They walked home slowly through the warm, sticky summer night.
"Edward," Monica said, "back there in the restaurant you said you thought the killer would surrender quietly, with relief. Why relief?"
"I think she's getting tired," Delaney said, and explained to his wife why he believed that. "Also, Dr. Ho thinks that emotional stress could be triggering an Addisonian crisis. It all ties in: a sick woman coming to the end of her rope."
"Then you believe she is sick?"
"Physically, not mentally. She knows the difference between right and wrong. But the laws regarding insanity and culpability are so screwed-up that it's impossible to predict how a judge or jury might decide. They could say she's usually sane but killed in moments of overwhelming madness. Temporary insanity. It's really not important. Well, it is important, but it's not the concern of cops. Our only job is to stop her."
"Good luck tomorrow morning," Monica said faintly. "Will you call me?"
He took her arm.
"If you want me to," he said.
Edward X. Delaney slept well that night. In the morning he was amused to find himself dressing with special care for the meeting at Midtown Precinct North.
"Like I was going to a wedding," he mentioned to Monica. "Or a funeral."
He wore a three-piece suit of navy blue tropical worsted, a white shirt with starched collar, a wide cravat of maroon rep. His wife tucked a foulard square into the breast pocket of his jacket, one flowered edge showing. Delaney poked the silk down the moment he was out of the house.
As many men as possible crowded into the conference room upstairs at Midtown Precinct North. Lieutenant Crane, Sergeant Broderick, Boone, Bentley, Delaney, and Thorsen got the chairs. The others stood against the walls. Men milled about in the corridor outside, waiting for news. Good or bad.
"Okay, Tom," Sergeant Boone said to Broderick, "it's all yours."
"What I got here first," the detective sergeant said, "is an alphabetical list of female victims of Addison's living in Manhattan. Sixteen names."
"Right," Lieutenant Wilson T. Crane said, shuffling through the stack of typed lists in front of him. "What I have is a list of females who work or reside in Manhattan and who, one way or another, have access to a schedule of hotel conventions. Let's go…"
"First name," Broderick said, "is Alzanas. A-l-z-a-n-a-s. Marie. That's Marie Alzanas."
Lieutenant Crane pored over his list, flipped a page.
"No," he said, "haven't got her. Next?"
"Carson, Elizabeth J. That's C-a-r-s-o-n."
"Carson, Carson, Carson… I've got a Muriel Carson."
"No good. This one is Elizabeth J. Next name is Domani, Doris. That's D-o-m-a-n-i."
"No, no Domani."
"Edwards, Marilyn B. E-d-w-a-r-d-s."
"No Marilyn B. Edwards."
The roll call of names continued slowly. The other men in the room were silent. The men in the hallway had quieted. They could hear noises from downstairs, the occasional sound of a siren starting up. But their part of the building seemed hushed, waiting…
"Jackson," Sergeant Broderick intoned. "Grace T. Jackson. J-a-c-k-s-o-n."
"No Grace T. Jackson," Lieutenant Crane said. "Next?"
"Kohler. K-o-h-l-e-r. First name Zoe. Z-o-e. That's Zoe Kohler."
Crane's finger ran down the page. Stopped. He looked up.
"Got her," he said. "Zoe Kohler."
A sigh like a wind in the room. Men slumped, expressionless. They lighted cigarettes.
"All right," Sergeant Boone said, "finish the list. There may be more than one."
They waited quietly, patiently, while Sergeant Broderick completed his list of names. Zoe Kohler was the only name duplicated on Crane's convention schedule access list.
"Zoe Kohler," Delaney said. "Where did you find her, Broderick?"
"She bought a medical ID bracelet for Addison's disease and an emergency kit at a pharmacy on Twenty-third Street."
"Crane?" the Chief asked.
"We've got her listed at the Hotel Granger on Madison and Forty-sixth Street. Access to the hotel trade magazine that publishes the convention schedule every week."
They stared at each other, looks going around the room, no one wanting to speak.
"Sergeant," Delaney said to Abner Boone, "is Johnson down at Midtown South?"
"If he's not there, one of his guys will be. The phone is manned."
"Give him a call. Ask if the Hotel Granger, Madison and Forty-sixth, is on the list of tear gas customers."
They all listened as Boone made the call. He asked the man at the other end to check the list for the Hotel Granger. He heard the reply, grunted his thanks, hung up. He looked around at the waiting men.
"Bingo," he said softly. "The security chief at the Granger bought the stuff. Four pocket-size spray dispensers and three grenades."
Sergeant Broderick pushed his chair back with a clatter.
"Let's pick her up," he said loudly.
Delaney whirled on him furiously.
"What are you going to do?" he demanded. "Beat a confession out of her with a rubber hose? What kind of a garbage arrest would that be? She's got Addison's disease, she reads a hotel trade magazine, and the place where she works bought some tear gas. Take that to the DA and he'll throw your ass out the window."
"What do you suggest, Edward?" Thorsen asked.
"Button her up. At least two men on her around the clock. Better include a policewoman in the tail, in case she goes into a John. Put an undercover man where she works. Broderick, where does she live?"
The sergeant consulted his file.
"Thirty-ninth Street, east. The address sounds like it would be near Lex."
"Probably an apartment house. If it is, get an undercover man in there as a porter or something. Find a friendly judge and get a phone tap authorization. Around the clock. I mean, know exactly where she is every minute of the day and night. Where she goes. Who her friends are. It'll give us time to do more digging."
"Like what, Chief?" Boone said.
"A lot of things. How did she get hold of the tear gas, for instance. Get a photo of her with a long-distance lens and show it to that waiter at the Tribunal and to the cocktail waitress out on the Coast."
"I've got her doctor's name and address," Sergeant Broderick offered.
"It's a possibility," Delaney said. "He probably won't talk, but it's worth a try. The important thing is to keep this woman covered until she proves out, one way or the other. Meanwhile, Broderick, I suggest you check the rest of your lists against Lieutenant Crane's. There may be more duplications."
Deputy Thorsen, Delaney, and Boone left the conference room and went into the sergeant's office. The men in the corridor had heard the news and were talking excitedly.
"Sergeant," the Chief said, "you're going to have your hands full keeping a lid on this. If Zoe Kohler's name gets to reporters, and they print it, we're finished. She'll go back into the woodwork."
"Wait a minute, Edward," Thorsen said. "What are you figuring-that she'll try another kill, and we catch her at it?"
"It may come to that," Delaney said grimly. "I hope not, but it may turn out to be the only way we can make a case. She's due again late this month."
"Jesus," Sergeant Boone breathed, "that's a dangerous way to make a case. If we fuck it up, we'll have another stiff on our hands and we'll all be out on the street."
"It may be the only way," Delaney insisted stubbornly. "I don't like it any more than you do, but we may have to let her try. Meanwhile, make sure your men keep their mouths shut."
"Yeah," Boone said, "I better give them the word right now."
"And while you're at it," the Chief said, "call Johnson again. Tell him not to send a man to check out that tear gas at the Hotel Granger until we figure out how to handle it and give him the word."