Three days later Captain Delaney received the telephone call he had been expecting: the assistant to Deputy Inspector Thorsen asked if he could meet with Thorsen that afternoon at four o’clock. Delaney went downtown via subway, wearing his uniform.
“Go right in, Captain,” Thorsen’s pretty secretary said when he gave his name. “They’re expecting you.”
Wondering who “they” might be, Delaney knocked once and pushed open the heavy oak door to Thorsen’s office. The two men seated in leather club chairs rose to their feet, and the Deputy Inspector came forward smiling.
Ivar Thorsen was Delaney’s “rabbi” in the Department. The term was current police slang for a superior officer or high official in city government who liked an officer personally, took an interest in his career, and generally guided and eased his advancement in rank. When a “rabbi” moved upward in the hierarchy, sooner or later his protege moved upward also.
Deputy Inspector Ivar Thorsen, a man in his late 50s, was called “The Admiral” by his subordinates, and it was easy to see why. Of relatively short stature, his body was slender and stringy, but all muscle and tendon; he bounced as he walked. His skin was fair and unblemished, features classically Nordic but without softness. His pale blue eyes could be distressingly piercing. The white hair seemed never combed but rigorously brushed until it hugged tightly the shape of his head from a leftside part that showed pink scalp.
He shook Delaney’s hand, then turned to the other man in the room.
“Edward, I think you know Inspector Johnson.”
“I surely do. Good to see you, inspector.”
“Likewise, Edward,” the grinning black Buddha said. He extended a huge hand. “How you been?”
“Can’t complain. Well…I can, but no one will listen.”
“I know, I know,” the big man chuckled, and his heavy belly moved up and down. “Wish we could get together more often, but they keep me chained to those damned computers, and I don’t get uptown as often as I’d like.”
“I read your analysis of arrest and conviction percentages.”
“You did?” Johnson exclaimed with genuine pleasure. “You must be the only cop in town who did.”
“Wait a minute, Ben,” Thorsen protested. “I read it.”
“The hell,” the black scoffed. “You started it maybe, and read the last paragraph.”
“I swear I read every word.”
“I give you five-to-one you didn’t-and I can ask questions to prove it.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
“Misdemeanor,” Delaney said promptly. “I can place you both under arrest. Gambling laws.”
“Not so,” Johnson shook his great head. “The courts have held a private wager between two gentlemen cannot be prosecuted under anti-gambling statutes. See Harbiner v. the City of New York
“See Plessy v. Novick,” Delaney retorted. “The court held a private unpaid wager between two persons cannot be a matter for judicial decision only because the wager itself was illegal.”
“Come on,” Thorsen groaned. “I didn’t ask you here to argue law. Sit down.” He waved them to the club chairs, then took the upholstered swivel chair behind his glass-topped desk. He flicked on his intercom. “Alice, please hold all incoming calls except emergency.”
Inspector Johnson turned toward Delaney and regarded him curiously.
“What did you think of my report, Edward?”
“The numbers were a shock, inspector. And the-”
“You know, Edward, if you called me Ben I really don’t think I’d have you up for insolence and insubordination.”
“All right, Ben. Well…the numbers were a shock, your analysis was brilliant, but I can’t agree with your conclusion.”
“What can’t you agree with?”
“Suppose only five percent of felony arrests eventually produce convictions. From that you argue that we-the men on the beat-should make fewer arrests but better ones-arrests that will stand up in court. But aren’t you disregarding the deterrent effect of mass arrests, even if we know the evidence will never stand up? The suspect may never be convicted, but after he goes through booking, a time in jail until he can raise bail-if he can-and the expense of a lawyer for his day in court, maybe he’ll think twice before he strays again.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Johnson rumbled. “I was aware of the deterrent angle when I wrote the report. As a matter of fact, I agree with it. But if I had come out recommending more arrests-whether or not they stood up in court-if I had recommended dragnet operations on prostitutes, drifters, homosexuals, gamblers-you know what would have happened? Some radical in the Department would have leaked that report to the press, and every civil liberties group would be down on our necks, and we’d be ‘fascist pigs’ all over again.”
