"It wasn't to take a look at the models, was it? For your friends? The important men?"

At first he thought he had cracked her. He watched her head jerk back. Thin lips peeled away from wet teeth. He thought he heard a faint hiss. But she held herself together. She smiled bleakly.

"Edward X. Delaney," she said. "Good old Edward X. Delaney. I don't run a call-girl ring, you know."

"I do know that," he said. "You wouldn't be involved in anything as obvious and vulgar as that."

He was conscious of Boone stirring restlessly in the chair alongside him. He turned to him.

"Sergeant?" he said. "Anything?"

"Belle," Abner Boone said, "you said you provided Maitland with models."

"Occasionally," she said tightly. "And I didn't provide them; I suggested girls to him."

"Ever suggest a very young girl?" Boone pressed on. "Maybe Puerto Rican? Or Italian? A Latin-type?"

She thought a moment, frowning.

"Can't recall anyone like that," she said. "Recently?"

"Say a few weeks before he died. Maybe a month."

"No," she said definitely. "I didn't send Victor a girl for at least six months. Who is she?"

Boone looked at Delaney. The Chief saw no reason not to tell Belle Sarazen why they were interested. He described the three drawings they had found in Maitland's studio. He said it was believed they had been done shortly before Maitland's death. Maybe on the morning he had been killed.

"Where are they now?" she said. "The drawings?"

"I have them," Delaney said.

"Bring them around," she suggested. "I'll take a look. Maybe I can identify her. I know most of the girls Victor used, and a lot more besides."

"I may do that," Delaney said. He rose to his feet, putting his notebook away, and Sergeant Boone did the same. They thanked Belle Sarazen for her cooperation, and asked if they might return if more questions came up.

"Any time," she said. "I'll be right here."

She rang for the Filipino to show them out. They were at the bedroom door when she called Delaney's name. He stopped and turned slowly to face her.

"You don't really think I knew it was my husband when I fired the shotgun, do you?" she asked. Her smile was flirtatious, almost coy.

His smile was just as meaningless.

"We'll never know, will we?" he said.

They sat in Boone's car, comparing notes and blowing more smoke.

"There's nothing in the file about her and drugs," Delaney said. "No record of busts. But a woman like that, living a life like that, has got to be on. I'd be willing to bet she's feeding her nose. Maybe she was the source of the poppers they found in Maitland's studio."

"Could be," Boone said. "And maybe dealing a little with her important friends. You were a mite rough on her, Chief. Think we'll get any flak?"

Delaney considered a moment.

"We might," he acknowledged. "She could be humping the entire Board of Estimate, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised. If I get a call from Thorsen tonight, I'll know we made a dent. How do you figure her motive?"

"For wasting Maitland?"

"No, no. For living. The way she does."

"Money hungry," Boone said promptly. "Anything for a buck."

"I don't agree," Delaney said, just as promptly. "That might do for Saul Geltman. By the way, did you catch the way he referred to the art he sells as 'the merchandise'? But I don't think it holds for the Sarazen woman. Money, sure; she needs it. We all need it. But as a means to an end; not money for the sake of piling it up."

"What, then?"

"Here's how I see her; a spunky kid from a good family that's seen better days. Marries a wealthy, older man. Big house, horses, mistress of the manor-the whole enchilada. Now she is someone. But he strays, and she's got pride and a temper. So she blows Canfield away, with a lot of publicity, her name and picture in the papers. She likes that. Off she goes to Paris and starts spending, feeling pretty good, a tough, smart twist who got away with murder. But Europe is full of jackals, tougher and smarter, and in five years the money is gone, and who cares about Belle Sarazen from Raccoon Ford, Virginia? If she stays in Europe, she'll be peddling her ass in flea markets. So she comes home and marries Congressman Burroughs. Now she's someone again: the Washington hostess with the mostest. Big parties. Entertaining the President. It doesn't cost Burroughs that much. I know how D.C. works; she'd have no trouble getting lobbyists and PR men to pick up the tab if she could collect the right guests and maybe provide some push-push on a crucial vote. Then Burroughs conks, and she's lost her power base. Washington is full of Congressional widows. So she moves to New York and gets in with the art and museum crowd. Keeps up her old friendships with politicos. Helps them out with high-class girls and maybe some dust when needed. Lends her apartment for their fun and games. Takes gifts for these services, money gifts, and gets high-level protection in return. More important to her-she's on all the society pages: party-thrower, woman-about-town, model for famous artists and fashion photographers; she's still someone."

