She clutched him urgently by the sleeve.

"You will find him, won't you?" she whispered, desperation in her voice. "The killer, I mean?"

"I'll do my best," he said. "I promise you that."

They moved around to the front of the house again. Emily and Sergeant Boone were strolling between the garage and the gazebo. She was talking brightly, although Delaney could not hear what was being said. But the sergeant was stooping slightly, head lowered, listening intently.

Dora Maitland and Delaney waited at the entrance for the other two to come up. Mrs. Maitland clasped her hands to her bosom dramatically, raised her eyes to the pellucid sky.

"What a divine day!" she exclaimed rapturously.

Delaney could believe she had once been on the stage.

Finally, bidding goodbye to the ladies, the two officers went through the handshaking ceremony again, nodding and smiling. They then drove down the graveled driveway.

"Did you see the doors?" Delaney asked.

"Yes, sir," Boone said. "They're nailed shut all right."

"You were correct about Geltman," Delaney said. "He is a flit."

"And she's a lush," Boone said stolidly.

"You're sure?"

"It takes one to know one," Boone said matter-of-factly.

"What were the tip-offs?"

"That huskiness-from whiskey, not from smoking."

"Her fingers were nicotine-stained," Delaney noted.

"But she didn't dare light up; we'd have seen the tremble. And she didn't move. Like her head was balanced and might roll off. I know the feeling. And she gripped the arms of her chair, again to hide the shakes. Drank two full glasses of lemonade to put out the fire."

"You think she had a few before we came?"

"No," Boone said, "or she'd have been looser. She wanted to be absolutely sober, even if it hurt. She didn't want to risk babbling."

"She did with me," Delaney said. "At the end."

"When she figured the danger was over," Boone said. "Take my word for it, Chief; she's on the sauce."

"She's what used to be called 'a fine figure of a woman,'" Delaney said.

"Still is, as far as I'm concerned," the sergeant said. "A great pair of lungs. Sir, can we stop for some food?"

"God, yes!" Delaney said. "I'm starved. But leave room for dinner tonight, or my wife will make my life miserable. It's London broil and new potatoes, by the way."

"I'm sold," Boone said. "Want me to pick up Rebecca?"

"No need," Delaney said. "She's coming over early to help Monica."

They stopped at the first luncheonette they hit. It was crowded and noisy, but they had lucked onto a gem; their ham-and-scrambled were good. They strolled out to the car replete, Boone sucking on a mint-flavored toothpick. Delaney got behind the wheel.

The Chief drove cautiously until he got the feel of the car. After they were over the bridge, he relaxed, held it slightly below the legal limit, and stayed in the right-hand lane, letting the speed merchants zip by.

"What did you get from the girl?" he asked Boone. "Although I don't know why I call her 'girl.' About thirty-two, I figure."

"Thirty-five," Boone said. "She volunteered that. Which probably means thirty-eight. Did you catch Mama's reference to more discipline for her grandson? That's the way I see it: plenty of discipline for Victor and Emily. But Victor wouldn't take it, and split. Emily stayed under Mama's thumb."

"I'm not so sure," Delaney said slowly. "The girl's got moxie; she's not beaten. Maybe the drinking is a recent thing, and Mama is losing control. Why did the old man do the Dutch? Did you get that?"

"He owned a lumberyard. Construction material. Stuff like that. Very successful. A big wheel in county politics. But he kept thinking he could draw to an inside straight. Also horses and local crap games. It all went. So he kicked the bucket, literally, and all the lawyers could salvage were the house and grounds, plus enough income from blue-chips to keep the two women going. Nothing from Victor baby. They're not starving, far from it, but they're not rolling either."

"Funny," Delaney said. "Thorsen thought she was a rich old twist."

"Emily said that's what everyone thinks. But they're not. Just getting by."

"With a housekeeper," Delaney reminded him. "Hardly poverty. Dora boasted of never selling off an acre. That land must be worth a mint. But she keeps coming up with the taxes and hanging on."

"For what?" Boone said.

"Her dream," Delaney said. "To restore it all the way it was. A paradise. Birds and flowers. She's got to have it."

"No," Boone said "that's not what I meant. What is she hanging on for? A windfall? Like an inheritance?"

"Ah," Delaney said. "Good question. A shrewd lady. Did you catch that business of how she was a victim of malicious gossip when she was on the stage? I'll bet she was! All that bullshit was just to disarm us if we went digging. Well, it was a profitable morning."

"Was it, sir?" Boone asked. "How?"

