The 1st Deadly Sin

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I guess. Thank you, Handry. You’ve made a lot of things a lot clearer.”

“Not for me. What the hell is going on?”

“Will you give me a day-or two?”

“No more. Gilbert died, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He did.”

“There’s a connection, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Two days,” Handry said. “No more. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll have to start guessing. In print.”

“Good enough.”

He walked home, the shopping bag bumping against his knee. Now he could understand something of what was going on-the tension of Thorsen, Johnson’s grimness, Alinski’s presence. He really didn’t want to get involved in all that political shit. He was a cop, a professional. Right now, all he wanted to do was catch a killer, but he seemed bound and strangled by this maze of other men’s ambitions, feuds, obligations.

What had happened, he realized, was that his search for the killer of Lombard and Gilbert had become a very personal thing to him, a private thing, and he resented the intrusion of other men, other circumstances, other motives. He needed help, of course-he couldn’t do everything himself-but essentially it was a duel, a two-man combat, and outside advice, pressures, influence were to be shunned. You knew what you could do, and you respected your opponent’s ability and didn’t take him lightly. Whether it was a fencing exhibition or a duel to the death, you put your cock on the line.

But all that was egotism he admitted, groaning aloud. Stupid male machismo, believing that nothing mattered unless you risked your balls. It should not, it could not affect his decision which, as Barbara and Deputy Mayor Alinski had recognized, was essentially a moral choice.

Thinking this way, brooding, his brain in a whirl, he turned into his own block, head down, schlepping along with his heavy shopping bag, when a harsh voice called, “Delaney!”

He stopped slowly. Like most detectives in New York-in the world! — he had helped send men up. To execution, or to long or short prison terms, or to mental institutions. Most of them vowed revenge-in the courtroom, in threats phoned by their friends, in letters. Very few of them, thankfully, ever carried out their threats. But there were a few…

Now, hearing his name called from a dark sedan parked on a poorly lighted street, realizing he was unarmed, he turned slowly toward the car. He let the shopping bag drop to the sidewalk. He raised his arms slightly, palms turned forward.

But then he saw the uniformed driver in the front seat. And in the back, leaning toward the cranked-down window, the bulk and angry face of Deputy Commissioner Broughton. The cigar, clenched in his teeth, was burning furiously.

“Delaney!” Broughton said again, more of a command than a greeting. The Captain stepped closer to the car. Broughton made no effort to open the door, so Delaney was forced to bow forward from the waist to speak to him. He was certain this was deliberate on Broughton’s part, to keep him in a supplicant’s position.

“Sir?” he asked.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“We sent a man to Florida. It turns out that Lombard’s driver’s license is missing. The widow says you spoke to her about it. You were seen entering her house. You knew the license was missing. I could rack you up for withholding evidence.”

“But I reported it, sir.”

“You reported it? To Pauley?”

“No, I didn’t think it was that important. I reported it to Dorfman, Acting Commander of the Two-five-one Precinct. I’m sure he sent a report to the Traffic Department. Check the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles, sir. I’m certain you’ll find a missing license report was filed with them.” There was silence for a moment. A cloud of rank cigar smoke came billowing out the window, into Delaney’s face. Still he stooped.

“Why did you go see Gilbert’s wife?” Broughton demanded.

“For the same reason I went to see Mrs. Lombard,” Delaney said promptly. “To present my condolences. As commander and ex-commander of the precinct in which the crimes occurred. Good public relations for the Department.”

Again there was a moment’s silence.

“You got an answer for everything, you wise bastard,” Broughton said angrily. He was in semi-darkness. Delaney, bending down, could barely make out his features. “You been seeing Thorsen? And Inspector Johnson?”

“Of course I’ve been seeing Deputy Inspector Thorsen, sir. He’s been a friend of mine for many years.”

“He’s your ‘rabbi’-right?”

“Yes. And he introduced me to Johnson. Just because I’m on leave of absence doesn’t mean I have to stop seeing old friends in the Department.”

“Delaney, I don’t trust you. I got a nose for snots like you, and I got a feeling you’re up to something. Just listen to this: you’re still on the list, and I can stomp on you any time I want to. You know that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t fuck me, Delaney. I can do more to you than you can do to me. You coppish?”

“Yes. I understand.”

So far he had held his temper under control and now, in a split-second, he made his decision. His anger wasn’t important, and neither was Broughton’s obnoxious personality. He brought the shopping bag closer to the car window.

“Sir,” he said, “I have something here I’d like to show you. I think it may possibly help-”

“Go fuck yourself,” Broughton interrupted roughly, and Delaney heard the belch. “I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. The only way you can help me is to crawl in a hole and pull it in over your head. Is that clear?”

“Sir, I’ve been-”

“Jesus Christ, how can I get through to you? Fuck off, Delaney. That’s all I want from you. Just fuck off, you shit-head.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said, almost delirious with pleasure. “I heard. I understand.”

He stood and watched the black sedan pull away. See? You worry, brood, wrestle with “moral problems” and such crap and then suddenly a foul-mouthed moron solves the whole thing for you. He went into his own home happily, called Deputy Inspector Thorsen and, after reporting his meeting with Broughton, told Thorsen he wanted to continue the investigation on his own.

“Hang on a minute, Edward,” Thorsen said. Delaney guessed Inspector Johnson and Deputy Mayor Alinski were still there, and Ivar was repeating the conversation to them. Thorsen was back again in about two minutes.

“Fine,” he said. “Go ahead. Good luck.”

7

He seemed to be spending a lot of time doodling, staring off into space, jotting down almost incomprehensible notes, outlining programs he tore up and discarded as soon as they were completed. But he was, he knew, gradually evolving a sensible campaign in the two weeks following the meeting in Thorsen’s home.

He sat down with Christopher Langley in the Widow Zimmerman’s apartment and, while she fussed about, urging them to more tea and crumbcake, they went over Langley’s firm schedule for his investigation. The little man