That, at least, proved Zoe's access to a can of tear gas. It was a plus but, as Sergeant Boone said, "a little bitty plus."

More important was the result of a search of Zoe Kohler's apartment, a completely illegal enterprise. It was planned at a meeting attended only by Delaney, Boone, and Detective Bentley. Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen was deliberately not informed of the plan; the Chief wanted to shield him from guilty knowledge.

"We can get a man in there easy," Abner Boone explained to Bentley. "The owner will go along. Our guy will be a maintenance man, porter, repairman, or whatever-in case any of the tenants spot him and ask questions. He'll go in when she's at work; we'll verify that with the tails."

"The problem," Delaney said, "is that he'll have to pick the lock. We don't want to ask the owner for a passkey. The fewer people who know about this, the better. Also, we need a fast guy, someone who'll get in, toss the place, and be out in, say, an hour or less."

"Got just the guy," Bentley said promptly. "Ramon Gonzales, a PR. Naturally, we call him 'Speedy.' He's a fast man on locks and he'll be in and out of there so quick and so slick no one will notice a thing. What does he look for?"

"A spray dispenser of tear gas," Boone said. "A pocket knife, or jackknife, switchblade-anything like that. Also, a gold link bracelet with the words why not? on it. And clothes, flashy clothes. A dark green dress with skinny straps. High-heeled shoes. She wore those to the Ashley kill. And a white turtleneck sweater and a denim thing with shoulder straps. The stuff she was wearing when she wasted the LaBranche boy. Anything else, Chief?"

"Yes," Delaney said. "Tell him to look for nylon wigs. Black and strawberry blond. Tell this Speedy Gonzales to wear gloves and to touch as little as possible, move things as little as possible. And don't, for God's sake, bring anything out with him. Leave everything exactly where it is."

"She'll never know she had a visitor," Bentley assured them.

Two days later, he was back with a report. He consulted a notebook, flipping the pages as he talked…

"No problems," he said. "Speedy didn't see anyone except the guy on the lobby desk who talked a minute or two but didn't ask any questions. The owner had told him to expect a guy who was going to make an estimate on cleaning the hallway rugs. Speedy got into Zoe's apartment with no trouble. He says the locks were a joke. He was inside less than an hour, gave the place a complete toss. He found that why not? bracelet and the dark green dress with thin shoulder straps. Her clothes are mostly plain and dull, but the fancy stuff is hidden in the back of a closet. A lot of hooker's dresses there, Speedy says. He didn't find any knife or can of tear gas."

"The wigs?" Delaney asked.

"Oh yeah. Black and blond. Both nylon. In the same closet with the whore's duds. High-heeled shoes in there, too. And in a dresser drawer, way in the back, black lace underwear and fancy shit like that."

"Did he say anything about what the apartment was like?" the Chief said.

"Very neat," Bentley reported. "Very clean. Spotless."

"That figures," Delaney said.

Late on Friday afternoon, July 18th, the Chief met with Deputy Commissioner Thorsen at a back table in a seedy tavern on Eighth Avenue. There were only a few solitary drinkers at the bar. The waitress, wearing a leotard and black net hose, brought their Scotch-and-waters and left them alone.

"How's it going, Edward?" Thorsen asked.

Delaney flipped a palm back and forth. "Some good, some bad," he said.

"But is it her?" the Deputy said.

"No doubt about that. It's her, all right."

"But you still don't want to pick her up?"

"Not yet."

"We've got about a week, Edward. Then she's due to hit again."

"I'm aware of that, Ivar."

The Admiral sat back, sighing. He lifted his glass around on the Formica tabletop, making damp interlocking circles.

"You're a hard man, Edward."

"Not so hard," Delaney said. "I'm just trying to make a case for you."

"Since when has any case been airtight?"

"I didn't say an airtight case. Just a strong case that has a chance in the courts."

Thorsen stared at him reflectively.

"Sometimes I think you and I are-well, maybe not on opposing sides, but we see this thing from different viewpoints. All I want to do is stop these killings. And you-"

"That's all I want," Delaney said stolidly.

"No, that's not all you want. You want to squash the woman."

"And what do you want-to let her walk away whistling? That's exactly what will happen if we pull her in now."

"Look," Thorsen said, "let's get our priorities straight. You're convinced she's the killer?"

"Yes."

"All right, now suppose we pull her in, even charge her, and eventually she walks. But she's not going to kill again, is she? She's going to behave, knowing we'll keep an eye on her. So the killings will end, won't they? Even if she walks?"

"And what about George Puller, Frederick Wolheim, Jerome Ashley, and all the rest? Just tough titty for them-right?"

"Edward, our main job is crime prevention. And if pulling her in now can prevent a crime, then I say let's do it."

"Prevention is only part of the job. Another part is crime detection and punishment."

"Let's have another drink," Ivar Thorsen said, signaling the waitress and pointing at their empty glasses.

They were silent while they were being served. Then Thorsen tried again…

"On the basis of what we know now," he said, "we can probably get search warrants for her apartment and office. Agreed?"

"Probably. But unless you find the weapon used, with her prints on it and stains of blood from her last kill, what have you got?"

"Maybe we'll find that why not? bracelet."

"Hundreds of them were sold. Probably thousands. It would mean nothing."

"The tear gas container?"

"Even if we find it, there's no proof it was the one used on Bergdorfer. Ditto the clothes she wore. And the wigs. Ivar, that's all the sleaziest kind of circumstantial evidence. A good defense attorney would make mincemeat of a prosecution based on that."

"She's got Addison's disease."

"So have fifteen other women living in Manhattan. I know you think we've got a lot on her. We have. Enough to convince me that she's the Hotel Ripper. But it's been a long time since you've testified in court. You've forgotten that there's a fucking big gap between knowing and proving. We have enough to know we have the right perp, but we have shit-all when it comes to proving. I tell you frankly that I don't think the DA will go for an indictment on the basis of what we've got. He's looking for good arrests and convictions. Like everyone else, he's not particularly enamored of lost causes."

"I still say we have enough to bring her in for questioning. Even if we don't find anything new in her apartment or office, we can throw the fear of God into her. She won't slit any more throats."

"You're sure of that? Positive? That she won't leave the city, move somewhere else, change her name, and take up her hobby again?"

"That's some other city's problem."

Delaney grunted. "Ivar, you're all heart."

"You know what I mean. I volunteered for this job because I figured if anyone could find the Hotel Ripper, you could. All right, you've done it, and I want you to know how much I appreciate what you've done. But the whole point of the thing was to bring this series of homicides to an end. It seems to me that we can do that now by picking her up and telling her what we know. Trial and conviction are secondary to stopping her."

"Then it's bye-bye, birdie," Delaney said. "That's not right."

Ivar Thorsen slapped his palms on the table.

"No wonder they called you 'Iron Balls,'" he said. "You've got to be the most stubborn, opinionated man I've ever met. You just won't give."