"Will do," the sergeant said. "You know, these people worry me."

"Worry you?"

"Yes, sir," Boone said, frowning. "I'm not used to the type. Most of the stuff I caught up to now involved characters with sheets. Addicts. Double offenders. Professionals. You know? I haven't had an experience dealing with people like this. I mean, they think."

"They also sleep," Delaney said stonily. "And they eat, they crap, and one of them killed. What I'm trying to say is that one of them is guilty of a very primitive act, as stupid and unthinking as a muscle job by some punk with a skinful of shit. Don't let the brains worry you. We'll get him. Or her."

"You think the killer fucked up somewhere along the line?"

"I doubt it," Delaney said. "I'm just hoping for a chance. An accident. Something they couldn't possibly foresee and plan for. I know a guy named Evelyn Forrest. He's the Chief in Chilton, New York, a turnaround in the road up near the Military Academy at West Point. Forrest is Chilton's one-man police department. Or was. An old cop gone to beer. I hope he's still alive.

"Anyway, this Forrest told me about a cute one he caught. This retired professor, his second wife, and his stepdaughter bought an old farmhouse with some land near Chilton. The professor is writing a biography of Thoreau, but he's got time to make it with the stepdaughter. So he decides to snuff the wife and make it look like an accident. He's got a perfect situation: On their land they've got this small apple orchard, and the local kids and drifters are always sneaking in to swipe apples. Lots of apples. Not off the ground; right off the trees. So this professor buys a twenty-gauge with birdshot, and every time they see or hear someone swiping their apples, they run out yelling they'll spray the orchard with their shotgun. Far enough away so no one gets hurt. Just to scare the kids.

"So the professor with the hots for the stepdaughter, he sets up the murder of his wife very carefully. Everything planned. A half-buried rock under one of the apple trees, a rock that anyone could trip over. Takes his wife out there for a stroll late one afternoon. Blows her away when she's at the rock. He's wearing gloves. Puts the shotgun in her hands for prints. Runs back to the house. Hides the gloves. Screams on the phone for help. His wife tripped, the shotgun hit the ground and blew, she's got no chest, and what a horrible, horrible accident it is. This Chief Forrest went out to look around. He thought it smelled, but there was no way he could shake the professor's story. Until a local farmer brought his scared kid around to Forrest to tell his version. The kid had seen the whole thing. He was up in that tree swiping apples. So much for careful planning ..."

That evening, the girls staying the night with friends for something called a Pillow Party, Monica and Edward X. Delaney had a lonely kitchen dinner. She tried for awhile; then, knowing his moods, she gave up trying to make conversation and said nothing when he excused himself to go into the study and close the door.

He felt his age: lumpy and ponderous. And somewhat awkward. His clothes were damp and heavy on his skin. His joints creaked. He seemed to be pressing down into his swivel chair, all of him dull and without lift. He had a sudden vision of a young girl leaning on a pink parasol. The tanned skin of her naked back. He shook his massive head, and doggedly began writing out detailed reports of the interviews with Belle Sarazen and Jake Dukker.

When they were finished, and filed away, he took the three drawings found in Victor Maitland's studio and fixed them to his wall map of the 251st Precinct, mounted on corkboard. He used pushpins to attach them over the map, then tilted his desk lamp so they were illuminated. He sat behind his desk and stared at the sketches.

Youth. Vigor. All juice, all bursting. Caught in the hard, quick lines of a frantic artist who wanted it all. Wanted to own it all, and show it. Maitland was driven, Jake Dukker had said. Delaney could believe that. In all these interviews, from all this talk, these words, he was beginning to see most clearly the man who was dead. The painter, the artist, Victor Maitland. That gifted hand moldering now, but not so long ago eager and grasping. A filthy human being he might have been. Malicious, besotted, maybe sadistic. But there was no law that said only saints could be talented.

The trouble was, Delaney brooded, the trouble was that he was beginning to feel sympathy. Not only for the victim-that was natural enough-but for all the others involved in the murder. One of whom, he was convinced, had plunged the blade. The trouble was that he liked them-liked Mrs. Maitland, Saul Geltman, Belle Sarazen, Jake Dukker. And, he suspected, when he met Maitland's son, and his mother and sister, he'd like them, too. Feel compassion.

