"That's right, sir. Just their whereabouts at the time of the homicide.
As of this morning, they hadn't gotten around to Otherton or Gerber."
"We'll have to double-check them all anyway. If we get the six new people, I want to assign one to each possible. But I want to question each of the patients personally. That means you or Jason Two will have to come with me to show your ID."
"I talked to Jason. He says he'll be finished with the biogs by tonight.
He'll call you."
"Good. I want you there when he makes his report. We'll hit Otherton this afternoon. We won't call her first; just barge in. The other four we'll have to brace in the evening or over the weekend. Sergeant, can you think of anything we should be doing that we're not?"
Boone had finished his sandwich. He sat back, lighted a cigarette.
"I'd like to get a lead on that ball peen hammer," he said.
"We didn't ask Isaac Kane if he had one."
"Don't worry," Delaney said. "We'll be getting back to that lad again. I can't see the two women owning a hammer like that-but you never know.
We'll have to lean on the four men. Maybe one of them is a do-it-yourself nut or does his own car repairs or something like that."
"How do you get rid of a hammer?" Boone said. "You can't burn it. The handle maybe, but not the head. And the first crew on the scene checked every sewer, catch basin, and garbage can in a ten-block area."
"If I was the killer," Delaney said, "I'd throw it in the river. Chances are good it'd never be found."
"Still," Boone said, "the perp might have--" But just then the phone rang, and Delaney rose to answer it. "I hope that's Suarez," he said.
"Edward X. Delaney here… Yes, Chief… Uh-huh.
That's fine… Monday will be just right… Of course. Maybe you and I can get together next week… Whenever you say… Thank you for your help, Chief."
He hung up and turned to Boone. "He didn't sound too happy about it, but six warm bodies are coming in Monday morning. I'll want you there; maybe you know some of those guys. More coffee?"
"Please. I'm just getting thawed."
"Well, drink up. Then we'll descend on Sylvia Mae Otherton. Sure as hell no woman with agoraphobia is going out on a day like this."
She lived in an old battleship of an apartment house on East 72nd Street between Park and Lexington Avenues. Boone drove around the block twice, trying to find a parking space, then gave up. He parked in front of the marquee, and when an indignant doorman rushed out, the Sergeant flashed his shield and quieted him down.
The cavernous lobby was lined with brownish marble that needed cleaning, and the steel Art Deco elevator doors obviously hadn't been polished in years. The carpeting was fretted, and the whole place had a musty odor.
"A mausoleum," Delaney muttered.
There was a marble-topped counter manned by an ancient wearing an old-fashioned hearing aid with a black wire that disappeared into the front of his alpaca jacket. Boone asked for Miss Sylvia Mae Otherton.
"And who shall I say is calling?" the gaffer asked in sepulchral tones.
The Sergeant showed his ID again, and the white eyebrows slowly rose.
The lobby attendant picked up the house phone and punched a three-digit number with a trembling forefinger. He turned his back to them; all they could hear was murmurs.
Then he turned back to them.
"Miss Otherton would like to know the purpose of your visit."
"Tell her we want to ask a few questions," Boone said. "It won't take long."
More murmurs.
"Miss Otherton says she is not feeling well and wonders if you can come back another time."
"No, we cannot come back another time," Boone said, beginning to steam.
"Ask her if she prefers to see us in her home or should we take her down to the station house and ask the questions there."
The white eyebrows rose even farther. More murmurs.
Then he hung up the phone.
"Miss Otherton will see you now," he said. "Apartment twelve-C." Then, his bleary eyes glistening, he leaned over the counter. "Is it about that doctor who got killed?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
They turned away.
"She was devastated," he called after them. "Just devastated."
"Damned old gossip," the Sergeant said angrily in the elevator. "By tonight everyone in the building will know Otherton had a call from the cops."
"Calm down," Delaney said. "Everyone loves a gruesome murder-especially an unsolved one. They'd like to think the perp will get away with it."
Boone looked at him curiously. "You really believe that, sir?"
"Sure," Delaney said cheerfully. "It feeds their fantasies.
They can dream of knocking off wife, husband, boss, lover, or that pain in the ass next door-and walking away from it scot-free." Boone pushed the buzzer at the door of apartment 12-C.
They waited. And waited. Finally they heard sounds of bolts being withdrawn, and the door opened a few inches, held by a chain still in place.
A muffled voice said, "Let me see your identification."
Obediently, the Sergeant passed his ID wallet through the chink. They waited. Then the door closed, the chain came off, and the door was opened wide.
.Wipe your feet on the mat," the woman said, "before you come in." They obeyed.
The apartment was so dimly lighted-heavy drapes drawn across all the windows-that it was difficult to make out much of anything. Heavy furniture loomed along the walls, and they had a muddled impression of an enormous overstuffed couch and two armchairs placed about a round cocktail table.
Delaney smelled sandalwood incense, and, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw vaguely Oriental wall hangings, a torn shoji used as a room divider.
The woman who faced them, head bowed, wadded tissue clutched in one hand, seemed as outlandish as her overheated apartment. She wore a loose garment of black lace over a lining of deep purple satin. The pointed hem came to her ankles, and her small feet were shod in glittery evening slippers.
She wore a torrent of necklaces: pearls and rhinestones and shells and wooden beads. Some were chokers and some hung to her shapeless waist.
Her plump fingers were equally adorned: rings on every finger, and some with two and three rings. And as if that weren't enough, stacks of bracelets climbed both arms from wrists to elbows.
"Miss Sylvia Mae Otherton?" Sergeant Boone asked.
The bowed head bobbed.
"I wonder if we might take off our coats, ma'am. We won't stay long, but it is warm in here."
"Do what you like," she said dully.
They took off their coats, and, holding them folded, hats; top, took seats on the couch. It was down-filled, and unexictedly they sank until they were almost swaddled.
The only illumination in the room came from a weak, blue-tinted bulb in an omate floor lamp of cast bronze shaped like a striking cobra. In this watery light they strained to see the features of Sylvia Mae Otherton when she folded herself slowly into one of the armchairs opposite them.
They could smell her perfume; it was stronger than the incense.
"Miss Otherton," Boone said gently, "as I suppose you've guessed, this concerns the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee.
We're talking to all his patients as part of our investigation. I know you'll want to help us find the person responsible for Doctor Ellerbee's death."
"He was a saint," she cried. "A saint!"
She raised her head at this last, and they got a clear look at her for the first time.
A fleshy face, now riddled with grief. Chalky makeup, round patches of rouge, and lips so caked with lipstick that they were cracked. Her black hair hung limply, uncombed, and long glass pendants dangled from her ears. Under brows plucked into thin carets her eyes were swollen and brimming.
"Miss Otherton," Boone continued, "it's necessary that we establish the whereabouts of Ellerbee's patients on the night of the crime. Where were you that Friday evening?"