“What is it?” Thorsen demanded.
Delaney looked at him. He could forgive that tone; the man was obviously exhausted. Something was happening, something big.
“Ivar,” he said gently-perhaps the second or third time in his life he had used the Deputy Inspector’s given name-“I’ve found him.”
Thorsen looked at him, not comprehending.
“Found him?”
Delaney didn’t answer. Thorsen, staring at him, suddenly knew.
“Oh Jesus,” he groaned. “Now of all times. Right now. Oh God. No doubt at all?”
“No. No doubt. It’s absolute.”
Thorsen took a deep breath.
“Don’t-” he started to say, then stopped, smiled wanly at the Captain. “Congratulations, Edward.”
Delaney didn’t say anything.
“Don’t move from here. Please. I want Johnson and Alinski in on this. I’ll be right back.”
The Captain waited patiently. Still standing, he ran his fingers over the waxed surface of the dining table. Old, scarred oak. There was something about wood, something you couldn’t find in steel, chrome, aluminum, plastic. The wood had lived, he decided; that was the answer. The wood had been seedling, twig, trunk, all pulsing with sap, responding to the seasons, growing. The tree cut down eventually, and sliced, planed, worked, sanded, polished. But the sense of life was still there. You could feel it.
Inspector Johnson seemed as distraught as Thorsen; his black face was sweated, and Delaney noted the hands thrust into trouser pockets. You did that to conceal trembling. But Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski was still expressionless, the short, heavy body composed, dark, intelligent eyes moving from man to man.
The four men stood around the dining room table. No one suggested they sit. From outside, Delaney could still hear the loud talk going on, still smell the crude cigar smoke.
“Edward?” Thorsen said in a low voice.
Delaney looked at the other two men. Then he addressed himself directly to Alinski.
“I have found the killer of Frank Lombard, Bernard Gilbert, Detective Kope, and Albert Feinberg,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “There is no possibility of error. I know the man who committed the four homicides.”
There was silence. Delaney looked from Alinski to Johnson to Thorsen.
“Oh Jesus,” Johnson said. “That tears it.”
“No possibility of error?” Alinski repeated softly.
“No, sir. None.”
“Can we make a collar, Edward?” Thorsen asked. “Now?”
“No use. He’d be out in an hour.”
“Run him around the horn?” Johnson said in a cracked voice.
Delaney: “What for? A waste of time. He’d float free eventually.”
Thorsen: “Search warrant?”
Delaney: “Not even from a pet judge.”
Thorsen:“Anything for the DA?”
Delaney: “Not a thing.”
Thorsen:“Will he sweat in the slammer?”
Delaney: “No.”
Thorsen:“Break-in?”
Delaney: “What do you think?”
Thorsen:“You left it?”
Delaney: “What else could I do?”
Thorsen:“But it was there?”
Delaney: “Three hours ago. It may be gone by now.”
Thorsen:“Witnesses to the break-in?”
Delaney: “Presumption only.”
Thorsen:“Then we’ve got nothing?”
Delaney: “Not right now.”
“But you can nail him?”
Delaney (astonished): “Of course. Eventually.”
Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski had followed this fast exchange without interrupting. Now he held up a hand. They fell silent. He carefully relighted a cold cigar he had brought into the room with him.
“Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I realize I am just a poor pole, one generation removed from the Warsaw ghetto, but I did think I had mastered the English language and the American idiom. But I would be much obliged, gentlemen, if you could inform me just what the fuck you are talking about.”
They laughed then. The ice was broken-which was, Delaney realized, exactly what Alinski had intended. The Captain turned to Thorsen.
“Let me tell it my way?”
Thorsen nodded.
“Sir,” the Captain said, addressing the Deputy Mayor directly, “I will tell you what I can. Some things I will not tell you. Not to protect myself. I don’t give a damn. But I don’t think it wise that you and these other men should have guilty knowledge. You understand?”
Alinski, smoking his cigar, nodded. His dark eyes deepened even more; he stared at Delaney with curious interest.
“I know the man who committed these homicides,” the Captain continued. “I have seen the evidence. Conclusive, incontrovertible evidence. You’ll have to take my word for that. The evidence exists, or did exist three hours ago, in this man’s apartment. But the evidence is of such a nature that it doesn’t justify a collar-an arrest. Why not? Because it exists in his apartment, his home. How could I swear to what I have seen? Legally, I have seen nothing. And if, by any chance, a sympathetic judge issued a search warrant, what then? Served on the man while he was home, he could stall long enough to destroy the evidence. Somehow. Then what? Arrest him on a charge-any charge? And run the risk of a false arrest suit? What for? Run him around the horn? That’s probably some of our cop talk you didn’t understand. It means collaring a suspect, keeping him in a precinct house detention cell, trying to sweat him-getting him to talk. He calls his lawyer. We’re required to let him do that. His lawyer gets a release. By the time the lawyer shows up with the paper, we’ve moved him to another precinct house tank. No one knows where. By the time the lawyer finds out, we’ve moved him again. We waltz him ‘around the horn.’ It’s an old routine, not used much these days, originally used when cops needed to keep an important witness in the slammer, or needed another day or two days or three days to nail the guy good. It wouldn’t work here. Sweating him wouldn’t work either. Don’t ask me how I know-I just know. He won’t talk. Why should he? He makes fifty-five thousand a year. He’s an important business executive with a big corporation in the city. He’s no street police with a snoot full of shit. We can’t lean on him. He’s got no record. He’s got a good lawyer. He’s got friends. He carries weight. Got it now?”
“Yes…” Alinski said slowly. “I’ve got it now. Thank you, Captain.”
“Fifty-five thousand a year?” Inspector Johnson said incredulously. “Jesus H. Christ!”
“One thing,” the Deputy Mayor said. “Inspector Johnson asked if you could nail him, and you said yes. How do you propose to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Delaney admitted. “I haven’t thought it through yet. That’s not why I came here tonight.”
“Why did you come?”
“This crazy’s coming up to another kill. I figure it should be in the week between Christmas and New Year’s. But it may be sooner. I can’t take the chance.”
Strangely, no one asked him how he had estimated the killer’s schedule. They simply believed him.
“So,” Delaney went on, “I came here tonight for three men, plainclothes, on foot, and one unmarked car, with two men, to cover this guy tonight. I either get this cover or I’ll have to dump what I have in Broughton’s lap, let him own it, and take my lumps. Before, I just had a lead to offer him. Now I’ve got the guy he’s bleeding for.”
