Free The Fourth Deadly Sin by Lawrence Sanders Page A

Barbara, his first wife, had left him numb for a long time. But he had hulled his way out of that funk-by himself.
    Still, he had no hesitation in seeking help for physical ills.
    A virus, a twinge of the liver, a skin lesion that wouldn’t heal-and off he went to consult a physician. So why this disdain for people who took their inner torments to a trained practitioner?
    Because, Delaney.supposed, there was an element of fear in his prejudice. Psychologists and psychiatrists were dealing with something you couldn’t see.
    There was a mystery there, and dread. It was like taking your brain to a witch doctor.
    Still, Delaney knew that if he was going to get anywhere on the Ellerbee case he’d have to cultivate and evince sympathy for those who fled to the witch doctor.
    He left the house early, deciding to walk to the Ellerbees’ townhouse to meet Abner Boone. It was a dull day with a cloud cover as rough as an elephant hide. The air smelled of snow, and a hard northwest wind made him grab for his homburg more than once.
    On impulse, he stopped in at a First Avenue hardware store. All the clerks were busy, for which he was thankful. He found a display of hammers and picked up a ball peen. He hefted it in his hand, swinging it gently in a downward chop.
    So many useful tools made lethal weapons. He wondered which came first. If he had to guess, he’d say weapons evolved into tools.
    That shiny round knob could puncture a man’s skull if swung with sufficient force-no doubt about that. A man could do it easily, but then so could a woman if she were strong and determined. He replaced the hammer in the display, having learned absolutely nothing.
    Boone was waiting for him across the street from the townhouse. He was huddling in his parka, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
    “That wind’s a bitch,” he observed. “My ears feel like tin.”
    “I feel the cold in my feet,” Delaney said. “An old cop’s complaint. The feet are the first to go. Did you talk to Suarez?”
    “Yes, sir, I did. On the phone. He was tied up with a million other things.”
    “I imagine.”
    “He sounds like a patient man. Very polite. Said to thank you for keeping in touch, and he’s grateful for what we’ve done so far.”
    “What about Parnell?”
    “He’ll get him going on the financial reports immediately. I think he was a little embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of it himself.”
    “He’s got enough to think about,” Delaney said absently, staring across the street. “That’s the place-the gray stone building?”
    “That’s the one, sir.”
    “Smaller than I thought it would be. Let’s wander around a little first.”
    They walked over to East End Avenue, inspecting buildings on both sides of 84th Street. The block contained a mix of apartment houses with marbled lobbies, crumbling brownstones, a school, smart townhouses, dilapidated tenements, and a few commercial establishments on the avenue corners.
    They looked at the East River, turned, and walked back to York.
    “Plenty of areaways,” Boone observed. “Open lobbies and vestibules with the outer door unlocked. The perp could have gone into any of them to get out of the rain.”
    “Could have,” Delaney agreed. “But then how did he get into the Ellerbees’ building? No signs of forced entry. What I’m wondering about is what the killer did afterward. Walk away in the rain, leaving the front door open?
    Or did the killer have a car parked nearby? Or maybe stroll over to York or East End and take a cab? Both avenues are two-way.”
    “My God, sir,” the Sergeant said, “you’re not thinking of checking taxi trip-sheets for that night, are you? What a job!”
    “We won’t do it right now, but it may become necessary.
    Besides, there couldn’t have been so many cabs working that Friday night. It wasn’t just raining; it was a flood. Well, this street isn’t going to tell us anything; let’s go talk to the widow; it’s almost six.”
    The outer