"But why?" Boone wanted to know.

"If not fame, then notoriety," Delaney said somberly, almost speaking to himself. "As long as the world knows Belle Sarazen exists. Those scrapbooks are the tip-off. She's got to reassure herself about who she is. Some people are like that. They have such a low opinion of themselves that to endure, they've got to create another image in other people's eyes. She's a mirror woman. Now she can look in the mirror and see a sexy beauty with a face that looks like it hasn't been lived in, and a body that doesn't stop. The scrapbooks tell her who she is. But if it wasn't for the publicity, if it wasn't for the world's reaction to her, she'd look in the mirror and there would be nothing there. That's why she'll do almost anything for those important friends. She's got to hang onto the movers and shakers. To prove she's important, too. The poor doxy."

"Chief, you really think she knew it was Canfield when she blasted?"

"Of course. She gave herself away when she said the Durkee case was her favorite. We broke that one by working on a jealous wife, a woman who thought she had been scorned. Belle could identify with that; she had been a scorned woman herself."

"But could she have chopped Maitland?"

"I think so-if he was threatening her self-esteem, her vision of herself. And obviously she has the strength."

"Or for kicks," Boone said wonderingly. "Maybe she did it just for kicks."

"She's capable of that, too," Delaney said stonily. "She got away with it once. After they've done that, they think they can keep kicking God's shins."

"Listen, Chief," the sergeant said hesitantly. "Sounds to me that with the girls and the important friends, she's in a good position for some polite blackmail."

Delaney shook his head.

"Not our Belle," he said. "I told you she's not money hungry. All she wants is to call Senators by their first names."

They had time before their meeting with Jake Dukker, and they talked about lunch.

"Something quick," Delaney said. "And light. You have your big meal at night, don't you?"

"Usually," Boone said. "The doc's got me on a high-protein diet. Mostly I cook at home. Easy stuff like steaks, fish, hamburgers, and so forth."

"How are you doing?" Delaney asked, staring straight ahead.

"On the drinking?" Boone said calmly. "All right, so far. There isn't a minute I don't want it, but I've been able to lay off. Keeping busy on this Maitland thing helps."

"Does it bother you when you're with someone, and the other man orders a drink? Like yesterday, when I had an ale at lunch, and you had iced tea?"

"No, that doesn't bother me," the sergeant said. "What bothers me is when people joke about it. You know, friends and comics on TV who make jokes about how much they drink, and funny stories about drunks, and all. I don't think it's funny anymore. For a while there I was working at getting through the next hour without a drink. Now I work at getting through a whole day without a drink, so I guess that's an improvement."

Delaney nodded. "I know it sounds stupid to say it, but you've got to do it yourself. No one can do it for you, or even help."

"Oh, I don't know, Chief," Abner Boone said slowly. "You've helped."

"I have?" Delaney said, pleased. "Glad to hear it."

He didn't ask how.

The sun was at full blast now, the sky rapidly clearing, a nice breeze coming from the west. They decided to park somewhere near Columbus Circle, buy hotdogs from a street vendor, and maybe some cold soda, and have their lunch on a bench in Central Park. Then they could walk over to Jake Dukker's studio.

They pulled into a No Parking zone near the Circle, and Boone put the officer on duty card behind the windshield, hoping for the best. They found a vendor near the Maine Monument, and each bought two hotdogs, with sauerkraut, pickles, relish, mustard, and onions, and a can of wild-cherry soda. Delaney insisted on paying. They carried their lunch, bundled in paper napkins, into the park and finally discovered an empty bench stuck off on a small hillock covered with scrawny grass.

