Now she and Boone were sitting across from each other. When their eyes met, they looked casually away. She called him "Sergeant," and he avoided addressing her directly by name. Their manner with each other was polite, coolly friendly.

Son of a bitch, Delaney thought suddenly; they've been to bed.

Abner Boone had suffered through cocktails and wine-drinking only water during dinner-and Delaney couldn't see torturing him further by inhaling a snifter of cognac. So he sipped his coffee with every evidence of satisfied benignity, silent as he listened to Boone and the woman discuss the best way to roast a goose.

Talk was quiet, almost subdued, although no one felt constraint. But there was no need for chatter. Each hoped the others felt equally content: a good meal, a surcease of wanting. The peace that comes when covetousness vanishes, even temporarily.

"Rebecca," Chief Delaney said, almost lazily, "is your mother living?"

"Oh yes," she said. "In Florida. Thank God."

"Why 'Thank God'?" he asked. "Because she's living or because she's living in Florida?"

She laughed and hung her head, the beautiful long hair falling forward to hide her face. Then she threw back her head suddenly, the hair flinging back into place. Sergeant Boone stirred restlessly in his chair.

"I shouldn't have said that," she confessed, "but she's a bit much. A professional mother. When she lived in New York, she drove me up a wall. Even from Florida, I still get the nudging. What to eat, what to wear, how to act."

"She wants to run your life?" Delaney asked.

"Run it? She wants to own it!"

Monica turned to look at him.

"Edward, why the interest in Rebecca's mother?"

He sighed, wondering what he should and should not say. Still, they were women and their insights might be useful. He'd use anyone, and not apologize for it.

"This thing Sergeant Boone and I are working on ..." he said. "We ran into an interesting situation today. A mother-and-daughter relationship ..."

He described, as accurately as he could, Dora and Emily Maitland, their ages, physical appearance, the clothes they wore, the house they lived in, their voices, manner, and behavior.

"Is that an accurate description, would you say, sergeant?" he asked Boone when he finished.

"Yes, sir, I'd say so. Except you seemed to see more-more spirit in the girl than I did. I thought the mother was the heavy."

"Mmm," Delaney said. Then, without telling Monica and Rebecca that the two women under discussion were suspects in a murder investigation (although surely Monica guessed it), he asked them directly, looking back and forth, "How do you see a relationship like that? Specifically, why is the daughter still hanging around? Why didn't she take off? And does mother dominate daughter or vice versa?"

"Take off where?" Monica Delaney demanded. "With what? Mama controls the money, doesn't she? What's the daughter going to do-come to New York and walk Eighth Avenue? The way you describe her, I don't think she'd make out. Is she trained for anything? Can she hold down a job?"

"Then why didn't she leave home fifteen years ago and learn to support herself?" Rebecca asked. "Maybe she likes it there. The nice, safe cocoon."

"That's my point, too," Sergeant Boone said. "Chief, if she had as much chutzpah as you-"

"Hoo-hah!" Rebecca cried. "Chutzpah. Listen to the knacker!"

Boone blushed, smiling.

"Well ... you know," he said lamely. "If the girl had as much courage as you think, Chief, she'd have split years ago."

"Maybe she's afraid," Monica said.

"Afraid?" Delaney said. "Of what?"

"Of the world," his wife said. "Of life."

"You said she's overweight," Rebecca said. "That could be from loneliness. Believe me, I know! You're miserable, so you eat. Stuck out there in the country with a crazy mother-or am I being redundant?-what else is there to do but eat? She wants something else, something better. The Is-this-all-there-is-to-life syndrome? But like Monica said, she's afraid. Of change. And every year it gets harder to make the break."

"Or maybe she's waiting for Mama to die," Monica said. "That happens sometimes. But also, sometimes it takes so long that by the time it does happen, the daughter has become the mother. If you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," Delaney nodded, "but I'm not sure you're right. This girl isn't dead. I mean, inside she isn't dead. She still feels things. She's got urges, wants, desires. My question is why hasn't she done something about getting what she wants?"

"Maybe she has," Rebecca said. "Maybe she's working on her ambitions right now, and you don't know anything about it."

"That's possible," Delaney acknowledged. "Very possible. Another explanation might be that she's lazy. I know that sounds simple, but sometimes we credit people with more complex motives than they're capable of feeling. Maybe this girl is just bone-lazy, and likes that slow, sluggish life she's living out there."

"Do you believe that, sir?" Boone asked.

"No," Delaney said, "I don't. There's something there. Something. No idiot she. She's not just a lump. Going by the book, I'd have to say the mother is running her. But I can't get rid of the feeling that maybe she's running the mother."

"That would be a switch," Rebecca said.