"They think," Sergeant Boone had said. But it was more than that. They were spunky, bright, wanting human beings, touching in their hungers and illusions. There was not one he could hate. Not one he could hope would prove to be a killer and deserving of being boxed and nailed.

His sympathy disturbed him. A cop was not paid to be compassionate. A cop had to see things in black and white. Had to. Explanations and justification were the work of doctors, psychiatrists, sociologists, judges, and juries. They were paid to see the shades of grey, to understand and dole out truth.

But a cop had to go by Yes or No. Because ... well, because there had to be a rock standard, an iron law. A cop went by that and couldn't allow himself to murmur comfort, pat shoulders, and shake tears from his eyes. This was important, because all those other people-the ruth-givers-they modified the standard, smoothed the rock, melted the law. But if there was no standard at all, if cops surrendered their task, there would be nothing but modifying, smoothing, melting. All sweet reasonableness. Then society would dissolve into a kind of warm mush: no rock, no iron, and who could live in a world like that? Anarchy. Jungle.

He drew his yellow legal pad to him, put on his heavy reading glasses, began making notes. Things he must do to find the murderer of Victor Maitland.

It was getting on to midnight when the desk phone rang. The Chief picked it up with his left hand, still scribbling at his notes.

"Edward X. Delaney here," he said.

"Edward, this is Ivar ..."

Deputy Commissioner Thorsen chatted a few moments, asking after the health of Monica and the girls. Then he inquired casually, "How's Boone making out?"

"All right," Delaney said. "I like him."

"Glad to hear it. Off the booze, is he?"

"As far as I know. He's completely sober when I see him."

"Any signs of hangovers?"

"No. None." Delaney didn't appreciate this role; he wasn't Boone's keeper, and didn't relish reporting on the man's conduct.

"Any progress, Edward?"

"On the case? Nothing definite. I'm just learning what went on, and the people involved. It takes time."

"I'm not leaning on you, Edward," Thorsen said hastily. "Take all the time you want. No rush."

There was a moment of silence then. Delaney knew what would come next, but refused to give the man any help.

"Ah ... Edward," Thorsen said hesitantly, "you questioned the Sarazen woman today?"

"Yes."

"She a suspect?"

"They're all suspects," Delaney said coldly.

"Well, ah, we have a delicate situation there, Edward."

"Do we?"

"The lady has some important friends. And apparently she feels you were a little rough on her."

Delaney didn't reply.

"Were you rough on her, Edward?"

"She probably thought so."

"Yes, she did. And called a few people to complain. She said ..." Thorsen's voice trailed away.

"You want me off the case?" Delaney said stonily.

"Oh God, no," Thorsen said quickly. "Nothing like that. I just wanted you to be aware of the situation."

"I'm aware of it."

"And you'll treat her-"

"I'll treat her like everyone else," Delaney interrupted.

"My God, Edward, you're a hard man. I can't budge you. Listen, if that lady is guilty, I'll be delighted to see her hung by the heels and skinned alive. I'm not asking you to cover up. I'm just asking that you use a little discretion."

"I'll do things my own way," Delaney said woodenly. "This is the kind of bullshit that made me retire. I don't have to take it now."

"I know, Edward," Thorsen sighed. "I know. All right ... do it your own way. I'll handle the flak. Somehow. Anything you need? Cooperation from the Department? Files or background stuff? Maybe another man or two?"

"Not at the moment, Ivar," Delaney said, thawing now, grateful. "But thanks for the offer."

"Well ... keep at it. Give me a call if anything turns up, or if you need anything. Forget what I said-about handling the Sarazen woman with chopsticks."

"I already have," Delaney said.

"Iron Balls!" Thorsen laughed, and hung up.

Delaney sat a moment, staring at the dead phone in his hand. Then his eyes rose slowly. Almost against his will, his gaze sought those drawings pinned to the wall. The victim's final statement. His last words ...

Delaney hung up and, on impulse, looked up at the phone number of Victor Maitland's Mott Street studio. It was an unlisted number, but had been included in the police reports of the homicide.

Then he dialed the number. It rang and rang. He listened a long time. But of course there was no answer.

7.

"DINNER WILL BE AT seven sharp," Monica Delaney said firmly. "I expect you and Sergeant Boone to be back by then."

