"Did they ever visit his Mott Street studio?"

"I have no idea."

"He never told you they did?"

"No, never. What's all this about?"

Delaney asked: "Did your husband ever contribute to the living expenses of his mother and sister? To your knowledge?"

She laughed scornfully. "I doubt that very much. My husband rarely spent any money that did not contribute to his own pleasure."

"Belle Sarazen considered him a very generous man."

"I'm sure she would," Alma Maitland said furiously. "While I scrimped and saved to make ends meet."

Delaney looked around the room.

"Hardly poverty," he said mildly enough. "Mrs. Maitland, are you aware that unless other claims are filed, you and your son will probably be the sole beneficiaries of your husband's estate?"

"Estate!" she cried. "What estate? This apartment that can't even be sold in today's market for what we paid for it? Bank accounts that will barely cover outstanding bills?"

"The unsold paintings ..." Boone murmured.

"Oh yes!" she said, with something close to despair in her voice. "And how much of that will be left after Saul Geltman takes his share, and all the tax departments take theirs? I assure you, my husband did not leave me a wealthy woman. Far from it!"

Delaney looked at her closely.

"You have an independent income?" he guessed.

"Some," she said grudgingly. "It's no business of yours, but I suppose you could find out-if you haven't already. My father left me some municipal bonds. He, at least, knew a man's responsibility."

"What does that income amount to?" Delaney asked. "As you said, we can always find out."

"About twenty thousand a year," she said.

"Did your husband know of this income?"

"Of course he did." She paused, then sighed. "Twenty years ago it seemed a fortune. Today it's nothing."

"Somewhat more than nothing," Delaney said dryly, "but I won't argue the point. Mrs. Maitland, I have here the three sketches found in your husband's studio. I know you told me you knew none of his recent models, but I'd like you to take a look at these in case you may be able to identify the girl. I admit the face is just suggested, but there may be enough there."

He rose and, with Sergeant Boone's help, unrolled the drawings and held up each of the three for Alma Maitland's inspection.

"They're very good," she said softly.

"Aren't they?" Delaney said. "Recognize the girl?"

"No. Never saw her or anyone like her before. When will you be finished with these? They're part of the estate, you know."

"I'm well aware of that, madam. They'll be returned when our investigation is completed."

"And when will that be?" she demanded.

He didn't answer, but rolled up the drawings again and secured them with a rubber band. He signaled Boone, and the two moved toward the door. Then the Chief paused and turned back.

"Mrs. Maitland," he said, "one more thing ... Don't you think it odd that the only work of your husband we found in his studio were these three drawings?"

"Odd?" she said, puzzled. "Why odd?"

"You told us you were a model; you must have been in many artists' studios. We've been told that most painters usually have many works on hand. Unsold paintings. Half-finished works. Old things they don't want to sell. And so forth. Yet all we found in your husband's studio were these three sketches. Don't you think that odd?"

"No, I don't," she said. "My husband was a very successful artist. After he became famous, he sold off all his old work. He was not a sentimentalist; he kept nothing around to remind him of the old days. And his style changed very little; his early work was as good as his most recent paintings. As soon as he finished a new canvas, it was brought to Saul Geltman for sale. Whether I was told of it or not," she added bitterly.

"I see," Delaney said thoughtfully. "Thank you for your time. Do you plan to attend the preview of your husband's memorial show at the Geltman Galleries?"

"Of course," she said, surprised.

"Your son, also?"

"Yes, we'll both be there. Why?"

"We hope to see you then," Delaney said politely. "Good day, Mrs. Maitland."

They drove over to Jake Dukker's studio, and the Chief said to Boone: "What Jason T. Jason said about everyone lying to the cops-that's true. But there's something else he's going to learn: no one ever volunteers any information either. I'm talking about Dora and Emily Maitland up in Nyack. They said Victor visited them a couple of times a year. They answered my question. But you see the inadequacy of interrogation? If you don't ask the right questions, you find yourself farting around in leftfield. I came away with the impression that Victor was a cold-hearted bastard of a son who wanted as little as possible to do with his mother and sister. Didn't you get that feeling?"

"Absolutely," Boone said.

"Because I didn't ask how often did you see Victor. Instead I asked how often did he visit Nyack. Now Alma claims they came down frequently for lunches and dinners with son Victor, and it was one big happy family. Son of a bitch! It's my fault."

"No harm done, Chief," the sergeant said.

"Yes, harm done," Delaney said wrathfully. "Not just because Dora and Emily scammed us, but because now they'll think us pointy-heads and try it again on something else. Well, we shall see. We shall certainly, fucking-ay-right, see!"

They drove on a few minutes in silence, and then Abner Boone asked, somewhat timidly, "What she said about her independent income-twenty thousand a year. You think that's important?"

"No," Delaney said, still fuming. "All it proves is that Victor Maitland was as greedy as the whole slick, avaricious, grasping lot of them. Now we know why he married the Ice Maiden."

In the old elevator, rising with wheezing stubbornness to Jake Dukker's studio, Delaney said: "The second round. Bust in on them without warning. Keep them off balance. Alma reacted fast. You really think she was going out?"

"Wasn't she?" Boone said.

