But now there were stress lines, sags, pouches.

"Monica had lunch with Karen the other day," Delaney mentioned. "Said she's looking fine."

"What?" Thorsen said, looking up distractedly.

"Karen," Delaney said gently. "Your wife."

"Oh… yes," Thorsen said with a confused laugh. "I'm -sorry; I wasn't listening."

Delaney leaned toward his guest, concerned. "Ivar, is everything all right?"

"Between Karen and me? Couldn't be better. Downtown?

Couldn't be worse."

"More political bullshit?"

"Yes. But this time it's not from the Mayor's office; it's the Department's own bullshit. Want to hear about it?"

Delaney really didn't want to. Political infighting in the upper echelons of the New York Police Department was the reason he had filed for early retirement. He could cope with thieves and killers; he wasn't interested in threading the Byzantine maze of Departmental cliques and cabals. All those intrigues. All those naked ambitions and steamy hatreds.

In the lower, civil service ranks of sergeant, lieutenant, captain, he had known the stress of political pressure-from inside and outside the Department. He had been able to live with it, rejecting it when he could, compromising when he had to.

But nothing had prepared him for the hardball games they played in the appointive ranks. When he got his oak leaves as a Deputy Inspector, he was thrown into a cockpit where the competition was fierce, a single, minor misstep could mean the end of a twenty-year career, and combatants swigged Maalox like fine Beaujolais.

And as he went up the ladder to the two stars of an Assistant Chief, the tension increased with the responsibility. You not only had to do your work, and do it superbly well, but you had constantly to look over your shoulder to see who stood close behind you with a knife and a smirk.

Then he had the three stars of Chief of Detectives, and wanted only to be left alone to do the job he knew he could do. But he was forced to spend too much time soothing his nervous superiors and civilian politicos with enough clout to make life miserable for him if he didn't find out who mugged their nephew.

He couldn't take that kind of constraint, and so Edward X. Delaney turned in his badge. The fault, he acknowledged later, was probably his.

He was mentally and emotionally incapable of "going along."

He had a hair-trigger temper, a strong sense of his own dignity, and absolute faith in his detective talents and methods of working a case.

He couldn't change himself, and he couldn't change the Department. So he got out before the ulcers popped up, and tried to keep busy, tried to forget what might have been. But still… "Sure, Ivar," he said with a set smile, "I'd like to hear about it."

Thorsen took a sip of his scotch. "You know Chief of Detectives Murphy?"

"Bill Murphy? Of course I know him. We came through the Academy together.

Good man. A little plodding maybe, but he thinks straight."

"He's put in his papers. As of the first of the year. He's got cancer of the prostate."

"Ahh, Jesus," Delaney said. "That's a crying shame. I'll have to go see him."

"Well…" the Admiral said, peering down at his drink, "Bill thought he could last until the first of the year, but I don't think he's going to make it. He's been out so much we've had to put in an Acting Chief of Detectives to keep the bureau running. The Commish says he'll appoint a permanent late in December."

"Who's the Acting Chief?" Delaney asked, beginning to get interested.

Thorsen looked up at him. "Edward, you remember when they used to say that in New York, the Irish had the cops, the Jews had the schools, and the Italians had the Sanitation Department? Well, things have changed-but not all that much.

There's still an Old Guard of the Irish in the Department, and they take care of their own. They just refuse to accept the demographic changes that have taken place in this city-the number of blacks, Hispanics, Orientals. When it came to getting the PC to appoint an Acting Chief of Detectives, I wanted a two-star named Michael Ramon Suarez, figuring it would help community relations. Suarez is a Puerto Rican, and he's been running five precincts in the Bronx and doing a hell of a job. The Chief of Operations, Jimmy Conklin, wanted the Commissioner to pick Terence J.

Riordan, who's got nine Brooklyn precincts. So we had quite a tussle."

"I can imagine," Delaney said, pouring them more whiskey. "Who won?"

"I did," Thorsen said. "I got Suarez in as Acting Chief. I figured he'd do a good job, and when the time came, the PC would give him his third star and appoint him permanent Chief of Detectives. A big boost for the Hispanics. And the Mayor would love it."

"Ivar, you should have gone into politics."

"I did," Thorsen said with a crooked grin.

"So? You didn't stop by just to tell me how you creamed the Irish.

What's the problem?"

"Edward, did you read the papers over the weekend? Or watch the local TV? That psychiatrist who got wasted-Dr.

Ellerbee?"

Delaney looked at him. "I read about it. Got snuffed in his own office, didn't he? And not too far from here. I figured it was a junkie looking for drugs."

"Sure," Thorsen said, nodding. "That was everyone's guess. God knows it happens often enough. But Ellerbee didn't keep any drugs in his office. And there was no sign of forced entry, either at the street entrance or his office door. I don't know all the details, but it looks like he let someone in he knew and expected."

Delaney leaned forward, staring at the other man. "lvar, what's this all about-your interest in the Ellerbee homicide?

It happens four or five times a day in the Big Apple. I didn't think you got all that concerned about one kill."

Thorsen rose and began to pace nervously about the room.

"It isn't just another kill, Edward. It could be big trouble.

For many reasons. Ellerbee was a wealthy, educated man who had a lot of friends in what they call 'high places.' He was civicminded-did free work in clinics, for example. His wife who's a practicing psychologist, by the way-is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, and she's been raising holy hell with us. And to top that, Ellerbee's father is Henry Ellerbee, the guy who built Ellerbee Towers on Fifth Avenue and owns more Manhattan real estate than you and I own socks. He's been screaming his head off to everyone from the Governor on down."

"Yes, I'd say you have a few problems."

"And the clincher," Thorsen went on, still pacing, "the clincher is that this is the first big homicide Acting Chief of Detectives Michael Ramon Suarez has had to handle."

"Oh-ho," Delaney said, leaning back in his swivel chair and swinging gently back and forth. "Now we get down to the nitty- gritty."

"Right," the Admiral said, almost angrily. "The nittygritty. If Suarez muffs this one, there is no way on God's green earth he's going to get a third star and permanent appointment."

"And you'll look like a shithead for backing him in the first place."

"Right," Thorsen said again. "He'd better clear this one fast or he's in the soup, and I'm in there with him."

"All very interesting," Delaney said. "So?"

The Admiral groaned, slumped into the armchair again.

"Edward, you're not making this any easier for me."

"Making what easier?" Delaney said innocently.

Then it all came out in a rush.

"I want you to get involved in the Ellerbee case," the First Deputy Commissioner said. "I haven't even thought about how it can be worked; I wanted to discuss it with you first.

Edward, you've saved my ass before-at least twice. I know I gave you a lot of bullshit about doing it for the Department, or doing it just to keep active and not becoming a wet-brained retiree. But this time I'm asking you on the basis of our friendship. I'm asking for a favor-one old friend to another.