Symington swiveled his head to look carefully over both shoulders, as if suspecting someone might be listening. Then he leaned even closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.
“About six months ago-it was on a Friday night-I was crossing First Avenue.
I had just had dinner at Lucky Pierre’s.
That’s a marvelous restaurant-really the yummiest escargots in New York. Anyway, it was about nine o’clock, and I was crossing First Avenue, and there, stopped for a light, was Doctor Ellerbee. I saw him plain as day, but he didn’t see me.
He was driving his new green Jaguar. Then the light changed and he headed uptown. Now I ask you, what does that suggest?”
Konigsbacher was bewildered.
“That he had been somewhere?”
“Somewhere with someone. And obviously not his wife; she was nowhere to be seen; he was alone in the car.”
“I don’t know, Vince,” the Kraut said doubtfully.
“He could have been anywhere. Seeing a patient, for instance, or at a hospital. Anything.” Symington said, sitting back and smirking with satisfaction, “that’s not the only thing. I could tell the cops but won’t. Let them do their own dirty work.”
“Very wise. You keep out of it.”
“Oh, I intend to. I don’t want to get involved.”
onigsbacher peered at his watch.
“Oh dear,” he said, “it’s later than I thought. I’ll have to split.”
“Must you, Ross?”
“I’m afraid so, Vince,” the Kraut said, having decided to play this fish slowly.
“Thank you for a lovely evening. I really enjoyed it.”
“It was fun, wasn’t it? Do you think you might drop in here again?”
“I think I might. Like tomorrow night.”
They both laughed, beamed at each other, shook hands lingeringly. Konigsbacher departed, leaving the other man to pick up the tab. Fuck him.
Driving home to Riverdale, the Kraut went over the night’s conversation. Not much, but a hint of goodies to come. He’d put it A in his report and let Delaney sort it out.
Edward X. Delaney read the report with something less than admiration. He knew what the Kraut was doing and didn’t like it. But after thinking it over, he decided to let the detective run and see what he turned up. Delaney wasn’t about to indulge in a soggy philosophical debate over whether or not the end justified the means. He had more immediate concerns.
The techs reported on the ball peen hammer lifted from the trunk of Ronald Bellsey’s Cadillac. Negative. Not only no bloodstains, but no indications, even, that the damned thing had been recently used. Sergeant Boone did another lockpicking job and slipped it back into the trunk.
The problem of the late patient continued to nag Delaney.
He kept thinking he had solved it, only to find he had uncovered a bigger mystery.
Going through Simon Ellerbee’s appointment book for the umpteenth time, he noted that occasionally late patients were scheduled-6-.00, 7:00, 8:00, and even 9:00 P.M. He attempted to see if there was any pattern, if certain patients habitually made late appointments.
He then reasoned that late patients who were not scheduled in the appointment book-the ones who made panicky phone calls-would certainly be noted in Dr. Ellerbee’s billing ledger. Hadn’t Carol Judd said that the doctor would leave a note on her desk the next morning, telling her to bill so-and-so for an evening session?
it made sense, but he could find no billing ledger, or anything that resembled it, among the records sent over by Suarez’s investigative team. He and Boone spent a frustrating afternoon on the phone, trying to locate it.
Dr. Diane Ellerbee said yes, her husband had kept such a financial journal, with each session noted: name of patient, date, and time. She assumed the police had taken it when they gathered up the rest of Simon’s records.
Carol Judd also said yes, there had been such a billing ledger. She kept it in the top drawer of her desk in the outer office, and used it to send out invoices and statements to patients.
Dr. Diane, when he called back, agreed to make a search for the journal, and then phoned to say she could not find it in the receptionist’s desk, her husband’s office, or anywhere else.
Boone talked to the Crime Scene Unit men and the detective who had taken all the files from the victim’s office. None of them could recall seeing anything resembling a billing ledger’all right,” Delaney said, “so it is missing. Did the killer grab it? Probably. Why? Because it would show how often he or she had been a late patient.”
“I don’t get it,” Boone said.
“Sure you do. We add up the number of sessions for one particular patient in one month, as noted in the appointment book. Then we compare that to the patient’s total billing for the month. If the bill is higher than it should be by, say, a hundred bucks, we can figure that the patient had one unscheduled session.”