"I'd bet no," the Chief said. "Heard we were there, grabbed up a hat and gloves, and sallied forth. Not an intelligent woman, but shrewd. Let's see how Jake baby reacts."

He reacted as if a visit from police officers investigating a homicide was an everyday occurrence. Came out into the reception area to greet them friendlily, said he was finishing up a photography session and would be with them in a few minutes, offered them coffee, and disappeared. He was wearing a black leather jumpsuit decorated with gleaming metal studs. The pitted cheeks glistened with sweat, and his handshake slid.

True to his word, he welcomed them into the studio ten minutes later. The assistants were dismantling a set that apparently was designed to reproduce a middle-class, suburban living room. No models were present, but they heard dogs barking from somewhere.

"Flea spray," Dukker explained. "A print campaign. Don't get Fido's fleas in your upholstery. Use Fidoff. The hounds were easier to work with than the models. Let's go upstairs and relax."

He led the way up the spiral staircase, and offered them the lip-shaped couch again. They settled for more conventional chairs. Once again Dukker collapsed into the overstuffed baseball mitt.

"How are you coming?" he asked cheerily. "Anything new?"

They looked at him. He sat slumped far down, fingers laced across his bowling-ball belly. The black leather jumpsuit glistened, and so did his face and bare forearms. He smiled at them genially, showing his stained teeth.

"We timed it from here to Maitland's Mott Street studio," Delaney told him. "You could have made it."

The smile held, but all the mirth went out of it. Then it was just stretched mouth and wet teeth, framed by the droopy Stalin mustache.

"I told you I was up here with Belle Sarazen," Dukker said hoarsely.

"So you say," Boone shrugged. "So she says. Means nothing."

"What do you mean it means nothing?" Dukker said indignantly. "Do you really think-"

"She says you like to be spanked," Delaney said. "Is that also the truth?"

"And that you envied him," Boone said. "Hated him because he did his own thing, and you chased the buck."

"The bitch!" Jake Dukker shouted, jerking forward to the edge of his chair. "Are you going to listen-Let me tell you that she-I can't believe that you actually think I-Well, she sold him drugs-did she tell you that? I know it for a fact. Snappers. Poppers. She kept him supplied. Oh yes! For a fact. And she's got the goddamned nerve to-"

He stopped suddenly, fell back suddenly into the baseball mitt, put his knuckles to his mouth.

"I didn't," he mumbled. "I swear to God I didn't. I couldn't have killed him. Couldn't have."

"Why not?" Boone said.

"Well, because," Jake Dukker said. "I'm just not like that."

The two cops looked at each other. A unique alibi.

"We figure maybe you were in on it together," Chief Delaney said in a gentle, musing voice. "You both had reasons. Crazy reasons, but neither of you has what I'd call your normal, run-of-the-mill personality. You both come up here for lunch on that Friday. The models and assistants are downstairs. You duck out that doorway, take the elevator down, either drive or take the subway downtown, put Maitland's lights out, and come back. You could have managed it."

"Easy," Boone said. "I timed it. Myself."

"I don't believe this," Jake Dukker said, shaking his head from side to side. "I-do-not-believe-this. Jesus."

"It's possible," Edward X. Delaney smiled. "Isn't it? Come on, admit it; it's possible."

"You're going to arrest me?" Dukker said.

"Not today," Delaney said. "You asked us what's new. We're telling you-that we discovered you could have done it. Possibly. That's what's new."

They regarded him gravely as he gradually calmed, quieted, stopped gnawing his knuckles. He tried a smile. It came out flimsy.

"I get it," he said. "Just throwing a scare-right?"

They didn't answer.

"Nothing to it-right?"

"You ever go down to Maitland's studio?" Sergeant Boone asked. "Ever?"

"Well, sure," Dukker said nervously. "Once or twice. But not for months. Maybe not in a year."

"He have any paintings there?" Delaney demanded. "In the studio?"

"What?" Dukker said. "I don't understand."

They were coming at him so fast, from so many angles, he couldn't get set.

"In Maitland's studio," Delaney repeated. "Did he have paintings stacked against the walls? Like you have. Unsold stuff. Things he was working on. Old paintings."

"No," Dukker said. "Not much. He sold everything he did. He didn't keep things around. Geltman moved his stuff fast."

"And you said he was fast," Boone said. "A fast worker. He sold everything?"

"Sure he did. He could-"

"You on anything?" Delaney asked. "Pot? Pills? Or stronger? From Belle Sarazen?"

"What? Hell, no! A little grass now and then. Not from her."

"But she deals?" Boone said.

"I don't know. For sure. I swear I don't. But I hear things."

"You seemed sure enough about the poppers," Delaney said. "Why to Maitland? Was he hooked?"

"Jesus Christ, no! Just to give him a lift. You start a painting, you've got to be up."

"Not for sex?"

"Vic? No way! He was a goddamned stud. A stud!"

"You have a sheet?" Boone asked. "A criminal record?"

"Are you kidding?"

"We can find out. We're asking politely."

"Traffic tickets. Like that. And ..."

"And?" Delaney said.

"A party. A drug bust. They let us all go. I don't even know if they kept our names. But I'm telling you. See, I'm telling you."

"Fingerprinted?"