“You mean you tailored your convictions for the sake of public relations?”
“That’s right,” Johnson agreed blandly.
“Are public relations that important?”
“Got to be. For the Department. Your world is your own Precinct. My world is the Commissioner’s office and, by extension, the Mayor’s.”
Delaney stared at the big black. Inspector Benjamin Johnson was on the Commissioner’s staff, in charge of statistics and production analysis. He was an enormous man, a former All-American guard from Rutgers. He had gone to fat, but the result wasn’t unpleasant; he still carried himself well, and his bulk gave him added dignity. His smile was appealing, almost childlike-a perfect disguise for what Delaney knew was a hard, complex, perceptive intelligence. A black didn’t attain Johnson’s rank and reputation by virtue of a hearty laugh and a mouthful of splendid teeth.
“Please,” Thorsen raised a palm. “The two of you get together some night and fight it out over a beefsteak or soul food.”
“Steak for me,” Johnson said.
“I’ll take the soul food,” Delaney smiled.
“Let’s get on with it,” Thorsen said in his no-nonsense way. “First of all, Edward, how is Barbara feeling?”
Delaney came back to realities. He enjoyed “police talk” and could sit up all night arguing crime and punishment. But only with other cops. Civilians simply didn’t know. Or perhaps it was like atheists arguing with priests. They were talking about different things, or in different languages. The atheist argued reason; the priest argued faith. In this case, the policeman was the atheist, the civilian the priest. Both were right and both were wrong.
“Barbara is not so good,” he said steadily. “She hasn’t snapped back from the operation the way she should-or at least the way I hoped she would. They’ve started her on antibiotics. The first didn’t do a thing. They’re trying another. They’ll go on trying.”
“I was sorry to hear your wife was ill, Edward,” Johnson said quietly. “What exactly is it?”
“It’s called Proteus infection. In her case it’s an infection of the urinary tract. But the doctors wouldn’t tell me a damned thing about how really ill she is and what her chances are.”
“I know,” Johnson nodded sympathetically. “The thing I hate most about doctors is when I go to one with a pain in my gut and explain exactly what the symptoms are, and the doctor says, ‘That doesn’t worry me.’ Then I say, ‘I know, goddamn it, it’s my pain; why should it worry you’?”
Delaney smiled wanly, knowing Johnson was trying to cheer him up.
“I hate to hear about illnesses I never heard of before,” Thorsen said. “There are so many things that can go wrong with the human body, it’s a wonder any of us get through this life alive.” Then, realizing what he had said and seeing the others’ sad smiles, he added. “That’s right-we don’t, do we? Well, Edward, I have your application for retirement here. First of all let me confess, I haven’t done a thing with it yet. It’s perfectly in order. You have every right to retire if you wish. But we wanted to talk to you first. Ben, you want to take it from here?”
“No.” Johnson shook his massive head. “You carry the ball.”
“Edward, this concerns the Lombard homicide in your precinct. I know you know the man’s reputation and the publicity he got and how important it is to the Department to come up with a quick solution and arrest. And, of course, it came in the middle of the reorganization of the Detective Division. Did you get the memo on the special task force Operation Lombard headed by Deputy Commissioner Broughton?”
Delaney paused before answering, wondering how much he should say. But Broughton was a slob-and what could the man do to him since he was retiring?
“Yes, I know,” he nodded. “As a matter of fact, I suggested Operation Lombard to Broughton the morning of the murder. We had a private talk in his car.”
Thorsen turned his head swiftly to look at Johnson. The two men stared at one another a moment. Then the inspector slammed a heavy palm down onto the arm of his leather chair.
