"Could it be a man wearing a long black wig? Dressed like a woman?"
"Could be," he said. "There's so much in this case that has no connection with anything in my experience. It's like someone came down from outer space and offed those salesmen."
"The poor wives," she said sadly. "And children."
"Yes," he said. He finished his brandy. "The whole thing is a puzzle. A can of worms. I know how Boone feels. So many contradictions. So many loose ends. Finish your drink."
Obediently, she drained the last of her brandy, handed him the empty snifter. He took the two glasses into the bathroom, rinsed them, set them in the sink to drain. He turned off the bathroom light. He came back to Monica's bedside to swoop and kiss her cheek.
"Sleep well, dear," he said.
"After that?" she said. "Thanks a lot."
"You wanted to hear," he reminded her. "Besides, the brandy will help."
He got into his own bed, turned off the bedside lamp.
"Get a good night's sleep," Monica muttered drowsily. "I love you."
"I love you," he said, and pulled sheet and blanket up to his chin.
He went through all the permutations and combinations in his mind: man, woman, prostitute, homosexual, transvestite. Even, he considered wildly, a transsexual. That would be something new.
He lay awake, wide-eyed, listening. He knew the moment Monica was asleep. She turned onto her side, her breathing slowed, became deeper, each exhalation accompanied by a slight whistle. It didn't annoy him any more than his own grunts and groans disturbed her.
He was awake a long time, going over Boone's account again and again. Not once did he pause to wonder why the investigation interested him, why it obsessed him. He was retired; it was really none of his business.
If his concern had been questioned, he would have replied stolidly: "Well… two human beings have been killed. That's not right."
He turned to peer at the bedside clock. Almost 2:30 a.m. But he couldn't let it go till tomorrow; he had to do it now.
He slid cautiously out of bed, figuring to get his robe and slippers from the closet. He was halfway across the darkened room when:
"What's wrong?" came Monica's startled voice.
"I'm sorry I woke you up," he said.
"Well, I am up," she said crossly. "Where are you going?"
"Uh, I thought I'd go downstairs. There's a call I want to make."
"Abner Boone," she said instantly. "You never give up, do you?"
He said nothing.
"Well, you might as well call from here," she said. "But you'll wake him up, too."
"No, I won't," Delaney said with certainty. "He won't be sleeping."
He sat on the edge of his bed, switched on the lamp. They both blinked in the sudden light. He picked up the phone.
"What's their number?" he asked.
She gave it to him. He dialed.
"Yes?" Boone said, picking up after the first ring. His voice was clogged, throaty.
"Edward X. Delaney here. I hope I didn't wake you, sergeant."
"No, Chief. I thought I'd pass out, but I can't get to sleep. My brain is churning."
"Rebecca?"
"No, sir. She'd sleep through an earthquake."
"Sergeant, did you check into the backgrounds of the victims? The personal stuff?"
"Yes, sir. Sent a man out to Denver and Akron. If you're wondering about their homosexual records, it's nit. For both of them. No sheets, no hints, no gossip. Apparently both men were straight."
"Yes," Delaney said, "I should have known you'd look into that. One more thing…"
Boone waited.
"You said that after the second homicide, the Crime Scene Unit found two black hairs on the back of an armchair?"
"That's correct, sir. And one on the pillow. All three were black nylon."
"It's the two they found on the armchair that interest me. Did they take photographs?"
"Oh, hell yes. Hundreds of them. And made sketches. To help the cartographer."
"Did they photograph those two hairs on the armchair before they picked them up?"
"I'm sure they did, Chief. With a ruler alongside to show size and position."
"Good," Delaney said. "Now what you do is this: Get that photograph of the exact position of the two hairs on the armchair. Take a man with you from the Lab Services Unit or the Medical Examiner's office. Go back to the murder scene and find that armchair. Measure carefully from the point where the hairs were found to the seat of the chair. Got that? Assuming the hairs came from the killer, you'll get a measurement from the back of his head to the base of his spine. From that, the technicians should be able to give you the approximate height of the killer. It won't be exact, of course; it'll be a rough approximation. But it'll be something."
There was silence a moment. Then:
"Goddamn it!" Boone exploded. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"You can't think of everything," Delaney said.
"I'm supposed to," Boone said bitterly. "That's what they're paying me for. Thank you, sir."
"Good luck, sergeant."
When he hung up, he saw Monica looking at him with wonderment.
"You're something, you are," she said.
"I just wanted to help him out."
"Oh sure."
"I really am sorry I woke you up," he said.
"Well," she said, "so it shouldn't be a total loss…"
She reached for him.
Chapter 3
Zoe Kohler had read the autobiography of a playwright who had suffered from mental illness. He had been confined for several years.
He said it was not true that the insane thought themselves sane. He said that frequently the mad knew themselves to be mad. Either they were unable to fight their affliction, or had no desire to. Because, he wrote, there were pleasures and beauties in madness.
The phrase "pleasures and beauties" stuck in her mind; she thought of it often. The pleasures of madness. The beauties of madness.
On the afternoon after her second adventure (that was what Zoe Kohler called them: "adventures"), Everett Pinckney came into her office at the Hotel Granger. He parked his lank form on the edge of her desk. He leaned toward her; she smelled the whiskey.
"There's been another one," he said in a low voice.
She looked at him, then shook her head.
"I don't understand, Mr. Pinckney."
"Another murder. A stabbing. This one at the Pierce. Just like that one at the Grand Park last month. You read about that?"
She nodded.
"This one was practically identical," he said. "Same killer."
"How awful," she said, her face twisting with distaste.
"It looks like another Son of Sam," he said with some relish.
She sighed. "I suppose the newspapers will have a field day."
"They're trying to keep the connection out of the papers. For the time being. Not good news for the hotel business. But it's got to come out, sooner or later."
"I suppose so," she said.
"They'll catch him," he said, getting off her desk. "It's just a question of time. How are you feeling today?"
"Much better, thank you."
"Glad to hear it."
She watched him shamble from her office.
"Him," he had said. "They'll catch him." They thought it was a. man; that was comforting. But what Pinckney had said about the newspapers-that was exciting.
She looked up the telephone number of The New York Times. It was an easy number to remember. She stopped at the first working phone booth she could find on her way home that night.
She tried to speak in a deep, masculine voice, and told the Times operator that she wanted to talk to someone about the murder at the Hotel Pierce. There was a clicking as her call was transferred. She waited patiently.
"City desk," a man said. "Gardner."
"This is about that murder last night at the Hotel Pierce," she said, trying to growl it out.
"Yes?"