"An upside-down pyramid. You understand? Balanced on its point. And above, all the shits like Saul Geltman. The dealers. Curators. Critics. Rich collectors. Hangers-on like Belle Sarazen. Trendy sellouts like Jake Dukker. Publishers of art books and reproductions. Rip-off pirates. Smart-asses who go to the previews and charity shows. The whole stinking bunch of them. The art lovers! Sweating to get in on the ground floor. Find a new style, a new talent, and ride it. Then sell out, take your profit, and go on to the next ten-day wonder. Leeches! All of them! And you know what that upside-down pyramid is balanced on? Supported by? Way down there? The creative artist. Oh yes! At the bottom of the heap. But the point of the whole thing. The guy who spends his talent because that's all he's got. He's the one who provides the champagne parties, the good life for the leeches. Yes! The poor miserable slob trying to get it down on paper or canvas, or in wood or metal. And they laugh at him. They do! They do! Laugh at him! Well, my father gave it to them. He gave it to them good! He saw them for the filth they are. Parasites! They were afraid of him. I mean literally afraid! But he was so good they couldn't ignore him, couldn't put him down. He could shit on them, and they had to take it. Because they knew what he had. What they'd never have. What they wanted and would never have. My father was a genius. A genius!"

Chief Delaney looked at him in astonishment. There was no mistaking the boy's fervor. It burned in his eyes. Showed in his clenched fists, trembling knees.

"But you told me you didn't like your father's work," Delaney said.

Ted Maitland jerked backward into his chair, collapsed, spread arms and legs wide. He looked at Delaney disgustedly.

"Ahh, Jesus!" he said, shaking his head. "You haven't understood a word I've said. Not a word. Dumb cop!"

"Let me try," Delaney said. "You might not like your father's work, his style, the paintings he did, but that has nothing to do with his talent. That you recognize and admire. What he did with his talent isn't what you like at all. Not your style. But no one can deny his genius. Certainly not you. Is that about right?"

"Yes," Maitland said. A voice so low Delaney could barely hear him. "That's about right ... about right ..."

"And you?" Delaney asked gently. "Do you have your father's talent?"

"No."

"Will you? Could you? I mean if you study, work ..."

"No," the boy said. "Never. I know. And it's killing me. I want ... Ahh, fuck it!"

He jumped to his feet, turned away, almost ran from the room. Delaney watched him go, made no effort to stop him. He sat on the couch a few moments, staring at the empty doorway. Everyone wanting. Either what they could not have, or more of what they had. The poor, greedy lot of them. Talent, money, fame, possessions, integrity-the prizes hung glittering just above their grasping fingers as they leapt, strained, grabbed air and fell back, sobbing ...

The Chief stood and was moving toward the door when Alma Maitland came sweeping into the room, head up, fists balled: an avenging amazon. He had a moment to admire the mass of coppery hair piled high, the fitted suit of russet wool, the luxuriousness of her body and the glazed perfection of her skin.

Then she confronted him, stood close, directly in his path. For a second he thought she meant to strike him.

"Mrs. Maitland ..." he murmured.

"What did you do to Ted?" she demanded loudly. "What did you do to him?"

"I did nothing to him," Delaney said sternly. "We discussed his movements on the day his father was killed. We talked about art and Ted's feelings about his father's work. If that was enough to upset him, I assure you it was none of my doing, madam."

She shrunk suddenly, shoulders drooping, head bowed. She held a small handkerchief in her fingers, twisting it, pulling it. Delaney looked at her coldly.

"Is the boy getting professional help?" he asked. "Psychologist? Psychiatrist?"

"No. Yes. He goes-"

"Psychiatrist?"

"He really doesn't-"

"How often?"

"Three afternoons a week. But he's showing-"

"How long has this been going on?"

"Almost three years. But his analyst said-"

"Has he ever become violent?"

"No. Well, he does-"

"To his father? Did he ever attack his father or fight with him?"

"You're not giving me time to answer," she cried frantically.

"The truth takes no time," he snapped at her. "Do you want me to ask the maid? The doorman? Neighbors? Did your son ever attack his father?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"How often?"

"Twice."

"During the past year?"

"Yes."

"Violently? Was one or both injured?"

"No, it was just-"

"Mrs. Maitland!" he thundered.

She was a step away from an armchair, and collapsed into it, huddling, shaking and distraught. But he observed that it had been a graceful fall, and even in the chair her posture of distress was pleasingly composed, knees together and turned sideways, ankles neatly crossed. The bent head with its gleaming plait revealed a graceful line of neck and shoulder. Victor Maitland, he reflected, wasn't the only artist in the family.

"Well?" he said.

"Once they fought," she said dully. "Victor knocked him down. It was horrible."

"And once ... ?" he insisted.

"Once," she said, her voice raddled, "once Ted attacked him. Unexpectedly. For no reason."

"Attacked him? With his fists? A weapon?"

She couldn't answer. Or wouldn't.

"A knife," Delaney said. Declaration, not question.

She nodded dumbly, not showing him her face.

"What kind of a knife? A hunting knife? A carving knife?"

"A paring knife," she muttered. "A little thing. From the kitchen."

"Was your husband wounded?"