“I told you,” he said angrily. “I told you that stupid, racist son of a bitch didn’t have the brains to come up with that idea himself. So it was you, Edward?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t expect a thank-you from brother Broughton. That bastard is strictly ‘Hurray for me, fuck you.’ He’s flying mighty high right now.”
“That’s why we asked you here today, Edward,” Thorsen said softly. “Broughton is flying high, and we’d like to bring him down.”
Delaney looked from man to man, realizing he was getting involved in something he had vowed to avoid: the cliques and cabals that flourished in the upper echelons of the Department-and in all levels of government, and in the military, and in corporations, and in every human organization that had more than two members.
“Who is ‘we’?” he asked cautiously.
“Inspector Johnson and myself, of course. And about ten or a dozen others, all of superior rank to us, who don’t, for obvious reasons, want their names used at this time.”
“What ranks?”
“Up to Commissioner.”
“What are you trying to do?”
“First of all, we don’t like Broughton. We believe he’s a disgrace-hell, he’s a catastrophe! — to the Department. He’s amassing power, building a machine. This Operation Lombard is just another step up for him. If he can solve the murder.”
“What motivates Broughton?” Delaney asked. “Ambition? What does he want? Commissioner? Mayor?”
Delaney looked at him, ready to laugh if Johnson was smiling. But he was not.
“Ben’s not kidding, Edward. It’s not impossible. Broughton is a relatively young man. He has an ego and hunger for power you wouldn’t believe. Theodore Roosevelt went from the Commissioner’s office to the White House. Why not Broughton? But even if he never gets to be President, or governor, or mayor, or even commissioner, we still want him out.”
“Facist bastard,” Johnson grumbled.
“So…?” Delaney said.
“We have a plan. Will you listen to it?”
“I’ll listen.”
“I’m not even going to talk about discretion and all this being in strict confidence, etcetera. I know you too well for that. Edward, even if you retired today, you couldn’t spend every waking hour with your wife. She’s going to be in the hospital for the foreseeable future, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“If you retired today, you’d still have plenty of time on your hands. And I know you; after almost thirty years in the Department, you’d go nuts. All right…Now it’s been three-no, almost four days since the Lombard homicide. It’s been almost three days since the formation of Operation Lombard. Since then, Broughton has been drawing men and equipment from all over the city. He’s built up a big organization, and it’s still growing. I told you, the man’s power-hungry. And I can also tell you that Broughton and Operation Lombard haven’t come up with a thing. Not a lead, not a clue, not a single idea of how it was done, why it was done, and who did it. Believe me, Edward, they’re no farther ahead at this moment than when you saw Lombard on the sidewalk.”
“That doesn’t mean they might not solve it tomorrow, tonight, or right now, while we’re talking.”
“True. And if Broughton brings it off, he’ll crucify us. I mean Ben here and me and our friends. Broughton may be stupid, but he’s shrewd. He knows who his enemies are. I tell you this man is capable of farming you out just because you suggested Operation Lombard from which he profited. He’s the kind of man who can’t stand to feel gratitude. He’ll cut you down…somehow.”
“He can’t touch me. I’m retiring.”
“Edward,” Inspector Johnson said in a deep, throbbing voice, “suppose you didn’t retire. Suppose you requested an indefinite leave of absence. We could swing it.”
“Why should I do that?”
“It would relieve you of the responsibility of the Two-five-one. We’d put in an Acting Captain. An Acting Captain. You wouldn’t be replaced. You agree it’s possible your wife may recover faster than anyone expects, and then you’d want back to active duty? That’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s possible.”
“All right,” Johnson said, seeming to look for words, to feel his way. “Now, say you’re on leave of absence. You’re relieved of responsibility. Now what we want you to do-” Then it all came out in rush: “Whatwewantyoutodoisfind-Lombard’skiller.”
“What?”
“You heard me. We want you to solve the Lombard homicide before Broughton and his Operation Lombard do it.” Delaney looked from man to man, astonished.
