"And?"

"Chief, it was approximate. I mean, when you sit in that chair, it has a soft seat cushion that depresses. You understand? So it was tough getting an exact measurement from the back of the head to the tailbone."

"Of course."

"Anyway," Boone went on, "we did what we could. Then there was no one in the Lab Services Unit or ME's office who could help. But one of the assistant ME's suggested we call a guy up at the American Museum of Natural History. He's an anthropologist, supposed to be a hotshot on reconstructing skeletons from bone fragments."

"Good," Delaney said, pleased with Boone's thoroughness. "What did he say?"

"I gave him the measurement and he called back within an hour. He said his estimate-and he insisted it was only a guess- was that the person who sat in that chair was about five feet five to five feet seven."

There was silence.

"Chief?" Boone said. "You still there?"

"Yes, sergeant," Delaney said slowly, "I'm still here. Five-five to five-seven? That could be a smallish man or a tallish woman."

"Right," the sergeant said. "But it's something, isn't it, Chief? I mean, it's more than we had before."

"Of course," Edward X. Delaney said, as heartily as he could. He didn't want to say how frail that clue was; the sergeant would know that. "How are you getting along with Slavin?"

"Okay," Boone said, lowering his voice. "So far. He's been making us recheck everything we did before he came aboard. I guess I can understand that; he doesn't want to be responsible for anything that happened before he took command."

"Uh-huh," Delaney said, thinking that Slavin was a fool to waste his men's time in that fashion and to imply doubt of their professional competence.

"Chief, I'd like to ask you a favor…"

"Of course. Anything."

"Could I call you about the investigation?" the sergeant asked, still speaking in a muffled voice. "Every once in a while? To keep you up on what's going on and ask your help on things?"

That would be Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen's suggestion, the Chief knew. "Sergeant, why don't you call Delaney every day or so? You're friends, aren't you? Keep him up on the progress of the investigation. See if he has any ideas."

Which meant that Thorsen didn't entirely trust the expertise of Lieutenant Martin Slavin.

"Call me any time you like, sergeant," Edward X. Delaney said. "I'll be here."

"Thank you, sir," Boone said gratefully.

Delaney hung up. On the dossier headed Perpetrator, he added:

4. Approx. 5-5 to 5-7.

Then he went into the kitchen and made a sandwich of sliced kielbasa and Jewish coleslaw, on sour rye. Since it was a "wet" sandwich, he ate it standing over the sink.

There was one person Edward X. Delaney was eager to talk to-but he wasn't sure the old man was still alive. He had been Detective Sergeant Albert Braun, assigned to the office of the District Attorney of New York County. But he had retired about fifteen years ago and Delaney lost track of him.

Braun had joined the New York Police Department with a law degree at a time when the force was having trouble recruiting qualified high school graduates. During his first five years, he served as a foot patrolman and continued his education with special studies at local universities in criminal law, forensic science and, his particular interest, the psychology of criminal behavior.

During his early years in the Department, he had won the reputation of being a dependable, if unspectacular, street cop. His nickname during this period of service was "Arf," from Little Orphan Annie's dog. That hound wasn't a bulldog, but Albert Braun was-and that's how he got the canine monicker.

Delaney remembered that it was said of Braun that if he was assigned to a stakeout in front of a house, and told, "Watch for a male Caucasian, 5-11, 185 pounds, about fifty-five, grayish hair, wearing a plaid sport jacket," you could come back two years later and Arf would look up and say, "He hasn't shown up yet."

Finally, Albert Braun's background, erudition, and intelligence were recognized. He earned the gold shield of a detective, received rapid promotions, and ended up a sergeant in the Manhattan DA's office where he remained until his retirement.

Long before that, he was recognized as the Department's top expert in the history of crime. He possessed a library of more than 2,000 volumes on criminology, and his knowledge of old cases, weapons, and criminal methodology was encyclopedic.

He had been consulted many times by police departments outside New York City and even by foreign police bureaus and Interpol. In addition, he taught a popular course on investigative techniques to detectives of the NYPD and was a frequent guest lecturer at John Jay College of Criminal Justice.

Delaney remembered that Braun had never married, and lived somewhere in Elmhurst, in Queens. The Chief consulted his personal telephone directory, a small, battered black book that contained numbers so ancient that instead of a three-digit prefix some bore designations such as Murray Hill-3, Beekman-5, and Butterfield-8.

He found Albert Braun's number and dialed. He waited while the phone rang seven times. He was about to hang up when a woman came on the line with a breathless "Yes?"

"Is this the Albert Braun residence?" Delaney asked.

"Yes, it is."

He didn't want to ask anything as crude as, "Is the old man still alive?" He tried, "Is Mr. Braun available?"

"Not at the moment," the woman said. "Who's calling, please?"

"My name is Edward X. Delaney. I'm an old friend of Mr. Braun. I haven't seen or spoken to him in years. I hope he's in good health?"

"Not very," the woman said, her voice lowering. "He fell and broke his hip about three years ago and developed pneumonia from that. Then last year he had a stroke. He's recovering from that, somewhat, but he spends most of his time in bed."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"Well, he's doing as well as can be expected. A man of his age."

"Yes," Delaney said, wanting to ask who she was and what she was doing there. She answered his unspoken question.

"My name is Martha Kaslove. Mrs. Martha Kaslove," she added firmly. "I've been Mr. Braun's housekeeper since he fell."

"Well, I'm glad he's not alone," the Chief said. "I had hoped to talk to him, but under the circumstances I won't bother him. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell him I called. The name is Edward X.-"

"Wait a minute," she said. "You knew him when he was a policeman? Before he retired?"

"Yes, I knew him well."

"Mr. Braun doesn't have many visitors," she said sadly. "None, in fact. He doesn't have any family. Oh, neighbors stop by occasionally, but it's really to visit with me, not him. I think a visit from an old friend would do him the world of good. Would you be willing to…?"

"Of course," Delaney said promptly. "I'll be glad to. I'm in Manhattan. I could be there in half an hour or so."

"Good," she said happily. "Let me ask him, Mr. Laney."

"Delaney," he said. "Edward X. Delaney."

"Hang on just a minute, please," she said.

He hung on for several minutes. Then Mrs. Kaslove came back on the phone.

"He wants to see you," she reported. "He's all excited. He's even putting clothes on and he wants me to shave him."

"Wonderful," the Chief said, smiling at the phone. "Tell him I'm on my way."

He made sure he had his reading glasses, notebook, two ballpoint pens, and a sharpened pencil. He pulled on his heavy, navy-blue melton overcoat, double-breasted. He set his hard black homburg squarely atop his big head. Then he went lumbering over to a liquor store on Second Avenue where he bought a bottle of Glenlivet Scotch. He had it gift-wrapped and put in a brown paper bag.

He stopped an empty northbound cab, got in, closed the door. He gave Albert Braun's address in Elmhurst.