“Now I get it,” Boone said.
“But it’s all smoke if we can’t find the damned ledger.”
Delaney learned more about the business practices of psychiatrists from Monica, who, as promised, had talked to her friends who were in analysis.
“They said their doctors generally sent monthly bills,” she reported. “Sometimes it gets complicated when the patient has medical insurance that includes psychotherapy. And some companies have health plans for their employees that pay all or part of psychological counseling fees.”
“What does the shrink do if the patient can’t or won’t pay?”
“Gets rid of them,” Monica said.
“The theory is that if you pay for therapy, it’ll seem more valuable to you. If you get it for nothing, that’s what you’ll think it’s worth. Some shrinks will carry patients for a while if they’re having temporary money problems. And some shrinks will adjust their fees or accept stretched-out payments. But no psychiatrist is going to work for free, except for charity. Which reminds me, buster how much are you getting for all the hours you’re putting in on the Ellerbee case?”
“Bupkes is what I’m getting,” Delaney said.
Thanksgiving Day arrived at just the right time to provide a much needed respite from records, reports, and unanswered questions.
The roast goose, with wild rice and brandied apples, was pronounced a success. Rebecca Boone had brought a rum cake for dessert, soaked with liquor. She had even prepared a little one, without rum, for her husband.
. They carried dessert and coffee into the living room, and lounged in soft chairs with plates of cake on their laps and didn’t even mention the Ellerbee case-for at least three minutes.
“You’ll laugh at me,” Rebecca said, “but I think a total stranger did it.”
“Brilliant,” her husband said.
“The doctor wouldn’t buzz the downstairs door for a stranger, and there were no signs of forced entry. So how did the stranger get in?”
“That’s easy. He waited in the shadows, maybe behind a parked car, and when the late patient arrived, the killer rushed right in after him, threatening him with the hammer or a gun or knife. And that’s why,” she finished triumphantly, “there were two sets of footprints on the carpeting.”
“It’s possible,” Delaney admitted.
“Anything’s possible.
But why would a stranger want to kill Doctor Ellerbee? There were no drugs on the premises, and nothing was missing except that damned billing ledger. I can’t believe Ellerbee was murdered for that.”
The killer was in love with Diane Ellerbee,” Monica said flatly, “and wanted the husband out of the way so he could marry the widow.” -That’s sufficient motive,” Delaney acknowledged, “if we could find the tiniest scrap of evidence that Doctor Diane had been playing around-which we can’t.”
“Maybe she wasn’t playing around,” Monica said.
“Maybe the killer had a crazy passion for her that she wasn’t even aware of.”
“Why do people murder?” Rebecca asked.
Delaney shrugged.
“A lot of reasons. Greed, fear, anger, jealousy-the list goes on and on. Sometimes the motive is so trivial that you can’t believe anyone would kill because of it.”
“I had a case once,” Sergeant Boone said, “where a guy stabbed his neighbor to death because the man’s dog barked too much. And another where a guy shot his wife because she burned a steak while she was broiling it.”
“Did you ever have a case,” Monica asked, “where a wife killed her husband because he ate sandwiches while leaning over the kitchen sink?”
The Boones laughed. Even Delaney managed a weak grin.
“What do you think the motive was in the Ellerbee case?” Rebecca asked.
“Nothing trivial,” Delaney said, “that’s for sure. Something deep and complex. What do you think it was, Sergeant?”
“I don’t know,” Boone said.
“But I doubt if it was money.”
“Then it must have been love,” his wife said promptly.
“I’m sure it had something to do with love.”
She was a short, plump, jolly woman with a fine complexion and long black hair falling loosely about her shoulders.
Her eyes were soft, and there was a cherub’s innocence in her expression. She was wearing a tailored flannel suit, but nothing could conceal her robust grace.
Delaney was aware that she treated him with a deferential awe, and it embarrassed him. Monica addressed Boone familiarly as Abner or Ab, but Rebecca wouldn’t dare address Delaney as Edward. And since Mr. Delaney was absurdly formal, she simply used no name or title at all.
“Why do you think love was the motive, Rebecca?” he asked her.
“I just feel it.”
The Sergeant burst out laughing.
“There’s hard evidence for you, sir,” he said.