“Are you insane?” he finally demanded. “You want me, a single cop not even on active duty, working outside the Department like some kind of-some kind of private detective, you expect me to bring in Lombard’s killer before five hundred or a thousand detectives and uniformed men and specialists with all the resources of the Department behind them? Impossible.”
“Edward,” Thorsen said patiently. “We think there’s a chance. A small chance, true, but it’s worth taking. Yes, you’d have to work in civilian clothes. Yes, you’d be by yourself; you couldn’t request personnel from the Department, or equipment. But we’ll set up a contact, and through the contact we’ll make certain you got anything you’d need: print identification, evidence analysis, lab work, criminal records. Whatever you need, you’ll get. We’ll cover it somehow so Broughton doesn’t get wind of it. If he does, we’re all down the drain.”
“Listen,” Delaney said desperately, “is it only you two out to get Broughton or are there really a dozen others all the way up to the Commissioner?”
“There are others,” Thorsen said gravely, and Johnson nodded just as solemnly.
“It won’t work,” Delaney said definitely. He stood and began to pace back and forth, hands clasped behind him. “You know how many men you need for a homicide investigation like this? Men to search sewers. Men to dig in garbage cans. Men to ring doorbells and ask questions. Men to investigate Lombard’s private life, his business life, his political life. Men to trace him back to the day he was born, trying to find an enemy. How in God’s name could I-or any one man-do all that?”
“Edward,” Johnson said softly, “you wouldn’t have to do all that. That’s what Operation Lombard is doing right now, and I swear to you, you’d get a Xerox copy of every report filed. Anytime a patrolman or detective or specialist puts anything down on paper about the Lombard off, you’ll see a copy within twenty-four hours.”
“That’s a promise,” Thorsen nodded. “Just don’t ask how we’ll do it.”
“I won’t, I won’t,” Delaney said hastily. “But just what more do you think I could do than Operation Lombard is doing right now?”
“Edward,” Thorsen sighed, “don’t put yourself down. I remember once I had dinner at your house, and we were talking about something you had done and let your division commander take the credit for-you were a lieutenant then-and Barbara got angry and told you that you should assert yourself more. She was right. Edward, you have a talent, a drive, a genius-call it whatever the hell you like-for investigative work. You know it but won’t admit it. I know it and shout it every chance I get. It was my idea to bring you in on this, this way. If you say yes, fine. Then we’ll go to work. If you say no, and want to go through with your retirement, okay and no hard feelings.”
Delaney walked over to one of the windows and stared down into the crowded street. People were scurrying between honking cars in a traffic jam. There was bright movement, surge and thrust. He heard the horns, a siren, the far-off hoot of a liner putting to sea, the drone overhead of a plane slanting down to Kennedy Airport.
“No leads at all?” he asked, without turning around.
“None whatsoever,” Thorsen said. “Not a thing. Not even a theory that makes sense. A blank. A compete blank. Broughton is beginning to show the strain.”
Delaney turned around with a bleak smile. He looked at Inspector Johnson and spoke to him.
“Ben, I gave him the solution probability figures on homicide. You know how they drop off after forty-eight hours?”
“Yes,” Johnson nodded. “It’s been almost four days now, with probability dropping every minute for Broughton.”
“For me too,” Delaney said ruefully. “If I took this on,” he added hastily.
He turned back to the window, his hands jammed into his pockets now. He wished with all his heart he could discuss this with Barbara, as he had discussed every important decision in his career. He needed her sharp, practical, aggressive, female intelligence to probe motives, choices, possibilities, safeguards. He tried, he strained to put himself in her place, to think as she might think and decide as she might decide.
“I’d be in civilian clothes,” he said, his back to them. “Could I use my tin?”
“Yes,” Johnson said immediately. “But as little as possible.” Delaney began to realize how completely they had thought this out, planned it, worried it for flaws, before they approached him.
“How often would I report?”
