Sunday, June 16
LEIGH KNOCKED ON THE open door. “Am I interrupting?”
Vince Cardozo was sitting in his shirtsleeves, frowning at a photograph. He looked up and turned the photograph over. “Please,” he said, rising, “come in and interrupt.”
He moved a stack of documents from a chair to the floor.
She sat. “I’m sorry I bothered you yesterday.”
“You didn’t bother me. I’m sorry I was grumpy.”
“You weren’t grumpy.”
“I guess that establishes that we both have perfect manners.” He was watching her with an odd sort of half smile, and she couldn’t tell if he was glad to see her or not. “Coffee?” he offered.
“I can only stay a minute.”
“Fake sugar and fake milk, right?”
While he was out of the cubicle she turned over the photograph he had been studying. She recognized Gloria Spahn’s corpse. She winced and laid the photo back on the desk, facedown.
Cardozo came back. He closed the door. She accepted a styrofoam cup. She sipped. “Not bad,” she said. “Better than last time.”
“But you didn’t come here for our famous coffee.” Cardozo dropped back into his seat.
“I saw Jim Delancey yesterday.”
Vince Cardozo’s face seemed to crumple. “Yesterday.”
She nodded. “I was standing closer to him than you and I are now. The expression on his face told me everything.” Her voice began edging up. “Vince, it’s him. He’s the one.”
For a moment Vince Cardozo didn’t speak or react in any way. “Where did this happen?”
“In the elevator in his building.”
“What were you doing there?”
“You said he was home the night Gloria was killed. I was afraid … you weren’t going to watch him anymore.”
“So you decided to help me out and keep an eye on him?”
Even with the door shut noise poured in from the squad room. The consensus in there seemed to be, Why talk when you can yell. Telephones were jangling. Someone was slamming through metal cabinet drawers, and each slam was like thunder.
“Delancey has a breaking-and-entering record.” Leigh sat forward in the metal chair. “He’s broken into dozens of girls’ apartments. He’s stolen valuables and pawned them. You must know that—it all came out in the trial.”
Cardozo’s eyes flicked up. “Excuse me. We seem to be talking different time frames. I’m discussing now, not four years ago.”
“So am I. Sorella Chappell has a studio in Jim Delancey’s building. It connects to the building next door. She wasn’t home Thursday night. He could have broken into her apartment and gone out through the other building.”
Cardozo watched her levelly. He sighed.
“That’s how he did it! Why can’t you believe me? I’m not crazy and I’m not lying to you!”
“But you do hate Jim Delancey.”
She didn’t bother to deny it. “You don’t have to take my word for it—go look at the apartment.”
Cardozo picked up his pen. “What’s the apartment number?”
“Sixteen. Sorella Chappell. You have a man guarding her right now. At least you say you do.”
TWO MINUTES AFTER LEIGH BAKER had gone there was another knock on Cardozo’s door. He turned.
Ellie Siegel stood in the doorway. She had a smile like a twirling lariat. “And how’s Miss Silver Screen?”
“Ellie, I’m sorry. I’m going to have to take back two of the men I gave you.”
“Indian-giver. Why?”
“Looks like Delancey’s in the running again. We may have to put back the round-the-clock tail.”