Delaney left the motor inn, pushed through the crowd on the street, and caught a cab going uptown on Tenth Avenue. He sat crossways on the back seat, stretching out his legs.
He thought of Thorsen's last comment. He reckoned the Admiral might weather this latest unsolved killing, but if there was another late in July, Thorsen would be tossed to the wolves and a new commander brought in.
It would be a hard, cruel thing to do, and would put an effective end to the Deputy's career in the NYPD. But Ivar knew the risk when he accepted the job of stopping the Hotel Ripper. Delaney could imagine the man's fury with this 'plain looking, nothing special' woman whose fate was linked with his.
Monica met him in the hallway and put a hand on his arm. She had evidently heard the news on the radio, for she looked at him with shocked eyes.
'Another one?' she said.
He nodded.
'Edward,' she said, almost angrily, 'when is this going to stop?'
'Soon,' he said. 'I hope. We're getting there, but it's slow work. Ivar won't-'
'Edward,' she interrupted, 'Dr. Ho is waiting for you in the living room. I told him I didn't know when you'd be back, but he said he had to see you.'
'All right,' Delaney said, sighing. 'I'll see what he wants now.'
He hung his skimmer away in the hall closet, then opened the door to the living room.
The moment he appeared, Dr. Patrick Ho bounced to his feet. His eyes were burning with triumph. He waved a sheaf of yellow telegrams wildly.
'Addison's disease!' he shouted. 'Addison's disease!'
Chapter 11
July 1st; Tuesday…
There had been a brief, hard summer squall just before Zoe Kohler left work. When she came out onto Madison Avenue, the pavement was steaming, gutters running with filth. The clogged air bit and stank of wet char.
She walked down to the office of Dr. Oscar Stark. She passed a liquor store, saw in the window a display of wines. She thought of the wineglass she had left in the hotel room of Chester LaBranche.
It was not a serious oversight-her fingerprints were not on file, anywhere-but the slipup bothered her. In many ways-in the Hotel Granger office, in the clean order of her home-she was a perfectionist. She knew it and found pride in it.
So this minor error annoyed her. It was the first mistake she could not blame on chance or accident. It depressed her because it tainted her adventure, made it bumbling happenstance instead of a clear statement of her will.
'Did you hear about the new murder?' the receptionist asked excitedly. 'The Hotel Ripper again.'
'I heard,' Zoe Kohler said. 'It's awful.'
'Just awful,' the woman agreed.
When Dr. Stark came into the examination room, preceded by a plume of cigar smoke, the first thing he said was, 'Where's your bracelet?'
Her heart surged, then settled when she realized he was not referring to the gold links with the why not? legend, but to her medical identification strap stating she was a victim of Addison's disease.
'Uh, I took a shower this morning,' she said, 'and forgot to put it back on.'
'Oh sure,' he said. 'But the kit's in your purse, isn't it?' Then, when she didn't answer, he said, 'Zoe, Zoe, what am I going to do with you?'
He scanned the clipboard Gladys handed him. Then he commanded Zoe to stand and drop the sheet. He hitched the wheeled stool closer until his face was only inches from her sunken abdomen.
'Look at you,' he said wrathfully. 'Skin and bones! And look at this… and this… and this…'
He showed her the bronzy discolorations on her knees, elbows, knuckles, nipples. Then he plucked at her pubic hair, displayed what came away.
'See?' he demanded. 'See? You're taking your medication?'
'Yes, I am. Every day.'
He grunted. The remainder of the examination was conducted in silence. Because she was having her period, the pelvic probing and Pap smear were omitted.
It seemed to Zoe that he was not as gentle as usual. He was rough, almost savage, in his handling of her body. He ignored her gasps and groans.
'I'll see you in my office,' he said grimly, picking up his cigar and stomping out.
He seemed a little calmer when she sat down facing him across his littered desk. He was, she saw, writing rapidly in her file.
Finally he tossed the pen aside. He relit his cold cigar. He pushed his glasses atop the halo of billowing white hair. He talked to the ceiling…
'Weight down,' he said tonelessly. 'Blood pressure up. Pulse rapid. Hyperpigmentation pronounced.'
He brought his gaze down to stare into her eyes.
'Have you injured yourself?'
'No. Just that little cut on my leg. I told-'
'Have you been fasting? Have you stopped eating completely?'
'Of course not.'
'Then you must be under some severe emotional or psychological stress that is affecting your body chemistry.'
She was silent.
'Zoe,' he said again in a kindlier tone, 'what am I going to do with you? You come to me for advice and help. To assist you when you're ill or, better yet, to keep you healthy. Am I correct? For this, you pay me a fee, and I do my best. A nice relationship. But how can I do my job when you lie to me?'
'I don't lie to you,' she said hotly.
He held up a palm. 'All right, you don't lie. A poor choice of words. I apologize. But you withhold information from me, information I need to do my job. How can I help you if you refuse to tell me what I need to know?'
'I answer all your questions,' she said.
'You don't,' he said furiously. 'You never tell me what I need to know. All right now, let's calm down, let's not get excited. We'll try again, very quietly, very logically. You are still taking the prescribed amount of cortisol?'
'Yes.'
'And the salt tablets?'
'Yes.'
'Do you have a craving for additional salt?'
'No.'
'Your diet is well-balanced? You aren't on some faddish diet to lose weight fast?'
'No. I eat well.'
'Any vomiting?'
'No.'
'Nausea? Upset stomach?'
'No.'
'Weakness?'
'Only during my period.'
'Diarrhea or constipation?'
'No.'
'When I probed your abdomen, you groaned.'
'You hurt,' she said.
'No,' he said, 'you hurt. The abdomen is tender?'
'I'm having my period,' she protested.
