Delaney was amazed at how this incident fit into a pattern he had learned from experience; men prone to violence, men too ready to use their fists, their feet, even their teeth, somehow became involved in situations that were obviously not their fault, and yet resulted in injury or death to their antagonist.
Delaney called Monica Gilbert.
“Monica? Edward. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. I hope I didn’t wake the children.”
“Oh no. That takes more than a phone ring. What is it?”
“Would you mind looking at your card file and see if you have anything on a man named Blank. Daniel G. He lives on East Eighty-third Street.”
“Just a minute.”
He waited patiently. He heard her moving about. Then she was back on the phone.
“Blank, Daniel G.,” she read. “Arrested twice for speeding. Guilty and fined. Do you want the make of car and license number?”
“Please.”
He took notes as she gave him the information.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Edward, is it-anything?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s interesting. That’s about all I can say right now. I’ll know more tomorrow.”
“Will you call?”
“Yes, if you want me to.”
“Please do.”
“All right. Sleep well.”
“Thank you. You, too.”
Two arrests for speeding. Not in itself significant, but within the pattern. The choice of car was similarly meaningful. Delaney was glad Daniel Blank didn’t drive a Volkswagen.
He called Thomas Handry at the newspaper office. He had left for home. He called him at home. No answer. He called Detective Lieutenant Jeri Fernandez at his office. Fernandez had gone home. Delaney felt a sudden surge of anger at these people who couldn’t be reached when he needed them. Then he realized how childish that was, and calmed down.
He found Fernandez’ home phone number in the back of his pocket notebook where he had carefully listed home phone numbers of all sergeants and higher ranks in the 251st Precinct. Fernandez lived in Brooklyn. A child answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Is Detective Fernandez there, please?”
“Just a minute. Daddy, it’s for you!” the child screamed. In the background Delaney could hear music, shouts, loud laughter, the thump of heavy dancing. Finally Fernandez came to the phone.
“Hello?”
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“Oh. Howrya, Captain?”
“Lieutenant, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. Sounds like you’re having a party.”
“Yeah, it’s the wife’s birthday, and we have some people in.”
“I won’t keep you long. Lieutenant, when you were at the Two-five-one, you had a dick one named Blankenship. Right?”
“Sure. Ronnie. Good man.”
“What did he look like? I can’t seem to remember him.”
“Sure you do, Captain. A real tall guy. About six-three or four. Skinny as a rail. We called him ‘Scarecrow.’ Remember now?”
“Oh yes. A big Adam’s apple?”
“That’s the guy.”
“What happened to him?”
“He drew an Assault-Homicide Squad over on the West Side. I think it’s up in the Sixties-Seventies-Eighties- around there. I know it takes in the Twentieth Precinct. Listen, I got his home phone number somewhere. Would that help?”
“It certainly would.”
“Hang on a minute.”
It was almost five minutes, but eventually Fernandez was back with Blankenship’s phone number. Delaney thanked him. Fernandez seemed to want to talk more, but the Captain cut him short.
He dialed Blankenship’s home phone. A woman answered. In the background Delaney could hear an infant wailing loudly. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Blankenship?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Delaney, Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Depart-”
“What’s happened? What’s happened to Ronnie? Is he all right? Is he hurt? What-”
“No, no, Mrs. Blankenship,” he said hurriedly, soothing her fears. “As far as I know, your husband is perfectly all right.”
He could sympathize with her fright. Every cop’s wife lived with that dread. But she should have known that if anything had happened to her husband, she wouldn’t learn of it from a phone call. Two men from the Department would ring her bell. She would open the door and they would be standing there, faces twisted and guilty, and she would know.
“I’m trying to contact your husband to get some information, Mrs. Blankenship,” he went on, speaking slowly and distinctly. This was obviously not an alert woman. “I gather he’s not at home. Is he working?”
“Yes. He’s on nights for the next two weeks.”
“Could you give me his office phone number, please?”
“All right. Just a minute.”
He could also have told her not to give out any information about her husband to a stranger who calls in the middle of the night and claims he’s a captain in the NYPD. But what would be the use? Her husband had probably told her that a dozen times. A dull woman.
He got the number and thanked her. It was now getting on toward eleven o’clock; he wondered if he should try or let it go till morning. He dialed the number. Blankenship had checked in all right, but he wasn’t on the premises. Delaney left his number, without identifying himself, and asked if the operator would have him call back.
“Please tell him it’s important,” he said.
“‘Important’?” the male operator said. “How do you spell that, Mr. Important?”
Delaney hung up. A wise-ass. The Captain would remember. The Department moved in involved and sometimes mysterious ways. One day that phone operator in that detective division might be under Delaney’s command. He’d remember the high, lilting, laughing voice. It was stupid to act like that.
He started a new file, headed BLANK, Daniel G., and in it he stowed the Blankenship reports, his notes on Blank’s record of arrests for speeding, the make of car he drove and his license number. Then he went to the Manhattan telephone directory and looked up Blank, Daniel G. There was only one listing of that name, on East 83rd Street. He made a note of the phone number and added that to his file.
He was mixing a fresh rye highball-was it his second or third? — when the phone rang. He put down the glass and bottle carefully, then ran for the phone, catching it midway through the third ring.
“Hello?”
“This is Blankenship. Who’s this?”
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here. I was-”
“Captain! Good to hear from you. How are you, sir?”
“Fine, Ronnie. And you?” Delaney had never before called the man by his first name, hadn’t even known what it was before his call to Fernandez. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever speaking to Blankenship personally, but he wanted to set a tone.
“Okay, Captain. Getting along.”
