So Chief Edward X. Delaney worked away at his files, trying to create order from the murder of Victor Maitland.

The dinner was fine, the roast of beef blood-rare, the way Delaney liked it. Monica and the girls took their slices from the well-done ends; he liked his from the dripping middle. They had a California jug burgundy; Mary and Sylvia were each allowed one glass, cut half-and-half with water.

The girls went upstairs to their homework. Delaney helped Monica clear the table, put leftovers away, stack the dishwasher. Then they took second cups of coffee into the living room. He began telling her about the Maitland murder. He had learned a long time ago, when Barbara was alive, that it helped him to verbalize a case to an attentive listener. Even if the listener could offer no constructive suggestions, sometimes the questions-untrained, ingenuous-opened new paths of inquiry, or forced Delaney to re-examine his own thinking.

Monica listened intently, her eyes squinching with pain as he described what had happened to Victor Maitland. Remembering what had happened to her first husband, Bernard Gilbert ...

"Edward," she said, when he had finished, "it could have been a robber, couldn't it?"

"A burglar."

"A burglar, a mugger ... whatever."

"Could have been," he acknowledged. "What about the unlocked door? No sign of forced entry."

"Maybe he just forgot to lock the door."

"Maybe. But he had been ripped off twice before. And he hated interruptions while he was painting. His wife and his agent both say he was paranoiac about it. He always locked up."

"Like you," she said.

"Yes," he smiled. "Like me. Also, he was stabbed several times. Someone spent a lot of time on that. A chance mugger might stab him once, or twice, but he probably wouldn't stand over him plunging the knife again and again. Once Maitland was down and obviously incapable of resistance, a thief would go to work stripping the place. All right, maybe the thief killed him so Maitland couldn't identify him later from mug shots. But if Maitland saw him, then he should have been facing him and the wounds would be in the front. Follow? I'm just going by percentages. Maitland's wallet was taken, true, but it could have been an attempt to make it look like a heist. There was an expensive portable radio that wasn't touched, and a box of snappers in plain view on a dresser top."

"What are snappers?"

"Ampules of amyl nitrite. You break them and sniff. Supposed to increase your sexual power. Want me to try them?"

"No, thanks, dear. I don't think I could take it."

"God bless you," he said. "Anyway, snappers-sometimes they're called poppers-are used legitimately to treat heart disorders. By prescription only. But of course they're sold on the street. Maitland had no record of heart trouble, and his doctor never prescribed amyl nitrite for him. The detectives on the case made a half-assed effort to find out where Maitland was buying, but came up with a big, fat naught. It's one of the things I want to go into more thoroughly."

"You think there's a drug angle?"

"Oh no. The PM said no evidence of habituation. No, I don't think drugs had any great importance in this. The snappers are just a loose end. But they might lead to something that leads to something. I don't like loose ends."

"You said the autopsy report said he had been drinking."

"Moderately, that morning. But I think he hit it pretty hard; his liver was enlarged. There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey in the studio, on a crate where he had been sketching. The bottle was dusted, but all they got were Maitland's prints, smudges, and a few partials of someone else. Not enough for a make. Ditto for a glass that was on the sink. It had held whiskey, the same brand that was in the bottle. Which tells us exactly nothing."

"Maybe the killer had a drink after-after he did what he did."

"Maybe," Delaney said dubiously, "but I doubt it. The bottle was at one end of the studio, the sink at the other. If the murderer had had a drink, bottle and glass would probably be close together. You said,'-after he did what he did.' He. How about a woman? Female killers frequently use knives. At least, more often than they do guns. Percentages again."

"I don't think a woman would stab him so many times."

"Why not?"

"I don't know ... It just seems so-so awful."

"Man or woman, it was just awful. All those stabs indicate hot blood, fury, or just an absolute need to make certain the man was dead. The strange thing is that whoever did it didn't kill him after all. Not right then. After a dozen stab wounds, he was still alive. He finally bled to death."

"Oh Edward ..."

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, reaching out to touch her. "It upsets you. I shouldn't have started talking about it. I won't discuss it with you again."

"Oh no," she protested. "I want to hear about it. It's interesting. Fascinating, in a horrible kind of way. No, talk to me about it, Edward. Maybe I can help."

"You can, just by listening."

The doorbell chimed, and she rose to answer it.

"I still don't think it was a woman," she said firmly.

He smiled after her. He didn't think it was a woman either, but not for her reasons. He didn't think so because the PM had mentioned that several of the knife blows had been delivered with such force that the blade had penetrated completely, and the killer's knuckles had bruised the surrounding flesh. That indicated powerful thrusts, masculine power. Still, it might have been an extremely strong woman. Or an extremely enraged woman ...

Chief Delaney's memory had been accurate: Detective Sergeant Abner Boone was a tall, thin, shambling man, with floppy gestures, and a way of tilting his head to one side when he spoke. His hair was more gingery than sandy. His skin was pale and freckled. He was, Delaney guessed, somewhere between thirty and thirty-five; it was difficult to judge. He had the kind of face that would change very little in sixty years. Then, suddenly, he would be an old man.

There was an awkward, farmerish quality in his manner, in the way he bowed slightly over Monica's hand and murmured shyly, "Pleased, ma'am." His grip was firm enough and dry enough when he shook Delaney's hand, but when he was seated in one of the cracked-leather club chairs in the study, he didn't seem to know what to do with his hands-or feet either, for that matter. He kept crossing and recrossing his ankles, and he finally thrust his hands into the pockets of his worn tweed jacket. To hide a tremor, Delaney guessed.

