“No, they wouldn’t on kidney stones. But they didn’t locate
“Yes. Only in the last four or five days.”
“Well, then…”
“You recommend surgery?” Delaney asked in a dead voice. Ferguson whirled on him. “I recommend nothing,” he said sharply. “It’s not my case. But you’ve got no choice.”
“That’s what he said.”
“He was right. Bite the bullet, m’lad.”
“What are her chances?”
“You want betting odds, do you? With surgery, very good indeed.”
“And without?”
“Forget it.”
“It’s not fair,” Delaney cried furiously.
Ferguson looked at him strangely. “What the fuck is?” he asked.
They stared at each other a long moment. Then Ferguson went back to the table, flipped through the X-rays, selected one and held it up to the light of a tilted desk lamp. “Kidney,” he muttered. “Yes, yes.”
“What is it, doctor?”
“He told you and I told you: calculus in the kidneys, commonly known as stones.”
“That’s not what I meant. Something’s bothering you.” Ferguson looked at him. “You son of a bitch,” he said softly. “You should never have left the detective division. I’ve never met anyone as-as
“What is it?” Delaney repeated.
“It’s nothing. Nothing I can explain. A hunch. You have them, don’t you?”
“All the time.”
“It’s little things that don’t quite add up. Maybe there’s a rational explanation. The recent hysterectomy. The fever and chills that have been going on since then. But only recently the headaches, nausea, lumbar pain, and now the difficulty passing urine. It all adds up to kidney stones, but the
“She is not.”
“Every case I’ve had is driven, trying to do too much, bedeviled by time, rushing around, biting fingernails and screaming at the waitress when the coffee is cold. Is that Barbara?”
“No. She’s totally opposite. Calm.”
“You can’t tell. We never know. Still…” He sighed. “Edward, have you ever heard of Proteus infection?”
“Bernardi mentioned it to me.”
Ferguson actually staggered back a step, as if he had been struck a blow on the chest. “He
“About three weeks ago, when he first told me Barbara should go into the hospital for tests. He just mentioned it and said he wanted to do some reading on it. But he didn’t say anything about it today. Should I have asked him?”
“Jesus Christ,” Ferguson said bitterly. “No, you shouldn’t have asked him. If he wanted to tell you, he would have.”
“You’ve treated cases?”
“Proteus? Oh yes, I have indeed. Three in twenty years. Mr. Proteus is a devil.”
“What happened to them?”
“The three? Two responded to antibiotics and were smoking and drinking themselves to death within forty- eight hours.”
“And the third?”
Ferguson came over, gripped Delaney by the right arm, and almost lifted him to his feet. The Captain had forgotten how strong he was.
“Go have your wife’s kidney stones cut out,” the doctor said brutally. “She’ll either live or die. Which is true for all of us. No way out, m’lad.”
Delaney took a deep breath.
“All right, doctor,” he said. “Thank you for your time and your-your patience. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Bother?” Ferguson said gruffly. “Idiot.”
He walked Delaney to the door. “I might just stop by to see Barbara,” he said casually. “Just as a friend of the family.”
“Yes,” Delaney nodded dumbly. “Please do that. She doesn’t want any visitors, but I know she’ll be glad to see you.”
In the foyer Ferguson took Delaney by the shoulders and turned him to the light.
“Have you been sleeping okay, Edward?” he demanded. “Not too well.”
“Don’t take pills. Take a stiff shot. Brandy is best. Or a glass of port. Or a bottle of stout just before you get into bed.”
“Yes. All right. Thank you. I will.”
They shook hands.
“Oh wait,” Ferguson said. “You forgot your papers. I’ll get the file for you.”
But when he returned, Delaney had gone.
He stopped at his home to put on a heavy wool sweater under his uniform jacket. Then he walked next door to the Precinct house. There was a civilian car parked directly in front of the entrance. Inside the windshield, on the passenger’s side, a large card was displayed: PRESS.
Delaney stalked inside. There was a civilian talking to the Desk Sergeant. Both men broke off their conversation and turned when he tramped in.
“Is that your car?” he asked the man. “In front of the station?”
“Yes, that’s mine. I was-”
“You a reporter?”
“Yes. I was just-”
“Move it. You’re parked in a zone reserved for official cars only. It’s clearly marked.”
“I just wanted-”
“Sergeant,” Delaney said, “if that car isn’t moved within two minutes, issue this man a summons. If it’s still there after five minutes, call a truck and have it towed away. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now look here-” the man started.
Delaney walked by him and went up to his office. He took a black-painted three-cell flashlight from the top drawer of his file cabinet. He also slipped a short, hard rubber truncheon into his jacket pocket and hung a steel “come-along” on his gun belt.
When he came out into the chilly night again, the Press car had been reparked across the street. But the reporter was standing on the sidewalk in front of the Precinct house.
“What’s your name?” he asked angrily.
“Captain Edward X. Delaney. You want my shield number?”
“Oh…Delaney. I’ve heard about you.”
“Have you?”
“‘Iron Balls.’ Isn’t that what they call you?”
“Yes.”
The reporter stared, then suddenly laughed and held out his hand.
“The name’s Handry, Captain. Thomas Handry. Sorry about the car. You were entirely right and I was entirely wrong.”
Delaney shook his hand.
“Where you going with the flashlight, Captain?”
