets him pick her up in a way that people will recall. Stays late until they're the only two left. The waiter was sure to remember. Then carries her wineglass down to his room and leaves it there with prints all over it. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I can't understand it. It's just not like her."

"Maybe," Ivar Thorsen said slowly, "maybe she wants to be caught."

Delaney looked at him. "You think so? It's possible, but that's a fancy-schmancy explanation. Maybe the reason is simpler than that. Maybe she's just tired."

"Tired?"

"Weary. Fatigued. Can you imagine what the stress must be like? Picking up these strangers, any one of whom could be a sadistic killer himself. Then going up against them with a pocket knife. Killing them and destroying any evidence that would point to her. My God, the strain of doing all that, month after month."

"You think she's falling apart?" Boone asked.

"It makes sense, doesn't it? Especially when she reads the papers and realizes that little by little we're getting closer. I think the tension is beginning to get to her. She's not thinking straight anymore. She's forgetting things. The pressure is building up. Yes, sergeant, I think she's cracking."

"Is there anything more we could be doing?" Thorsen asked anxiously.

"Finish that sketch," Delaney said, "and get it out to all the newspapers and TV stations. Better put extra men on to handle the calls. Start immediately on individual interviews with every woman between the ages of, say, twenty-five and fifty, on the convention schedule access list. Get Johnson's men started on the physical examination of every tear gas container sold in New York."

"Right," Sergeant Boone said. "We'll put on the heat."

"You better," Delaney said drily. "We've only got another twenty-six days."

"I'm not sure I'll be around then," Deputy Commissioner Thorsen said.

They looked at him and realized he wasn't joking.

Delaney left the motor inn, pushed through the crowd on the street, and caught a cab going uptown on Tenth Avenue. He sat crossways on the back seat, stretching out his legs.

He thought of Thorsen's last comment. He reckoned the Admiral might weather this latest unsolved killing, but if there was another late in July, Thorsen would be tossed to the wolves and a new commander brought in.

It would be a hard, cruel thing to do, and would put an effective end to the Deputy's career in the NYPD. But Ivar knew the risk when he accepted the job of stopping the Hotel Ripper. Delaney could imagine the man's fury with this "plain looking, nothing special" woman whose fate was linked with his.

Monica met him in the hallway and put a hand on his arm. She had evidently heard the news on the radio, for she looked at him with shocked eyes.

"Another one?" she said.

He nodded.

"Edward," she said, almost angrily, "when is this going to stop?"

"Soon," he said. "I hope. We're getting there, but it's slow work. Ivar won't-"

"Edward," she interrupted, "Dr. Ho is waiting for you in the living room. I told him I didn't know when you'd be back, but he said he had to see you."

"All right," Delaney said, sighing. "I'll see what he wants now."

He hung his skimmer away in the hall closet, then opened the door to the living room.

The moment he appeared, Dr. Patrick Ho bounced to his feet. His eyes were burning with triumph. He waved a sheaf of yellow telegrams wildly.

"Addison's disease!" he shouted. "Addison's disease!"