smile.
'Wanna fuck, pop?' she said.
The roiling was too much; he hadn't the wit to reply. He crossed to the other side of Park Avenue, lumbering now, his big feet in heavy, ankle-high shoes slapping the pavement. He climbed tiredly into the first empty cab that came along and went directly home, clutching the Bloomingdale's shopping bag.
Later, he was able to regain some measure of equanimity. He admitted, with sour amusement, that the brief encounter with the young whore had been typical of the city's habit of dousing highfalutin dreams and romantic fancies with a bucketful of cold reality tossed right in the kisser.
He ate a sandwich of cold corned beef and German potato salad on dill-flavored rye bread while standing over the sink. He drank a can of beer. Resolution restored, he carried Handry's research into the study and set to work.
At dinner that night, he asked Monica what her plans were for the evening.
'Going out?' he said casually.
She smiled and covered one of his hands with hers.
'I've been neglecting you, Edward,' she said.
'You haven't been neglecting me,' he protested, although he thought she had.
'Well, anyway, I'm going to stay home tonight.'
'Good,' he said. 'I want to talk to you. A long talk.'
'Oh-oh,' his wife said, 'that sounds serious. Am I being fired?'
'Nothing like that,' he said, laughing. 'I just want to discuss something with you. Get your opinion.'
'If I give you my opinion, will it change yours?'
'No,' he said.
The living room of the Delaney home was a large, high-ceilinged chamber dominated by a rather austere fireplace and an end wall lined with bookshelves framing the doorway to the study. The room was saved from gloom by the cheerfulness of its furnishings.
It was an eclectic collection that appeared more accumulated than selected. Chippendale cozied up to Shaker; Victorian had no quarrel with Art Deco. It was a friendly room, the old Persian carpet time-softened to subtlety.
Everything had the patina of hard use and loving care. The colors of drapes and upholstery were warm without being bright. Comfort created its own style; the room was mellow with living. Nothing was intended for show; wear was on display.
Delaney's throne was a high-back wing chair covered in burnished bottle-green leather and decorated with brass studs. Monica's armchair was more delicate, but just as worn; it was covered with a floral-patterned brocade that had suffered the depredations of a long-departed cat.
The room was comfortably cluttered with oversized ashtrays, framed photographs, a few small pieces of statuary, bric-a-brac, and one large wicker basket that still held a winterly collection of pussy willows, dried swamp grasses, and eucalyptus.
The walls held an assortment of paintings, drawings, cartoons, posters, etchings, and maps as varied as the furniture. No two frames alike; nothing dominated; everything charmed. And there always seemed room for something new. The display inched inexorably to the plaster ceiling molding.
That evening, dinner finished, dishes done, Monica moved to her armchair, donned half-glasses. She picked up knitting needles and an Afghan square she had been working on for several months. Delaney brought in all his dossiers and the Handry research. He dropped the stack of papers alongside his chair.
'What's all that?' Monica asked.
'It's what I want to talk to you about. I want to try out a theory on you.'
'About the Hotel Ripper?'
'Yes. It won't upset you, will it?'
'No, it won't upset me. But it seems to me that for a cop not on active duty, you're taking a very active interest.'
'I'm just trying to help out Abner Boone,' he protested. 'This case means a lot to him.'
'Uh-huh,' she said, peering at him over her glasses. 'Well… let's hear it.'
'When the first victim, George T. Puller, was found with his throat slashed at the Grand Park Hotel in February, the men assigned to the case figured it for a murder by a prostitute. It had all the signs: An out-of-town salesman is in New York for a convention, has a few drinks, picks up a hooker on the street or in a bar. He takes her to his hotel room. They have a fight. Maybe he won't pay her price, or wants something kinky, or catches her pinching his wallet. Whatever. Anyway, they fight and she kills him. It's happened a hundred times before.'
'I suppose,' Monica said, sighing.
'Sure. Only there were no signs of a fight. And nothing had been stolen. A prostitute would at least have nicked the cash, if not the victim's jewelry, credit cards, and so forth.'
'Maybe she was drugged or doped up.'
'And carefully wiped away all her fingerprints? Not very probable. Especially after the second murder in March. A guy named Frederick Wolheim. At the Hotel Pierce. Same MO. Throat slashed. No signs of a struggle. Nothing stolen.'
'The paper said the victims were mutilated,' Monica said in a small voice.
'Yes,' Delaney said flatly. 'Stabbed in the genitals. Many times. While they were dying or after they were dead.'
His wife was silent.
'Black nylon hairs were found,' Delaney continued. 'From a wig. Now the prostitute theory was dropped, and it was figured the killer was a homosexual, maybe a transvestite.'
'Women wear wigs, too. More than men.'
'Of course. Also, the weapon used, a short-bladed knife, probably a pocket knife, is a woman's weapon. It could still figure as a female, but the cops were going by probabilities. There's no modern history of a psychopathic female murderer who selected victims at random and killed for no apparent reason. Lots of male butchers; no female.'
'But why does it have to be a homosexual? Why not just a man?
'Because the victims were found naked. So Lieutenant Slavin started hassling the gays, rousting their bars, pulling in the ones with sheets, criminal records. The results have been nil. After the third murder, it was determined the killer was five-five to five-seven. That could be a shortish man.'
'Or a tall woman.'
'Yes. No hard evidence either way. But the hunt is still on for a male killer.'
She looked up at him again.
'But you think it's a woman?'
'Yes, I do.'
'A prostitute?'
'No. A psychopathic woman. Killing for crazy reasons that maybe don't even make sense to her. But she's forced to kill.'
'I don't believe it,' Monica said firmly.
'Why not?'
'A woman couldn't do things like that.'
He had anticipated a subjective answer and had vowed not to lose his temper. He had prepared his reply:
'Are you saying a woman would not be capable of such bloody violence?'
'That's correct. Once maybe. A murder of passion. From jealousy or revenge or hate. But not a series of killings of strangers for no reason.'
'A few weeks ago we were talking about child abuse. You agreed that in half the cases, and probably more, the mother was the aggressor. Holding her child's hand over an open flame or tossing her infant into scalding water.'
'Edward, that's different!'
'How different? Where's the crime of passion there? Where's the motive of jealousy or revenge or hate?'
'The woman child abuser is under tremendous pressure. She was probably abused herself as a child. Now she's