"A small cut," she said. "In his upper arm. Not deep. Nothing really."

"Was a doctor called?"

"Oh no. No. It was just a small cut. Nothing. Victor wouldn't see a doctor. I-I put on disinfectant and-and put a bandage on. With tape. Really, it was nothing."

"What is your doctor's name? Your family physician. And where is his office?"

She told him, and he made a careful note of it.

"Does your son own a knife? Hunting knife, a switchblade, pocket knife? Anything?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "He had a-like a folding knife. Swiss. Red handle. But after he became-became-disturbed, I took it away from him."

"Took it away from him?"

"I mean I took it out of his dresser drawer."

"Where is it now?"

"I threw it away. Down the incinerator."

He stood, feet firmly planted, staring unblinking at the top of her head. He drew a deep breath and exhaled in a sigh.

"All right," he said. "I believe you."

She raised her head then, looked at him. He saw no sign of tears.

"He didn't," she said. "I swear to you, Ted didn't. He worshipped his father."

"Yes," Delaney said stonily, "so he told me."

He turned away and moved to the door. Then paused and turned back.

"One more thing, Mrs. Maitland," he said. "Did you know any of the models your husband used?"

She looked at him, bewildered.

"The girls or women your husband used in his paintings," Delaney said patiently. "Did you know any of them personally? By name?"

She shook her head. "Years ago I did. But not recently. Not in the past five years or so."

"A young girl? Very young. Puerto Rican perhaps, or Italian. Latin-type."

"No, I know no one like that. Why do you ask?"

He explained about the three charcoal sketches of the young model found in Victor Maitland's studio.

"They belong to you, of course," he said. "Or rather to your husband's estate. I wanted you to know they are presently in my possession and will be returned to the estate when our investigation is completed."

She nodded, apparently not caring. He made a small bow to her, and left.

He lumbered over to Third Avenue and turned uptown. In this busy shopping district-big department stores, smart shops, fast-food joints jammed with noonday crowds-he pondered proper Latin. Was it qui bono or cui bono? He decided on the latter.

Cui bono? The first question of any homicide dick: Who benefits? He had a disturbed son envious of his father's talent. A sexless wife furious at her husband's cheating. An art dealer scorned and humiliated in public. An artist friend jealous of the victim's integrity. A quondam mistress hating his contempt. A mother and sister deserted and left to flounder.

Some very highfalutin motives for murder-but cui bono?

Edward X. Delaney ambled northward, considering the possibility of failure by limiting his investigation to these seven suspects. But the Department's investigators had checked out all Maitland's known drinking companions, models, neighbors, prostitutes, even distant relatives and old army buddies. Zilch. So Delaney was left with the seven. Cui bono?

He picked up the photostats, paid, and asked for a receipt. He was keeping a careful list of all his expenses, to be submitted to the Department. He didn't expect salary, but he'd be damned if he'd pay for the pleasure of assisting the NYPD.

The house was empty when he returned. But there was a little note from Monica attached to the refrigerator door with a magnetic disk: Gone supermarketing. You need new shirts. Buy some."

He smiled. It was true the collars on some of his shirts were frazzled. He remembered when men had their collars turned when they got in that condition. Their wives did it, or the shirts were taken to local tailors who had signs posted: we turn collars. Put up a sign like that today, and no one would know what the hell you were talking about.

He took a can of cold ale to his study. He took off his jacket and draped it across the back of his swivel chair. But he didn't loosen his tie or roll up his cuffs. He repinned Maitland's charcoal sketches to the map board and slid the photostats in a lower desk drawer. He planned to show them to Jake Dukker and Belle Sarazen, hoping for a make.

He took a swallow of ale, then dialed the office of Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen. He wasn't in, but Delaney spoke to his assistant, Sergeant Ed Galey, and explained what he wanted: an opinion from the Department's legal staff on how Victor Maitland's estate would be divided under the laws of inheritance and succession of New York State.

"The man left no will," Delaney told Galey. "But there's a wife and eighteen-year-old son. Also a mother and sister. I want to know who gets what. Understand?"

"Got it, Chief," Galey said. "I'm making notes. Wife and son, eighteen years old. Mother and sister. How do they split?"

"Right," Delaney said. "That's it."

"The sister a minor?"

"No," Delaney said, thankful he was talking to a sharp cop, "she's in her thirties. How soon do you think I can get it?"

"It'll be a couple of days, at least. But we'll try to light a fire under them."

"Good. Thank you. One more thing, sergeant-is that Art Theft and Forgery Squad still in existence?"

"Far as I know. It's a little outfit. Two or three guys. They work out of Headquarters. Want the extension?"

"Yes, please."

"Hold on."

In a minute, Sergeant Galey was back with the phone number and the name of the commanding officer, Lieutenant Bernard Wolfe.

Delaney made a note, thanked him, and hung up. Two more swallows of ale. Then he called the Art Theft and Forgery Squad. The line was busy. More ale. Busy signal again. More ale. He finally got through, but the lieutenant wasn't there. He left his name and number and asked that Wolfe call him as soon as possible.

He drained off the ale and began writing out a report of his conversations with Theodore and Alma Maitland. He had almost finished when the phone rang, and he continued writing as he picked it up.

"Chief Edward X. Delaney here."