“Let’s take that to the DA tomorrow.” Later that night, when they were preparing for bed, he said to Monica, “Do you agree with Rebecca-that love was the motive for Ellerbee’s murder?”
“I certainly think it was involved,” she said.
“If it wasn’t money, it had to be love.”
“I wish I could be as sure of anything,” he said grouchily, “as you are of everything.”
“You asked me, so I told you.”
“If you women are right,” he said, “maybe we should forget about checking out violence-prone patients and concentrate on love-prone patients.”
“Are there such animals?” she asked.
“Love-prone people?”
“Of course there are. Men who go from woman to woman, needing love to give their life meaning. And women who fall in love at the drop of a hat-or a pair of pants.”
“You’re a very vulgar man,” she said.
“That’s true,” he agreed.
“Has Rebecca put on weight?”
“Maybe a pound or two.”
“She’s not pregnant, is she?”
“Of course not. Why do you ask that?”
“I don’t know … there was a kind of glow about her tonight. I just thought …”
“If she were pregnant, she’d have told me.”
“I guess. If they are going to have children, they better get cracking-if you’ll excuse another vulgarism. Neither of them is getting any younger.”
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, dangling one of his shoes. Monica came over, plumped down on his lap, put a warm arm about his neck.
“I wish you and I had children, Edward.”
“We do. I think of your girls as mine. And I know you think of my kids as yours.”
“It’s not the same,” she said.
“You know that. I mean a child who’s truly ours.”
“It’s a little late for that,” he said.
“Isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” she said sadly.
“I’m just dreaming.”
“Besides,” he added, “would you want the father of your child to be a man who eats sandwiches leaning over the kitchen sink?”
“I apologize,” she said, laughing, “I shouldn’t have mentioned that in front of company, but I couldn’t resist it.”
Before she released him, she put her face close to his, stared into his eyes, said, “Do you love me, Edward?”
“I love you. I don’t want to think how empty and useless my life would be without you.” She kissed the tip of his nose, and he asked, “What brought that on?”
“All the talk tonight about love and murder,” she said.
“It bothered me. I just wanted to make sure the two don’t necessarily go together.”
“They don’t,” he said slowly, “Not necessarily.”
No one knew how or where the expression started, but that year everyone in the Department was using “rappaport.”
Street cops would say, “I get good rappaport on my beat.”
Detectives would say of a particular snitch, “I got a good rappaport with that guy.”
Actually, when you analyzed it, it was a useful portmanteau word. Not only did you have rapport with someone, but you could rap with them. It fit the bill.
Detective Robert Keisman figured to establish a rappaport with Harold Gerber, the Vietnam vet. The black cop, skinny as a pencil and graceful as a fencer, knew what it was like to feel anger eating at your gut like an ulcer; he thought he and Gerber,would have a lot in common … .. Until he met Gerber, and saw how he lived.
“This guy is a real bonzo,” he told Jason.
But still, intent on establishing a rappaport, Keisman costumed himself in a manner he thought wouldn’t offend the misanthropic vet: worn jeans, old combat boots, a scruffy leather jacket with greasy buckskin fringe, and a crazy cap with limp earflaps.
He didn’t mislead Gerber; he told him he was an NYPD dick assigned to the Ellerbee case. And in their first face-to-face, he asked the vet the same questions Delaney and Boone had asked, and got the same answers. But the Spoiler acted like he didn’t give a shit whether Gerber was telling the truth or not.
“I’m just putting in my time, man,” he told the vet.
“They’re never going to find out who offed Ellerbee, so why should I bust my hump?”
Still, every day or so Keisman would put away his elegant Giorgio Armani blazer and Ferragamo slacks. Then, dressed like a Greenwich Village floater, he’d go visit Gerber.
“Come on, man,” he’d say, “let’s get out of this latrine and get us a couple of brews.”
The two of them would slouch off to some saloon where they’d drink and talk the day away. Keisman never brought up the subject of Ellerbee’s murder, but if Gerber wanted to talk about it, the Spoiler listened sympathetically and kept it going with casual questions.
“I’m nowhere yet,” he reported to Jason Two, “but the guy is beginning to open up. I may get something if my liver holds out. One afternoon he and Gerber were in a real dump on Hudson Street when suddenly the vet said to Keisman, “You’re a cop-you ever ice a guy?’