"But understandable," Delaney said. "How's this: At first the mother was the honcho. The iron fist and strict discipline for her children. Then, as she grows older, the vigor fades. The mother weakens; the daughter senses it. The mother seems to be living in the past, more every year. There's a power vacuum. The daughter moves in. Slowly. A little at a time. Remember, there's no man around the house. As the old lady's energy gets less and less, the daughter gets more and more. The mother is weary of trying to make ends meet, trying to live in style. All she wants are her dreams of the past. She can't cope with today. Like there's an X-quantity of resolve there, and less for the mother means more for the daughter. Like an hourglass. The sand runs from one container to another. The mother loses, the daughter gains. Well ..." He laughed briefly. "It's fanciful, but that's the way I see it."

"The mother wants her dream," Boone said. "The house restored. The grounds prettied up. Just the way everything was when she was a bride. Okay. Admitted. But what does the daughter want?"

"Escape," Delaney said.

They looked at him with strange expressions.

"Edward," his wife said, "is this the way detectives work? Trying to guess why people do what they do?"

"Not usually," he said. "Usually we work with physical evidence. Hard facts. Percentages, timing, weapons, testimony of witnesses, things you can look at, hold in your hand, or put under a microscope. But sometimes when none of this exists, or not enough to break a case, you've got to turn to people. As you said, why they do what they do. You try to put yourself in their place. What drives them? What do they want? Everyone wants. But some people can't control it. Then want becomes need. And need-I mean a real greedy need-the kind that haunts you night and day-that's motive enough for any crime."

His listeners were all silent then, disturbed. Delaney looked at the sergeant. Boone jerked immediately to his feet.

"Getting late!" he sang cheerily. "Busy day tomorrow. Got to get going."

There was the usual confusion of departure: "More pie?" "Oh no!" "Coffee?" "Not a thing!" Then Rebecca Hirsch and Abner Boone left together. Delaney locked up and came back to help his wife clear the dining-room table, straighten up, load the dishwasher, store away leftovers.

"They're making it, aren't they?" he asked casually.

"Yes," she nodded.

"I hope she doesn't get hurt," he said.

His wife shrugged. "She's a grown woman, Edward. She can take care of herself."

8.

IT WAS NOT THE first time Detective Sergeant Abner Boone had mused on how similar police work was to theatre. Undercover cops were closest, of course, with their costumes, makeup, accents, and fictitious identities. But detectives were into theatre too, and so were uniformed street cops. You soon learned the value of feigning emotions, of delivering speeches in other men's words, of acting roles best suited for the situation.

"Now, now," a street cop says soothingly, patting the shoulder of a frenzied husband. "I know exactly how you feel. Haven't I been through the same thing m'self? I know, I know. But bashing her head in will do you no good. Just give me the brick like a good lad. I know, I tell you. I know exactly how you feel."

"I know you're not involved," the dick says shamefacedly. "Look, I don't even like the idea of bothering you. A girl of your intelligence and good looks. You're too good for the likes of him; that's easy to see. But I've got to ask these questions, you know. I don't want to, but it's my job. Now then ... was he really with you when the shop was ripped off?"

Not always sympathetic, of course. When a heavy is needed, one is supplied ...

"You're nailed, cheese-brain. Signed, sealed, and delivered. No way out of this. Three-to-five in the slammer, and you'll be a faggot in a week. Locked in with all those horny studs. You'll be gang-banged the first night. That's what it's like, pal. And your wife on the outside, looking around for company You dig? Your life is over, kiddo. But tell me who else was in on it, and maybe we can work a deal. There are ways ..."

And so forth. The roles fitted to circumstances. So Abner Boone dressed with extra care that Friday morning. No brassy slacks and screaming jacket, but a conservative suit of tan poplin, with white shirt and black knit tie. Something that wouldn't spook a woman who worked as legal secretary to an attorney. He also shaved carefully and used his best cologne. Zizanie. And he powdered his armpits. There wasn't much he could do with his short, gingery hair, but at least it was clean.

He folded his jacket neatly onto the back seat of his car, then drove downtown to Central Park South and double-parked outside the studio of Jake Dukker. The doorman wandered over, and Boone had to flash his tin. He waited patiently, smoking his third cigarette of the morning, until his watch showed exactly ten o'clock. Then he started up.

He drove east to Park Avenue and turned south. He planned to take it all the way down to what used to be called Fourth Avenue, and was now Park Avenue South. Then he figured to cut over to Broadway on 14th Street, and take that south to Spring Street, then over to Mott and Victor Maitland's studio. There were a dozen other routes, but one was as good, or bad, as another.

