There was a long memo from Chief Pauley to Deputy Commissioner Broughton speculating on the type of weapon used in the Lombard and Gilbert assaults. The phrase “a kind of ax or pick” was used, and Delaney knew Pauley was not far behind him.
At this point the news media had not yet made the Lombard-Gilbert connection. In fact, Gilbert’s attack earned only a few short paragraphs on inside pages. Just another street crime. Delaney considered a few moments whether to tip off Thomas Handry, then thought better of it. He’d learn soon enough, and meanwhile Chief Pauley would be free of the pressures of screaming headlines, crank calls, false confessions, and imitative crimes.
It was the timing of his own activities that concerned Captain Delaney most. He wanted to keep up with the flood of Operation Lombard reports. He wanted desperately to interrogate Monica Gilbert himself. He needed to visit Calvin Case, the crippled mountain climber, and learn what he could about ice axes. He wanted to check the progress of Christopher Langley without giving the sweet old man the feeling that he, Delaney, was leaning on him. And, of course, the two visits a day to Barbara in the hospital-that came first.
Two days after the Gilbert attack, while the victim floated off somewhere, living and not living, but still breathing, Delaney thought long and hard on how to approach Monica Gilbert. She was sure to be spending many hours at her husband’s bedside. And it was certain she would be guarded by Operation Lombard detectives, probably a two-man team outside her house, although there might be an interior man, too.
The Captain considered and rejected several involved plans for a clandestine meeting with her, unobserved by Operation Lombard. They all seemed too devious. He decided the best solution would be the obvious: he would call for an appointment, give his name, and then walk right up to her door. If he was braced or recognized by Broughton’s dicks he would use the same cover story he had prepared when he had gone to question the widow of Frank Lombard: as ex-commander of the 251st Precinct he had come to express his sympathy.
It worked-up to a point. He phoned, identified himself, made an appointment to see her at her home at 4:00 p.m., when she returned from Mother of Mercy. He thought it likely she would repeat the conversation to her guard, as she had been instructed. Or perhaps her phone was tapped. Anything was possible. So, when he walked over a few minutes before four, and one of the dicks in the unmarked police car parked outside her brownstone cranked down his window, waved, and called, “Hi, Captain,” he wasn’t surprised. He waved back, although he didn’t recognize the man.
Monica Gilbert was a strong, handsome woman, hairy, wearing a shapeless black dress that didn’t quite conceal heavy breasts, wide hips, pillar thighs. She had been brewing a pot of tea, and he accepted a cup gratefully. There were two little girls in the room, peeking out from behind their mother’s skirts. They were introduced to him as Mary and Sylvia, and he rose to bow gravely. They ran giggling from the room. He saw no sign of an interior guard.
“Milk?” she asked. “Sugar?”
“Thank you, no. I take it straight. How is your husband?”
“No change. Still in a coma. They don’t hold out much hope.”
She said all that in a flat monotone, not blinking, looking at him directly. He admired her control, knowing what it cost.
Her thick black hair, somewhat oily, was combed back from a wide, smooth brow and fell almost to her shoulders. Her large eyes appeared blue-grey, and were her best feature. The nose was long but proportionate. All of her was big. Not so much big as assertive. She wore no makeup, had made no effort to pluck heavy eyebrows. She was, he decided, a complete woman, but he knew instinctively she would respond to soft speech and a gentle manner.
“Mrs. Gilbert,” he said in a low voice, leaning forward to her, “I know you must have spent many hours with the police since the attack on your husband. This is an unofficial visit. I am not on active duty; I’m on leave of absence. But I was commander of this precinct for many years, and I wanted to express my regrets and sympathy personally.”
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sure everything is being done…”
“I assure you it is,” he said earnestly. “A great number of men are working on this case.”
“Will they get the man who did it?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “They will. I promise you that.”
She looked at him strangely a moment.
“You’re not involved in the investigation?”
“Not directly, no. But it did happen in my precinct. What was my precinct.”
“Why are you on leave of absence?”
“My wife is ill.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You live in the neighborhood?”
“Yes. Right next door to the precinct house.”
“Well, then you know what it’s like around here-robberies and muggings, and you can’t go out at night.”
“I know,” he nodded sympathetically. “Believe me, I know, and hate it more than you do.”
“He never hurt anyone,” she burst out, and he was afraid she might weep, but she did not.
“Mrs. Gilbert, will it upset you to talk about your husband?”
“Of course not. What do you want to know?”
“What kind of a man is he? Not his job, or his background-I’ve got all that. Just the man himself.”
“Bernie? The dearest, sweetest man who ever lived. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He worked so hard, for me and the girls. I know that’s all he thinks about.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Look around. Does it look like we’re rich?”
Obediently he looked around. In truth it was a modest apartment: linoleum on the floor, inexpensive furniture, paper drapes. But it was clean, and there were some touches: a good hi-fi set, on one wall an original abstraction that had color and flash, a small wooden piece of primitive sculpture that had meaning.
“Comfortable,” he murmured.
“Paradise,” she said definitely. “Compared to what Bernie had and what I had. It’s not right, Captain. It’s just not right.” He nodded miserably, wondering what he could say to comfort her. There was nothing. So he got on with it, still speaking in a quiet, gentle voice, hoping to soothe her.
“Mrs. Gilbert,” he asked, remembering Ferguson’s comment about the victim’s heart, “was your husband an active man?” Realizing he had used the past tense, he switched immediately to the present, hoping she hadn’t caught it. But the focus of her eyes changed; he realized she had, and he cursed himself. “I mean, is he active physically? Does he exercise? Play games?”
She stared at him without answering. Then she leaned forward to pour him another cup of tea. The black dress left her arms bare; he admired the play of muscle, the texture of her skin.
“Captain,” she said finally, “for a man not involved in the investigation, you’re asking a lot of unusual questions.”
He realized then how shrewd she was. He could try lying to her, but was convinced she’d know.
“Mrs. Gilbert,” he said, “do you really care how many men are working on this, or who they are, or what their motives are? The main thing is to catch the man who did it. Isn’t that true? Well, I swear to you, I want to find the man who struck down your husband more than you do.”
“No!” she cried. “Not more than I do.” Her eyes were glittering now, her whole body taut. “I want the one who did it caught and punished.”
He was astonished by her fury. He had thought her controlled, perhaps even phlegmatic. But now she was twanging, alive and fiery.
“What do you want?” he asked her. “Vengeance?”
Her eyes burned into his.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I want. Vengeance. If I answer your questions, will it help me get it?”
“I think so.”
“Not good enough, Captain.”
“Yes, if you answer my questions it will help find the man who did this thing to your husband.”