"A lot of things we have to do now. We'll have to come up here again. At least one more time. We'll come on a Friday, when the housekeeper is off. We'll get her full name and address from the local postman, or somehow. I want you to check her out."

"Me?"

"How did you make her accent? I figured Virginia."

"Farther south than that, Chief," Boone said. "Maybe Georgia."

"That's why I want you to check her out. You're a good old boy. You've got the accent."

"I do?" Boone said. "I didn't think I had."

"Sure you do," Delaney said genially. "Not much, but it's there. And you can force it without faking."

"You want to know how often Victor Maitland and Saul Geltman visited?" Boone guessed.

"Right," Delaney nodded. "That for starters. And anything else you can glom. Like Dora's drinking and does fat Emily have any larcenous boyfriends."

"What else?"

"I'll handle the bank account. I don't know what it'll take; maybe a court order, or maybe just a letter or call from Thorsen to the locals will do. We've got to walk on eggs here. After all, Dora's brother is J. Barnes Chapin, and the last thing in the world we want is for him to get his balls in an uproar. But I've got to see those bank records."

"Chief, you really think Dora or Emily or both drove that great big old Mercedes down to New York that Friday and nixed the son? For the loot?"

"It's possible. He didn't leave a will, but maybe the mother would share. That's another thing I've got to check out. But even if they didn't do it themselves, a hefty bank withdrawal in, say, the last six months would be a red flag."

Boone pondered a moment.

"She hired someone?"

"Could be," Delaney said. "Happens all the time."

"Jesus Christ, Chief, she's his mother!"

"So?" Delaney said coldly. "It used to be that seventy-five percent of all homicides were committed by relatives, friends, or acquaintances of the victim. Things have changed in the past five years; the number of 'stranger-murders' has increased. But family and friends still do about two-thirds of the killing. It's basic. If you catch a homicide, you look at the family first."

Abner Boone sighed. "That's depressing," he said.

Delaney glanced at him sideways.

"Sometimes, sergeant," he said. "I think you may be an idealist. We work with what we've got. We'd be morons to disregard percentages. And I think both Dora and Emily are big enough and strong enough to have done it. At first, I didn't think it was a woman. My wife doesn't think so. But I'm beginning to wonder. How much strength does it take to push in a shiv?"

"More than I've got," Sergeant Boone said.

They were in the city, heading downtown on Columbus Avenue, when Delaney pulled over, double-parking.

"I'll just be a minute," he said, and went into a bodega to buy a cold six-pack of Ballantine ale. When he returned, Boone asked him to wait a minute, and dashed across the street to a florist. He came back with a bunch of small white mums wrapped in green tissue paper.

"For your wife," he said.

"You didn't have to do that," Delaney said, pleased.

They had to park in a restricted area in front of the 251st Precinct house, but Boone's car was known to the local cops by now, and wouldn't be plastered or hauled away. Just to make sure, the sergeant put the "Officer on Duty" card behind his windshield.

The women were in the kitchen, flushed and laughing. Partly due to a pitcher of martinis Monica had prepared. Delaney helped himself to a double over ice, and added a slice of lemon peel. Boone had a small bottle of tonic water poured over ice and a squeezed wedge of lime.

The two men were willing to sit around the kitchen shmoozing, but the ladies chased them out. They went into Delaney's study, slumped into the worn club chairs gratefully, stretched out their legs. They sat awhile in comfortable silence.

"I remember a homicide I worked, oh, maybe twenty years ago," Delaney said finally. "It looked to be an open-and-shut. This young kid, maybe about twenty-five, around there, said he killed his father. The kid had been in Korea and smuggled in a forty-five. The old man was a terror. Always beating on the old lady. A long record of physical assaults. She filed complaints, but never pushed a prosecution. The son took it just so long, he said, then blasted away. Holy Christ, you should have seen that room. They had to replaster the walls. A full magazine had been fired, and the father took most of them. I mean, he was pieces. The son waltzed into the precinct house and slammed the pistol down on the desk. The duty sergeant almost fainted. The son admitted everything. But it didn't add up. The kid had been an MP. And no dummy. He knew how to handle that Colt. He wouldn't have sprayed. One pill would have done it."

"The mother," Boone said somberly.

"Sure," Delaney nodded. "The son was covering for her. That's what everyone thought. And who could blame her? After taking all that abuse. And what would she get? No one's going to put an old lady in the slammer for blowing away a husband who talks to her with his fists. What would she get? A slap on the wrist. Probation, probably. Everyone knew it; everyone was satisfied."