They ate leaning forward, knees spread, to avoid the drippings. The opened cans of soda were set on the bald ground.

"The way I see it," Sergeant Boone said, mouth full, "Sarazen and Dukker have got a mutual alibi for ninety minutes. We got statements from Dukker's assistants and from the models placing Sarazen and Dukker in the downstairs studio before twelve and after one-thirty. But for ninety minutes the two of them were upstairs, alone together. They say."

"You think one is covering for the other?"

"Or they were both in on it together. Look, Chief, those times are approximate. You know how unreliable witnesses are when it comes to exact time. Maybe they were out of the studio for more than ninety minutes. Maybe as much as two hours."

"Keep talking. It listens."

"They probably didn't take a cab. We checked thousands of trip sheets and followed up on every drop in the vicinity of the Mott Street studio between ten and three that Friday. But suppose they had a private car waiting. I think one of them, or both, could get down to Mott Street from Dukker's place and back in ninety minutes, or maybe a little more."

"That's assuming they didn't have to go through the downstairs studio to get out. Is there a door to the outside from the upstairs floor? The apartment?"

"That I don't know, sir. Something we'll have to check. Assuming there is, they leave the studio at twelve, go upstairs, pop out the door, go downstairs and head for their car. Or even-how's this?-they drive over to Lex and Fifty-ninth, by private car or cab, and take the downtown IRT subway. There's a local stop on Spring Street, less than two blocks from Maitland's studio. By taking the subway, they eliminate the risk of getting stuck in traffic. And I think they could make the round trip in ninety minutes to two hours, allowing five or ten minutes for killing Maitland."

"I don't know," Delaney said doubtfully. "It's cutting it thin."

"Want me to time it, sir?" Boone asked, getting a little excited about his idea. "I'll drive from Dukker's place to Maitland's studio and back, and then I'll try the same trip by subway. And time both trips."

"Good idea," Delaney nodded. "Make both between ten and three on a Friday, when the traffic and subway schedule will be approximately the same as they were then."

"Will do," Boone said happily.

They were silent awhile, working on their dripping hotdogs. When they used up the paper napkins, both used their handkerchiefs to wipe their smeared faces and fingers.

"Well, let's go brace Jack Dukker," Delaney said. "We can walk over ..."

The building, tall, narrow, sooty, was one of the oldest on Central Park South. It had been designed for artists' studios, for painters, sculptors, musicians, singers. Ceilings were high, rooms spacious, walls thick. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a steady north light and afforded a fine view of Central Park, an English farm set down in the middle of the steel and concrete city.

Jake Dukker occupied a duplex on the fourth and fifth floors. The lower level had been converted to a reception area, working studio, models' dressing room, a photographic darkroom, prop room and storage area, a lavatory, and a tiny kitchenette with refrigerator, sink, stove and a small machine that did nothing but produce ice cubes, chuckling at intervals as cubes spilled into a storage tray.

The studio was all efficiency: rolls of seamless paper and canvas, a battery of flood- and spotlights with high-voltage cables, a stage, posing dais, overhead illumination of a theatrical design, mirrors, sets, stainless-steel and white-cloth reflectors, easels, a working table littered with paints, palettes, mixing pots ... The walls were covered with framed paintings, prints, etchings, lithographs, drawings. Most of them signed.

The fifth floor, reached by an interior spiral staircase, provided living quarters for the artist: one enormous chamber with enough sofas, chairs, and floor pillows to accommodate an interdenominational orgy. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a spacious, well-equipped kitchen-copper-bottomed pans and pots hanging from the walls, a gargantuan spice rack-and a dining area with a glass-topped table long enough to seat twelve.

The living quarters were jangling with color, a surprisingly comfortable and attractive mix of the owner's short-lived enthusiasms: Bauhaus, Swedish Modern, Art Deco, New York Victorian, Art Nouveau, and such soupy examples of modern furnishings as iron tractor seats on pedestals and rough wooden cocktail tables that were originally the reels for telephone cable.