He obeyed all traffic regulations, didn't jump any lights, and when he got caught in jams, he didn't press it. It took forty-three minutes to reach the Mott Street studio, and Boone made a careful record in his notebook. He stood in front of Maitland's studio for exactly ten minutes, smoking another cigarette placidly, then started back. He arrived in front of Dukker's place on Central Park South at precisely 11:53. The northbound traffic had been heavy, and he had been caught in a three-minute jam at 42nd Street. Still, he had made the round-trip in one hour and fifty-three minutes, allowing ten minutes for the chopping of Victor Maitland. Jake Dukker or Belle Sarazen, or both, could have done the same on that Friday. At least he had proved it was possible in under two hours. He wondered if Chief Delaney would be pleased or disappointed. Probably neither. Just another fact to add to the file.

Boone then drove east and north, and found a parking space a block away from the offices of Simon & Brewster on East 68th Street. He put on his jacket, locked the car, and popped a chlorophyll tablet into his mouth. He walked over to the lawyer's office, his back held deliberately straight, trying to compose his features into the picture of a pleasant, boyish officer of the law, eager and ingratiating.

She was sitting alone in the outer office, typing with blinding speed on an electric IBM. She kept working a moment after he came in and halted before her big, glass-topped desk. He had time to make her as a tall, skinny blonde with no chest. None at all. Then she stopped typing and looked up.

"Miss Hemley?" he smiled. "Susan Hemley?"

"Yes?" she said, cocking her head to one side, puzzled.

"I spoke to you on the phone the other night," he smiled. "Detective Sergeant Abner Boone."

He unfolded his ID and handed it over. She took it and examined it carefully, something people rarely did.

"You've come to arrest me?" she asked archly.

"Sure," he smiled. "For attracting a police officer. Actually, this is just a social visit, Miss Hemley. To thank you for your cooperation. And to try to set up an appointment with Mr. Simon. For my boss, Chief Edward Delaney."

"A chief," she said. "Oh my. Sounds important."

"Not really," he smiled. "Just a few routine questions to get the record straight."

"The Maitland murder?" she asked in a hushed voice.

He nodded, still smiling. "Any morning or afternoon next week at Mr. Simon's convenience."

"Just a minute, sergeant," she said. "Let me check."

She rose and moved to an inner door, knocked once, entered, closed the door behind her. Boone was grateful; his face felt stretched. She was back in a moment. He saw she moved loosely, with a floppy grace. Thin as a pencil, with good, long legs. A smooth, unmarked face. An egg-shaped head. The blonde hair was in short, tight curls. Black, hornrimmed glasses were, somehow, sexy. He thought she would be a terror in bed. Yelping. Kicking hell out of the sheets.

"How's for Tuesday morning at ten?" she asked.

"Fine," he said, smiling again. "We'll be here."

He began to move away, hesitated, turned back to her.

"One more favor," he smiled. "Where can a hungry cop get a good lunch in this neighborhood?"

Twenty minutes later they were seated opposite each other on the upper level of a Madison Avenue luncheonette.

"I'm afraid they don't serve drinks," she apologized.

"No problem," he assured her. "Order what you like. We'll let the City pay for it. You're a taxpayer, aren't you?"

"Am I ever!" she said, and they both laughed.

He watched his manners, and they got along swimmingly. They talked about the subject of most interest to both of them: her. He hadn't exaggerated when he had told Delaney he knew how to listen; he did, and before the iced tea and sherbet were served, he had her background: Ohio, business college, a special training in legal stenography, eleven years' experience in law offices. Which would make her, he figured, about thirty-seven to thirty-eight, around there. Good salary, good vacation and fringe benefits, a small office, but a relaxed place to work. J. Julian Simon was a pleasure. Her words: "That man is a pleasure." Boone assumed she meant to work for.

"How about you?" she asked finally. "You're working on the Maitland case?"

He nodded, looked down at the table, moved things about.

"I know you can't talk about it," she said.

He looked up at her then.

"I'm not supposed to," he said. "But ..."

He glanced about carefully, was silent while a waitress cleared a neighboring table.

"We're getting close," he whispered.

"Really?" she whispered back. She hunched her chair forward, put elbows on the table, leaned to him. "The last story I read in the papers said the police had no leads."

"The papers," he scoffed. "We don't tell them everything. You understand?"

"Of course," she said eagerly. "Then there's more?"

He nodded again, looked about carefully again, leaned forward again.

"Did you know him?" he asked. "Victor Maitland? Did you ever meet him?"

"Oh yes," she said. "Several times. At the office. And once at a party in Mr. Geltman's apartment."

"Oh?" Boone said. "At the office? Was Mr. Simon his lawyer too?"