“As often as possible. Once a day or, if not, whenever you have something or a request for something.”
“Who would I report to?”
“Me,” Thorsen said promptly. “I’ll give you a clean number.”
“Don’t tell me you think your home phone is tapped?”
“I’ll give you a clean number,” Thorsen repeated.
Delaney made up his mind and said what he thought Barbara would want him to say.
“If I’m on leave of absence but not retired, I can still be racked up on Departmental charges. If Broughton finds out about this, he’ll fix me good. I met the man. I know what he is. I’ll do what you want if I get a signed letter from either of you, or both of you, authorizing this investigation.”
He turned to face them. They looked at him, then at each other.
“Edward…” Thorsen started, then stopped.
“Yes?”
“It’s our ass.”
“I know it. Without the letter, it’s my ass. Mine alone. If Broughton discovers what’s going on.”
“Don’t you trust-” Thorsen began.
“Now wait just one fat minute,” Johnson held up his ham-hand. “Let’s not get all riled here and start talking about trust and friendship and saying things we might be sorry for later. Just let me think a minute. Edward has a very good point, Ivar. It’s something we didn’t consider. Now just let me think and see if I can come up with something that will satisfy all the parties concerned.”
He stared off into the middle distance, while the other two watched him expectantly. Finally Johnson grunted and heaved himself to his feet. He scrubbed his curly grey hair with knuckles, then motioned toward Thorsen. The two men went over to one corner and began to speak in low voices, Johnson doing most of the talking and gesturing frequently. Delaney took his seat again in the club chair and wished he was with his wife.
Finally the whispering ceased. The two men came over to stand before his chair.
“Edward,” Johnson rumbled, “if we got a letter addressed to you personally, authorizing your unofficial or semi-official investigation into the death of Frank Lombard, and if this letter was signed by the Commissioner, would that satisfy you?”
Delaney looked up in amazement.
“The Commissioner? Why on earth would he sign a letter like that? He just appointed Broughton commander of Operation Lombard.”
Inspector Johnson sighed heavily. “Edward, the Commish is a man of some ability. About a middleweight, I’d guess. And he’s well-meaning and kind. All to the good. But this is the first time he’s operated in New York. He’s never had to keep afloat in a school of barracudas. Not the kind we got. He’s learning-but the question is, will they give him time to learn? He’s just beginning to realize a good executive has got to spend as much time protecting his ass as he does coping with the problems in front of him. Nine times out of ten, it’s those strong, efficient executive assistants with the long knives who do a top man in. I think the Commissioner may just be starting to realize what Broughton is doing between those farts and belches. Broughton has some palsy-walsys on the Mayor’s staff, you know. There’s also another factor. This is something never talked about in business management manuals, but it exists in the Department, in federal, state and local government, in business, and in the military. I think the Commissioner is physically frightened of Broughton. I can’t give you any evidence, but that’s what I feel. It was the source of a lot of Joe McCarthy’s power. Plenty of those old, frail Senators were physically afraid of Joe. Well, we’ve got a man, a friend-real Machiavelli type-a Deputy the Commissioner trusts who could maybe put a bug in his ear. ‘Look Commissioner, Broughton is a fine fellow-a little crude for my taste but he gets things done-and maybe he’ll bring off this Operation Lombard thing and find the killer. But look, Commissioner, wouldn’t it be wise to have an ace in the hole? I mean if Broughton falls on his face, you really should have a back-up plan in the works. Now it just so happens I’ve got this smartass Captain who right now is on leave of absence, and this smart-ass Captain is the best detective this town ever saw, and if you ask him nice, Commissioner, and write him a polite letter, this smart-ass Captain just might be willing to smell around and find Frank Lombard’s killer for you. Without Broughton knowing a thing about it, of course.’”
Delaney laughed. “Do you think he’ll go for that? Do you really think he’ll give me a letter of authorization?”
“If we git it, will you do it?”
“Yes.”