The owner of this hodgepodge was also a jumble of trendy fashions. He wore faded blue jeans cinched with a wide leather belt and tarnished brass buckle inscribed with the Wells Fargo insignia. Negating these symbols of rugged masculinity were the soft, black ballet slippers he wore on his long, slender feet. His overblouse was Indian tissue cotton, cut to the pipik, embroidered across the shoulders with garlands of roses, and boasting loose sleeves full enough to inspire a gypsy to make his violin cry. In the cleavage of this transparent shirt, a sunburst medallion swung from a clunky gold chain.

The man himself was tall and lanky, his slender grace somewhat marred by a well-fed paunch, half a bowling ball that strained the leather belt and threatened to eclipse Wells Fargo. He didn't move so much as strike a quick succession of poses, feet turned so, arms akimbo, head tilted, shoulder thrust, knee bent artfully. He was a stop-motion film, click, click, click, each shutter advance showing a different arrangement of features and limbs. But there was no flow.

The nubile receptionist told the officers to go into the studio. As Jake Dukker came forward to meet them, two cameras hanging from leather thongs about his neck, the first things Chief Delaney saw were the Stalin mustache, a bushy, bristly growth, and the glowering eyes, swimming and seemingly unfocussed. The nose was a sharp beak, the teeth as square and chiseled as small tombstones, faintly stained. The caved cheeks were pitted and shadowed; he had not shaved well. Black hair, cut in Mod style, full, brushed, and sprayed, covered his ears. Like Saul Geltman, he wore a gold bracelet. Unlike Geltman, there was nothing spruce, neat, or particularly clean about his person. But that, Delaney charitably decided, might have been due to the hot studio lights.

After the introductions, Dukker said, "Just finishing up. A few more shots. Take a look around. Don't trip on the cables."

At the center of the raised stage, posed against a roll of seamless purple paper, a young model with a teenager's body stood with her back to the lights and reflectors manned by Dukker's two assistants. She wore the bottom half of a bright red bikini; her upper back was bare. Atop her head was an enormously wide-brimmed white straw hat with a violet ribbon band. She assumed a hip-sprung pose, both arms to one side, hands perched on the handle of a closed pink parasol.

Jake Dukker lifted one of his cameras, a Nikon, and moved into position, crouching ...

"More ass, honey," he called. "Magnificent. Lean onto the umbrella. Sensational. Profile to me. That's it. Sexy smile. Wonderful. Weight on that leg. More ass. Beautiful. Here we go ..."

The girl held her pose, and Dukker was up, down, leaning, stretching, moving forward, moving back, clicking, winding. He switched quickly from one camera to another, adjusted his setting, continued his gymnastics with hardly a pause, snap, snap, snap, until finally he straightened up, arched his shoulders back, lifted his chin high to stretch his neck.

"That's it," he called to his assistants. "Kill it."

All the burning lights went off. One of the assistants came forward to take the cameras from Dukker. The model relaxed, took off her hat, shook her blonde hair free. She turned to face forward, showing little breasts with surprisingly large brown aureoles.

"Okay, Jake?" she asked.

"Incredible, honey," he said. "Sexy but pure. Gretchen will have your check."

"Anything coming up?" she asked.

"Me," he said, showing his teeth. "Cover up; it's the cops. Don't call us, sweetie, we'll call you. And stop eating. Five more pounds and you're dead."

He turned to Delaney and Boone, his pitted face glistening with sweat.

"A paperback cover," he explained. "No tits, but it's okay to titillate."

He grabbed up a soiled towel and wiped his face and hands.

"The place is air conditioned," he said, "but you'd never know it when the lights are on."

"You work hard, Mr. Dukker," Delaney said.

"The name of the game," Dukker said. "I do everything; fashion, book covers, record slips, paintings, magazine illustrations, posters, ads. You name it; I do it. A guy called me this morning and wants me to do a pack of playing cards. Can you believe it?"

"Pornographic?" Chief Delaney asked.

Dukker was startled.

"Close," he said, trying to smile. "Mighty close. I turned him down. Want to look around? Before we go upstairs?"