"We're just going out of the county, not out of the country," Chief Delaney said mildly. "We'll be back long before seven. What are you having?"

"London broil and new potatoes."

"What kind of London broil?" he demanded.

"A nice piece of flank steak."

"Good. That's the best flavor. Want me to pick up anything on our way back?"

"No-well, we're low on beer. Or will you have wine?"

"Either. But I'll pick up some beer-just in case."

"He doesn't object if other people drink, does he?"

"I asked him, and he said he didn't."

"All right, dear. Have a good trip. And a very light lunch."

"I promise," he said. "I know a good inn near Dobbs Ferry. They serve excellent London broil and new potatoes."

She laughed and poured them their second cups of breakfast coffee.

Sergeant Abner Boone was waiting for him outside. All the car windows were rolled down; Boone was fanning himself with a folded newspaper.

"Going to be a hot one, sir," he said cheerfully. "Seventy-three already."

Delaney nodded, tossed his homburg onto the back seat. Both men took out their notebooks and went through the morning ritual of comparing notes.

"I checked Dukker's garage," Boone said. "No record of him taking his car out before the evening. So then, just for the hell of it, I talked to the doorman of Belle Sarazen's apartment house. She doesn't own a car-or if she does, she doesn't garage it there. I don't think she does; I ran a vehicle check, and she's got no license. The doorman said that sometimes she rents from a chauffeured-limousine service. He remembered the name, and I checked them out. No record of her hiring a car on that Friday. I suppose she could have used another service. Want me to run down the list, Chief?"

"No," Delaney said. "Hold off. It's a long shot."

"Well, they still might have used the subway," Boone said stubbornly. "I'll run a time trial tomorrow."

"You still think they're it?"

"A possible," Boone nodded. "Either one, or both together. Give them two hours, and they could have made it down to Mott Street and back."

"All right," Delaney said. "Keep hacking away at it until you're satisfied. I'm not saying you're wrong. Thorsen called last night. The Sarazen woman beefed to her important friends."

"Was Thorsen sore?"

"Not very. He'll schmaltz it over for us. He's good at that."

"One more thing," Boone said, consulting his notes. "I talked to a few more guys who worked the case. One of them had gone up to Nyack to check out the mother and sister. They said they were both home that Friday from ten to three. They couldn't prove it, and he couldn't disprove it. They've got a housekeeper, but it was her day off. No one saw them there; no one saw them leave."

"They own a car?"

"Yeah. A big, old Mercedes-Benz. Both mother and sister drive. But what this dick remembered, what wasn't in his report, was when he was leaving, the mother grabbed him by the arm and said something like, 'Find the killer of my son. It's very important to me.' This guy thought that was kind of funny. 'Very important to me," she said. It stuck in his mind."

"Yes," Delaney nodded. "An odd way of putting it. Of course, she may have meant it to mean avenging the Maitland family name, or some such shit. Well, let's talk to the lady. How do you figure on going?"

"I thought we'd take the FDR, across the George Washington to Palisades Parkway, and then 9W into Nyack. Okay, sir?"

"Fine with me."

"I'm going to take off my jacket and get comfortable," the sergeant said. "You, Chief?"

"I'm comfortable," Delaney said.

When Boone removed his lightweight plaid sports jacket and leaned over to put it on the back seat, Delaney saw he was carrying a .38 Colt Detective Special in a black short-shank holster high on his hip. The two cops talked guns while Boone was maneuvering through city streets over to the FDR.

As they crossed the George Washington Bridge, traffic thinned, they could relax and enjoy the trip. It was warming up, but a cool river breeze was coming through the open windows and the air was mercifully free of pollution. They could see the new apartment houses on the Jersey side rising sharply into a clear, blue sky. There was some slow barge traffic on the river. A few jetliners droned overhead. Nice day ...

"Chief, was your father a cop?" Abner Boone asked.

"No," Delaney said, "he was a saloon-keeper. Had a place on Third near Sixty-eighth, then opened another place on Eighty-fourth, also on Third. I used to work behind the stick in the afternoons when I was going to night school."

"My father was a cop," Boone said.

"I know," Delaney said. "I went to his funeral."

"You did?" Boone said. He seemed pleased. "I didn't know that."