Delaney stopped and sipped his martini. Boone looked at him, puzzled. The Chief's expression revealed nothing.

"So?" Boone said. "What's the point, sir?"

"The point?" Delaney said, almost rumbling, his chin down on his chest. "The point is that I couldn't buy it. I went digging. The kid had a chance to buy in on a garage, and the old man wouldn't lend him the dough. He had it, but he wouldn't give his son a chance. 'I worked hard for every penny I got. You go out and dig ditches-whatever.' That kind of shit. Plenty of arguments, hot arguments. So finally the son blew him away in a fury, but not so furious that he didn't make it look like the old lady had done it, knowing she'd get home free. It was the son all along. He figured we'd think he was covering. I told you he was no dummy."

"Son of a bitch," Boone said slowly. "So what happened?"

"I dumped it in the lieutenant's lap," Delaney said. "He could have killed me. He was all set to charge the old lady and see her walk. Now it was his decision on charging the kid. Finally he decided to go with the old lady. He buried my paper and told me he was doing it, and I could have his balls if I wanted them. I didn't. He was a good cop. Well, maybe not so good, but he was human. So he buried my paper on the kid, the old lady got charged, and like everyone expected, she walked. There was some insurance money, and the kid invested in his garage and lived happily ever after. Kept his nose clean; never strayed from the arrow. So where was justice in that case?"

"Just the way it came out," Boone said stoutly. "A no-goodnik gets wasted, a wife gets out of a miserable marriage, and the son gets a start on a clean life."

"Is that how you see it?" Delaney asked, raising his eyes to stare at Abner Boone. "There hasn't been a day since that case twenty years ago that I haven't regretted not pushing it. I should have racked up that kid, and if my lieutenant got in the way, I should have racked him up, too. Sergeant, that kid murdered a human being. No one should do that and get away with it. It's not right. I've made my share of mistakes, and letting that kid off the hook was one of them."

Boone was silent awhile, staring across at the brooding figure slumped wearily in the club chair.

"Are you sure of that, sir?" he said softly.

"Yes," Delaney said. "I'm sure."

Boone sighed, took a deep swallow of his tonic water.

"How did you break it?" he asked. "How did you figure it wasn't the abused wife who blasted the old man?"

"She couldn't have done that," Delaney said. "She loved him."

Then after a moment, the Chief said, "Why did I tell you that story? Oh ... now I remember. I was wondering if anyone loved Victor Maitland."

Rebecca Hirsch flung open the door, stood posed, a dish towel folded over one arm.

"Gentlemen," she announced, "dinner is served."

They laughed, dragged themselves to their feet, went into the dining room. The table was set for six, with candles yet, and Sergeant Boone's flowers in a tall vase in the center. Chief Delaney sat at one end, Monica at the other, with Mary and Rebecca on one side and Sylvia and Sergeant Boone on the other.

They started with an appetizer of caviar that everyone knew was lumpfish, and didn't care. This with sour cream, chopped onions, capers, and a lemon wedge. A salad of oiled endive and cherry tomatoes. The London broil with new potatoes, plus fresh stringbeans and a bowl of hot spinach leaves with bacon chunks.

Edward X. Delaney stood up to carve, and said, "Who wants the drumstick?" Monica and Rebecca Hirsch writhed with laughter, and the Chief looked at his wife suspiciously.

"Did you tell Rebecca I'd say that?" he accused.

It was a good meal, a good evening. Two, three, even four conversations went on at once. The London broil was pronounced somewhat chewy but flavorsome. Everyone had seconds, which pleased the cook. The salad disappeared, as did the chilled bottle of two-year-old Beaujolais. Potatoes, stringbeans, and spinach were consumed dutifully, and by the time the key-lime pie was brought in, the diners had lost their initial momentum and were beginning to dawdle.

The girls kissed Monica, Rebecca, and their stepfather good night, shook hands solemnly with Sergeant Boone, giggling, and took their wedges of pie and glasses of milk upstairs to their room. Delaney moved around the table, pouring coffee. He paused to lean down and kiss his wife's cheek.

"Wonderful meal, dear," he said.

"Just great, Mrs. Delaney," Boone said enthusiastically. "Can't remember a better one."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," she smiled happily. "Where did you boys have lunch?"

"A greasy spoon," Boone said.

"You shouldn't eat at places like that," Rebecca said severely. "Instant heartburn. If not ulcers."