“A man named Feinberg. Albert Feinberg.”
“Anything missing? Identification of any kind?”
“We don’t know,” Dorfman said wearily. “They’re checking with his wife now. His wallet wasn’t out like in the Lombard kill. We just don’t know.”
“All right,” Delaney said softly. “Thank you for calling. Sounds like you could use some sleep, lieutenant.”
“Yes, I could. If I could sleep.”
“Where was it again?”
“Eighty-fifth, between First and York.”
“Thank you. Good-night.”
He looked at his desk calendar and counted carefully. It had been eleven days since the murder of Detective Kope. His research was proving out; the intervals between killings were becoming shorter and shorter.
He got out his Precinct map with the plastic overlay and, with a red grease pencil, carefully marked in the murder of Albert Feinberg, noting victim’s name, date of killing, and place. The locations of the four murders formed a rough square on the map. On impulse, he used his grease pencil and a ruler to connect opposite corners of the square, making an X. It intersected at 84th Street and Second Avenue, right in the middle of the crossing of the two streets. He checked Daniel Blank’s address. It was on 83rd Street, about a block and a half away. The map didn’t say yes and it didn’t say no.
He was staring at the map, nodding, and awoke fifteen minutes later, startled, shocked that he had been sleeping. He pulled himself to his feet, drained the watery remains of his final highball, and made his rounds, checking window locks and outside doors.
Then the bed, groaning with weariness. What he really wanted to do…what he wanted to do…so foolish…was to go to Daniel Blank…go to him right now…introduce himself and say, “Tell me all about it.”
Yes, that was foolish…idiotic…but he was sure…well, maybe not sure, but it was a chance, and the best…and just before he fell asleep he acknowledged, with a sad smile, that all this shitty thinking about patterns and percentages and psychological profile was just that-a lot of shit. He was following up on Daniel Blank because he had no other lead. It was as simple and obvious as that. Occam’s Razor. So he fell asleep.
4
His bedside alarm went off at 8:00 a.m. He slapped it silent, swung his legs out from under the blankets, donned his glasses, consulted a slip of paper he had left under the phone. He called Thomas Handry at home. The phone rang eight times. He was about to give up when Handry answered.
“Hello?” he asked sleepily.
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here. Did I wake you up?”
“Why no,” Handry yawned. “I’ve been up for hours. Jogged around the reservoir, wrote two deathless sonnets, and seduced my landlady. All right, what do you want, Captain?”
“Got a pencil handy?”
“A minute…okay, what is it?”
“I want you to check a man in your morgue file.”
“Who is he?”
“Blank, Daniel G. That last name is Blank, B-l-a-n-k.”
“Why should he be in our morgue?”
“I don’t know why. It’s just a chance.”
“Well, what has he done? I mean, has he been in the news for any reason?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then why the hell should we have him in the morgue?”
“I told you,” Delaney said patiently, “it’s just a chance. But I’ve got to cover every possibility.”
“Oh Jesus. All right. I’ll try. I’ll call you around ten, either way.”
“No, don’t do that,” the Captain said quickly. “I may be out. I’ll call you at the paper around ten.”
Handry grunted and hung up.
After breakfast he went into the study. He wanted to check the dates of the four murders and the intervals between them. Lombard to Gilbert: 22 days. Gilbert to Kope: 17 days. Kope to Feinberg: 11 days. By projection, the next murder should occur during the week between after Christmas and New Year’s Day, and probably a few days after Christmas. He sat suddenly upright. Christmas! Oh God.
He called Barbara immediately. She reported she was feeling well, had had a good night’s sleep, and ate ail her breakfast. She always said that.
“Listen,” he said breathlessly, “it’s about Christmas…I’m sorry, dear. I forgot all about gifts and cards. What are we to do?”
She laughed. “I knew you were too busy. I’ve mailed things to the children. I saw ads in the newspapers and ordered by phone. Liza and John are getting a nice crystal ice bucket from Tiffany’s, and I sent Eddie a terribly expensive sweater from Saks. How does that sound?”
“You’re a wonder,” he told her.
“So you keep saying,” she teased, “but do you
“All right. What about the cards?”
“Well, we have some left over from last year-about twenty, I think-and they’re in the bottom drawer of the secretary in the living room. Now if you buy another three boxes, I’m sure it’ll be enough. Are you coming over today?”
“Yes. Definitely. At noon.”
“Well, bring the cards and the list. You know where the list is, don’t you?”
“Bottom drawer of the secretary in the living room.”
“Detective!” she giggled. “Yes, that’s where it is. Bring the list and cards over at noon. I feel very good today. I’ll start writing them. I won’t try to do them all today, but I should have them finished up in two or three days, and they’ll get there in time.”
“Stamps?”
“Yes, I’ll need stamps. Get a roll of a hundred. A roll is easier to handle. I make such a mess of a sheet. Oh Edward, I’m sorry…I forgot to ask. Did you find anything in the old files?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you at noon.”
“Does it look good?”
“Well…maybe.”
She was silent, then sighed. “I hope so,” she said. “Oh, how I hope so.”
“I do, too. Listen dear…what would you like for Christmas?”
“Do I have a choice?” she laughed. “I know what I’m going to get-perfume from any drugstore you find that’s open on Christmas Eve.”
He laughed too. She was right.
He hung up and glanced at his watch. It was a little past 9:00 a.m., later than he wanted it to be. He dug hurriedly through his pack of business cards and found the one he was looking for: Arthur K. Ames. Automobile Insurance.
Blank’s apartment house occupied an entire block on East 83rd Street. Delaney was familiar with the building and, standing across the street, looking up, thought again of how institutional it looked. All steel and glass. A hospital or a research center, not a place to live in. But people did, and he could imagine what the rents must be.
As he had hoped, men and women were still leaving for work. Two doormen were constantly running down the driveway to flag cabs and, even as he watched, a garage attendant brought a Lincoln Continental to the entrance, hopped out and ran back to the underground garage to drive up another tenant’s car.
