me.'
'Well, you certainly sound all right, baby. Are you sure you don't want me or Mother to come to New York?'
'Not on my account, Dad. There's just no need for it.'
'Well, uh, as Mother wrote you, we were planning a trip to Hawaii this summer, but we can…'
'Oh, Dad, don't change your plans. I'm really in very good health.'
'What do you weigh, Zoe?'
'About the same, Mother. Maybe a pound or two less, but I'll get that back.'
'Well, why the hell did that New York doctor call us, baby? He got me and your mother all upset.'
'Dad, you know how doctors are; the least little thing and they want to put you in the hospital.'
'Have you missed work, Zoe?'
'Not a single day, Mother. That proves I'm all right, doesn't it?'
'Listen, baby, we're not going to Hawaii until late in July. Do you think you'll be able to get out here on your vacation?'
'I don't know when my vacation is, Dad. When I find out, I'll write you, and maybe we can work something out, even if it's only for a few days.'
'Have you met anyone, Zoe?' her mother asked. 'You know- a nice boy?'
'Well, there's one fellow I've been seeing. He's very nice.'
'What does he do, baby?'
'I'm not sure, Dad. I know he's taking courses in computers.'
'Computers? Hey, sounds like a smart fellow.'
'He is, Dad. I think you'd like him.'
'Well, that's fine, baby. I'm glad you're getting out and, uh, socializing. And it's good to hear you're feeling okay. That damned doctor scared us.'
'I'm feeling fine, Dad, really I am.'
'Now listen to me, Zoe,' her mother said. 'I want you to call us at least once a week. You can reverse the charges. All right, Dad?'
'Of course, Mother. Baby, you do that. Call at least once a week and reverse the charges.'
'All right, Dad.'
'You take care of yourself now, y'hear?'
'I will. Thank you for calling. Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Dad.'
'Goodbye, Zoe.'
'Goodbye, baby.'
She hung up, and when she looked at her hands, they were trembling. Her parents always had that effect: made her nervous, defensive. Made her feel guilty. Not once during the call had she said, 'I love you.' But then, neither had they.
She ate a sandwich of something she couldn't taste. She drank another vodka, and swallowed vitamins, minerals, two Anacin, and a Valium. Then she took a shower, pulled on her threadbare robe.
She sat on the living room couch, drained by the conversation with her parents. It had taken energy, even bravado, to speak brightly, optimistically, to calm their fears and forestall their coming to New York and seeing her in her present state.
She supposed that when they thought of her, they remembered a little girl in a spotless pinafore. White gloves, knee-length cotton socks, and shiny black shoes with straps. A cute hat with flowers. A red plastic purse on a brass chain.
Zoe Kohler opened her robe, looked down, and saw what had become of that little girl. Tears came to her eyes, and she wondered how it had happened, and why it had happened.
As a child, when balked, scolded, or ignored, she had wished her tormentor dead. If her mother died, or her father, or a certain teacher, then Zoe's troubles would end, and she would be happy.
She had wished Kenneth dead. Not wished it exactly, but dreamed often of how her burdens would be lightened if he were gone. Once she had even fantasized that Maddie Kurnitz might die, and Zoe would comfort the widower, and he would look at her with new eyes.
All her life she had seen the death of others as the solution to her problems. Now, looking at her spoiled flesh, she realized that only her own death would put a stop to…
She was sick, and she was tired, and that thin, sour man she saw as 'police' was stalking closer and closer. She wished him dead, but knew it could not be. He would persevere and…
That drawing was so accurate that it was only a matter of time until…
She might return to her parents' home and pretend…
Thoughts, unfinished, whirled by so rapidly that she felt faint with the flickering speed, the brief intensity. She closed her eyes, made tight fists. She hung on until her mind slowed, cleared, and she was able to concentrate on what she wanted to do, and find the resolve to do it.
She phoned Ernest Mittle.
'Ernie,' she said, 'do you really love me?'
July 11-12; Friday and Saturday…
Detective Sergeant Thomas K. Broderick and his squad had been assigned the task of tracing the why not? bracelet worn by the Hotel Ripper, but it was proving to be another dead end. Too many stores carried the bracelet, too many had been sold for cash; it was impossible to track every one.
So Broderick and his crew were pulled off the bracelet search and given the task of finding victims of Addison's disease who had purchased a medical identification bracelet and emergency kit in New York.
Broderick decided to start with the island of Manhattan, and the Yellow Pages were the first place he looked for names and addresses of medical supply houses.
Then he talked to police surgeons and to a small number of physicians who were police buffs or 'groupies' and who were happy to cooperate with the NYPD as long as they weren't asked to violate the law or their professional ethics.
From these sources, Broderick compiled a list of places that might conceivably sell the things he was trying to trace. Then he divided his list into neighborhoods. Then he sent his men out to pound the pavements.
Most of the pharmacists they visited were willing to help. Those who weren't received a follow-up visit from Broderick or Sergeant Abner Boone. Both men were armed with opinions from the Legal Division of the NYPD, stating that the courts had held that communications to druggists and prescriptions given to them by customers were not confidential and not protected from disclosure.
'Of course,' Boone would say, 'if you want to fight this, and hire yourself a high-priced lawyer, and spend weeks sitting around in court, then I'll have to get a subpoena.'
Cooperation was 100 percent.
As the names and addresses of Addisonian victims began to come in, Broderick's deskmen put aside the obviously masculine names and compiled a list only of the women. This list, in turn, was broken down into separate files for each borough of New York, and one for out-of-town addresses.
'It's all so mechanical!' Monica Delaney exclaimed.
'Mechanical?' the Chief said. 'What the hell's mechanical about it? How do you think detectives work?'
'Well, maybe not mechanical,' she said. 'But you're all acting like bookkeepers. Like accountants.'
'That's what we are,' he said. 'Accountants.'
'Wise-ass,' she said.
They were having dinner at P. J. Moriarty on Third Avenue. It was a fine, comfortable Irish bar and restaurant with Tiffany lampshades and smoke-mellowed wood paneling. For some unaccountable reason, a toy electric train ran around the bar on a track suspended from the ceiling.
They had started with dry Beefeater martinis. Then slabs of herring in cream sauce. Then pot roast with potato pancakes. With Canadian ale. Then black coffee and Armagnac. They were both blessed with good digestions.
'The greatest of God's gifts,' Delaney was fond of remarking.
During dinner, he had told her about Dr. Ho's report on Addison's disease, and exactly how Sergeant Broderick's men were going about the search for Addisonian victims in New York.
'He says his list should be completed by late today,' he concluded. 'Tomorrow morning I'm going down to the
