His pride was hurt; he acknowledged it. He had cooperated with Boone and, through him, with Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen. He had made suggestions. He had warned of the May 7-9 time period.
The only thing he hadn't passed along was his theory that the Hotel Ripper was a woman. Not a prostitute, but a psychopathic female posing as one. And he hadn't told Boone about that simply because it was a theory and needed more evidence to give it substance.
He thought the timing of the murder of Leonard T. Bergdorfer made it more than just a hypothesis. But if they didn't want his help, the hell with them. It was no skin off his ass. He was an honorably retired cop, and for all he cared the Department could go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.
That's what he told himself.
He walked for blocks and blocks, feeling the damp creep intow his feet and shoulders. His umbrella soaked through, his un-gloved hands dripped, and he felt as steamed as if the city had become an enormous sauna with someone pouring water on heated rocks.
He stopped at an Irish bar on First Avenue. He had two straight whiskies, which brought more sweat popping but at least calmed his anger. By the time he started home, he had regained some measure of serenity, convinced the Hotel Ripper case was past history as far as he was concerned.
He was putting his sodden homburg and raincoat in the hall closet when Monica came out of the kitchen.
'Where have you been?' she demanded.
'Taking a stroll,' he said shortly.
'Ivar Thorsen is in the study,' she said. 'He's been waiting almost an hour. I gave him a drink.'
Delaney grunted.
'You're in a foul mood,' Monica said. 'Just like Ivar. Put your umbrella in the sink to drip.'
He stood the closed umbrella in the kitchen sink. He felt the shoulders of his jacket. They were dampish but not soaked. He passed a palm over his iron-gray, brush-cut hair. Then he went into the study.
Deputy Commissioner Thorsen stood up, drink in hand.
'Hullo, Ivar,' the Chief said.
'How the hell did you know there'd be a killing last night?' Thorsen said loudly, almost shouting.
Delaney stared at him. 'It's a long story,' he said, 'and one you're not likely to hear if you keep yelling at me.'
Thorsen took a deep breath. 'Oh God,' he said, shaking his head, 'I must be cracking up. I'm sorry, Edward. I apologize.'
He came forward to shake the Chief's hand. Then he sat down again in the armchair. Delaney freshened his glass with more Glenlivet and poured himself a healthy shot of rye whiskey. They held their glasses up to each other before sipping.
Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen was called 'The Admiral' in the NYPD, and his appearance justified the nickname. He was a small, slender man with posture so erect, shoulders so squared, that it was said he left the hangers in the jackets he wore.
His complexion was fair, unblemished; his profile belonged on postage stamps. His white hair, worn short and rigorously brushed, had the gleam of chromium.
His pale blue eyes seemed genial enough, but subordinates knew how they could deepen and blaze. 'It's easy enough to get along with Thorsen,' one of his aides had remarked. 'Just be perfect.'
'How's Karen?' Delaney asked, referring to the deputy's beautiful Swedish wife.
'She's fine, thanks,' Thorsen said. 'When are you and Monica coming over for one of her herring smorgasbords?'
'Whenever you say.'
They sat in silence, looking at each other. Finally…
'You first or me first?' Thorsen asked.
'You,' Delaney said.
'We've got problems downtown,' the Admiral announced.
'So what else is new? You've always got problems downtown.'
'I know, but this Hotel Ripper thing is something else. It's as bad as Son of Sam. Maybe worse. The Governor's office called today. The Department is taking a lot of flak. From the politicians and the business community.'
'You know how I feel about the Department.'
'I know how you say you feel, Edward. But don't tell me a man who gave as many years as you did would stand idly by and not do what he could to help the Department.'
'Fiddle music,' Delaney said. ''Hearts and Flowers.''
Thorsen laughed. 'Iron Balls,' he said. 'No wonder they called you that. But forget about the Department's problems for a moment. Let's talk about your problems.'
Delaney looked up in surprise. 'I've got no problems.'
'You say. I know better. I've seen a lot of old bulls retire and I've watched what happens to them after they get out of harness A few of them can handle it, but not many.'
'I can handle it.'
'You'd be surprised how many drop dead a year or two after putting in their papers. Heart attack or stroke, cancer or bleeding ulcers. I don't know the medical or psychological reasons for it, but studies show it's a phenomenon that exists. When the pressure is suddenly removed, and stress vanishes, and there are no problems to solve, and drive and ambition disappear, the body just collapses.'
'Hasn't happened to me,' Delaney said stoutly. 'I'm in good health.'
'Or other things happen,' the Admiral went on relentlessly.; 'They can't handle the freedom. No office to go to. No beat to pound. No shop talk. Their lives revolved around the Department and now suddenly they're out. It's like they were excommunicated.'
'Bullshit.'
'Some of them find a neighborhood bar that becomes their office or squad room or precinct. They keep half- bagged all day and bore their new friends silly with lies about what great cops they were.'
'Not me.'
'Or maybe they decide to read books, visit museums, go to shows-all the things they never had time for before. Fishing and hunting. Gardening. Hockey games. And so forth. But it's just postponing the inevitable. How many books can you read? How many good plays or movies are there? How many hockey games? The day arrives when they wake up with the realization that they've got nothing to do, nowhere to go. They may as well stay in bed. Some of them do.'
'I don't.'
'Or become drunks or hypochondriacs. Or start following their wives around, walking up their heels. Or start resenting their wives because the poor women don't spend every waking minute with them.'
Delaney said nothing.
Thorsen looked at him narrowly. 'Don't tell me you haven't felt any of those things, Edward. You've never lied to me in your life; don't start now. Why do you think you were so willing to help Boone? So eager to get his reports on the Hotel Ripper case? To make out those dossiers I saw on your desk? Oh yes, I peeked, and I make no apology for it. Maybe you're not yet in the acute stage, but admit it's starting.'
'What's starting?'
'The feeling that you're not wanted, not needed. No reason to your life. No aims, no desires. Worst of all is the boredom. It saps the spirit, turns the brain to mush. You're a wise man, Edward; I'd never deny it. But you're not smart enough to handle an empty life.'
Delaney rose slowly to his feet, with an effort. He poured more whiskey. Glenlivet for Thorsen, rye for himself. He sat down heavily again in the swivel chair behind the desk. He regarded the Deputy Commissioner reflectively.
'You're a pisser, you are,' he said. 'You want something from me. You know you've got to convince me. So you try the loyalty-to-the-Department ploy. When that doesn't work, you switch without the loss of a single breath to the self-interest approach. Now I've got to do as you want if I hope to avoid dropping dead, becoming a lush, annoying my wife, or having my brain turn to mush.'
'Right!' the Admiral cried, slapping his knee. 'You're exactly right. It's in your own self-interest, man. That's the strongest motive of them all.'