"Would you like something?" the Chief asked. "We have some rare roast beef. How about a sandwich?"

"No, thank you, sir," Boone said faintly. "Nothing to eat. But I'd appreciate coffee. Black, please."

"I'll get a thermos," Delaney said.

When he went into the kitchen, Monica was emptying the dishwasher, putting things away on the shelves.

"What do you think?" he asked her in a low voice.

"I like him," she said promptly. "He seems so innocent."

"Innocent!"

"Well, kind of boyish. Very polite. Is he married?"

He stared at her.

"I'll find out," he said. "If not, you can alert Rebecca. Matchmaker!"

"Why not?" she giggled. "Don't you want the whole world to be as happy as we are?"

"They couldn't endure it," he assured her.

Back in the study, he poured steaming coffee for both of them. Boone picked up his cup from the tray with both hands. Now the tremor was obvious.

"I suppose Deputy Commissioner Thorsen told you what the deal is?" Delaney started.

"Just that I'll be working under you on a continuing investigation of the Maitland thing. He said it's okay to use my own car; he'll cover me on expenses."

"Right," Delaney nodded. "What kind of car?"

"Four-door black Pontiac."

"Good. As long as it isn't one of those little sporty jobs. I like to stretch my legs."

"It's not very sporty," Boone smiled wanly. "Six years old. But pretty good condition."

"Fine. Now-" Delaney paused. "What do I call you? Boone? Abner? Ab? What did the men call you?"

"Mostly they called me Daniel."

Delaney laughed.

"Should have known," he said. "Well, I prefer sergeant, if it's all right with you?"

Boone nodded gratefully.

"I'll try to work regular hours," Delaney said. "But you may have to put in weekends. Better warn your wife."

"I'm not married," the sergeant said.

"Oh?"

"Divorced."

"Ah. Live alone?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll want your address and phone number before you leave. How much time did you put in on the Maitland case?"

"My squad was in on it from the start," Boone said. "I got there right after the body was found. Then we were in on questioning the family, friends, acquaintances, and so forth."

"What was your take? Someone he knew?"

"Had to be. He was a big, hefty guy. And mean. He could have put up a fight. But he turned his back on someone he knew."

"No signs of a struggle?"

"None. The studio was a mess. I mean all cluttered. But the agent said it was always like that. It was the way Maitland lived. But no signs of a fight. No chairs knocked over or anything broken. Nothing like that. He turned his back, bought it, and went down. That simple."

"Woman?" Delaney asked.

"Don't think so, sir. But possible."

Delaney thought a moment.

"Your squad check the snappers?"

Boone was confused, twisting his fingers.

"Uh-ah-I really don't know about the snappers, Chief. I got taken off the case. Thorsen tell you? About my trouble?"

"He told me," Delaney said grimly. "He also told me that if you fuck up once more, you're out."

Boone nodded miserably.

"When did it start?" Delaney asked. "The divorce?"

"No," Boone said. "Before that. The divorce was one of the results, not the cause."

"A lot of cops crawl into a bottle," Delaney said. "Pressures. The filth."

"The pressures I could take," Boone said, raising his head. "I took them for almost ten years. The filth got to me. What people do. To each other. To themselves. I was handling it-the disgust, I mean-then I caught a sex case. Two beautiful little girls. Sisters. Cut. Burned. Everything. It pushed me over the edge. No excuse. Just an explanation. The only choice was to get hard or to get drunk. I had to sleep."

"You're not a religious man?"

"No," Boone said. "I was a Baptist originally, but I don't work at it."

"Well, sergeant," Edward X. Delaney said coldly, "don't expect any sympathy from me. Or advice. You're a grown man; it's your choice. If you can't hack it, I'll have to tell Thorsen to give me someone else."

"I know that, sir."

"As long as you know it. Let's get back to the case ... I've read the file, but I'll have some questions on your personal reactions as we go along. For instance, what's your take on Maitland?"

"Everyone says he was the greatest painter in the country, but an A-Number-One shit. Some evidence he beat his wife. His son hated him. Still does, I guess. Humiliated his agent in public. Always getting into brawls. I mean breaking up bars and restaurants. A mean drunk. Got beaten up himself several times. Things like insulting a woman who was with a guy bigger than Maitland. Crazy things. Like he wanted to be kicked to hell and gone. A hard guy to figure. I guess he had talent to burn, but he was one miserable human being."

"Miserable?" Delaney picked up on that. "You mean he himself was miserable, like sad, or he was a poor excuse for a human being?"

Boone pondered a moment.

"Both ways, I'd guess," he said finally. "A very complex guy. Before I got taken off the case, I bought a book of his paintings and went to see the ones in the Geltman Galleries and in the museums. I figured if I could get a handle on the guy, maybe it would help me find who offed him, and why."

Delaney looked at him with surprised admiration.

"Good idea," he said. "Learn anything?"

"No, sir. Nothing. Maybe it was me. I don't know much about painting."

"You still have that book? Of Maitland's paintings?"

"Sure. It's around somewhere."

"Can I borrow it?"

"Of course."

"Thank you. Tomorrow's Friday. The PM says he was knocked on Friday, between ten and three in the afternoon. Can you pick me up tomorrow morning around nine? I want to go down to that Mott Street studio and look around. And the neighborhood. We'll be there from ten to three, when it happened."