'Edward, our main job is crime prevention. And if pulling her in now can prevent a crime, then I say let's do it.'
'Prevention is only part of the job. Another part is crime detection and punishment.'
'Let's have another drink,' Ivar Thorsen said, signaling the waitress and pointing at their empty glasses.
They were silent while they were being served. Then Thorsen tried again…
'On the basis of what we know now,' he said, 'we can probably get search warrants for her apartment and office. Agreed?'
'Probably. But unless you find the weapon used, with her prints on it and stains of blood from her last kill, what have you got?'
'Maybe we'll find that why not? bracelet.'
'Hundreds of them were sold. Probably thousands. It would mean nothing.'
'The tear gas container?'
'Even if we find it, there's no proof it was the one used on Bergdorfer. Ditto the clothes she wore. And the wigs. Ivar, that's all the sleaziest kind of circumstantial evidence. A good defense attorney would make mincemeat of a prosecution based on that.'
'She's got Addison's disease.'
'So have fifteen other women living in Manhattan. I know you think we've got a lot on her. We have. Enough to convince me that she's the Hotel Ripper. But it's been a long time since you've testified in court. You've forgotten that there's a fucking big gap between knowing and proving. We have enough to know we have the right perp, but we have shit-all when it comes to proving. I tell you frankly that I don't think the DA will go for an indictment on the basis of what we've got. He's looking for good arrests and convictions. Like everyone else, he's not particularly enamored of lost causes.'
'I still say we have enough to bring her in for questioning. Even if we don't find anything new in her apartment or office, we can throw the fear of God into her. She won't slit any more throats.'
'You're sure of that? Positive? That she won't leave the city, move somewhere else, change her name, and take up her hobby again?'
'That's some other city's problem.'
Delaney grunted. 'Ivar, you're all heart.'
'You know what I mean. I volunteered for this job because I figured if anyone could find the Hotel Ripper, you could. All right, you've done it, and I want you to know how much I appreciate what you've done. But the whole point of the thing was to bring this series of homicides to an end. It seems to me that we can do that now by picking her up and telling her what we know. Trial and conviction are secondary to stopping her.'
'Then it's bye-bye, birdie,' Delaney said. 'That's not right.'
Ivar Thorsen slapped his palms on the table.
'No wonder they called you 'Iron Balls,'' he said. 'You've got to be the most stubborn, opinionated man I've ever met. You just won't give.'
'I know what's right,' Delaney said woodenly.
The Admiral took a deep breath.
'I'll give you another week,' he said. 'That's, uh, Friday the twenty-fifth. If we have nothing more on her by then, I'm bringing her in anyhow. I just can't take the risk of letting her try another slashing.'
'Shit,' Delaney said.
He strode home through the sultry twilight. He went through Central Park, trying to walk off his anger. Intellectually, he could understand the reasoning behind Ivar Thorsen's decision. But that didn't make it any better. It was all political.
'Political.' What a shifty word! Political was everything weak, sly, expedient, and unctuous. Political was doing the right things for the wrong reasons, and the wrong things for the right reasons.
Ivar had his career and the Department's reputation to think about. In that connotation, he was doing the 'right' thing, the political thing. But he was also letting a murderess stroll away from her crimes; that was what it amounted to.
Delaney planned how they could smash her. It would be an audacious scheme, but with foresight and a bit of luck, they could pull it off.
Not letting her out on the prowl to pick up some innocent slob, going with him to his hotel room, and then ripping his throat. With the cops tailing her and breaking in at the last minute to catch her with the knife in her hand and the victim-to-be still alive. That would never work.
It would have to be a carefully plotted scam, using a police decoy. The guy selected would have to be a real cowboy, with quick reflexes and the balls to see it through. He'd have charm, be physically presentable, and have enough acting ability to play the role of an out-of-town salesman or convention-goer.
He would have a room in a midtown hotel, and they would wire it like a computer, with mikes, a two-way mirror, and maybe a TV tape camera filming the whole thing. A squad of hard guys in the adjoining room, of course, ready to come on like Gangbus-ters.
She'd be tailed to the hotel she selected and the cowboy would be alerted. He'd make the pickup or let her pick him up. Then he'd take her back to his hotel room. The pickup would be the dicey part. Once the cowboy made the meet, the rest should go like silk.
It would be important that even the appearance of entrapment be avoided, but that could be worked out. With luck they'd be able to grab her in the act, with her trusty little jackknife open and ready. Let her try to walk away from that!
Delaney admitted it was a chancy gamble, but Goddamnit, it could work. And it would cut through all the legal bullshit, all the court arguments about the admissibility of circumstantial evidence. It would be irrefutable proof that Zoe Kohler was a bloody killer.
But the politicians said No, don't take the risk, all we want to do is stop her, and start booking conventions again, and if she walks, that's too bad, but we stopped her, didn't we?
Edward X. Delaney made a grimace of disgust. The law was the law, and murder was wrong, and every time you weaseled, you weakened the whole body of the law, the good book it had taken so many centuries to write.
By God, if he was on active duty and in command, he would smash her! If the cowboy didn't succeed, then Delaney would try something else. She might kill again, and again, but in the end he'd hang her by the heels, and the best defense attorney in the world couldn't prevent those words: 'Guilty as charged.'
By the time he arrived home, he was sodden with sweat, his face reddened, and he was puffing with exhaustion.
'What happened to you?' Monica asked curiously. 'You look like you've been wrestling with the devil.'
'Something like that,' he said.
July 22; Tuesday…
She did not wake pure and whole-and knew she never would. The abdominal pains were constant now, almost as severe as menstrual cramps. Weakness buckled her knees; she frequently felt giddy and feared she might faint on the street.
She continued to lose weight; her flesh deflated over her joints; she seemed all knobs and edges. The discolored blotches grew; she watched with dulled horror as whole patches of skin took on a grayish-brown hue.
Everything was wrong. She felt nausea, and vomited. She suddenly had a craving for salt and began taking three, four, then five tablets a day. She tried to eat only bland foods, but was afflicted first with constipation, then with diarrhea.
Her dream of happiness, on the night following Ernest Mittle's proposal of marriage, had vanished. Now she said aloud: 'I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.'
When Madeline Kurnitz called to ask her to lunch, Zoe tried to beg off, not certain she had the strength and fearful of what Maddie might say about her appearance.
But the other woman insisted, even agreeing to lunch in the dining room of the Hotel Granger.
'I want you to meet someone,' Maddie said, giggling.
'Who?'
'You'll see!'
