every two or three months. Some once a month. Some eve two weeks. Some weekly. Many twice or thrice a week.
Two patients five times a week!
In addition, a few patients’ names appeared in the appointment book one or two times and then disappeared. And there were entries that read simply: “Clinic.” The doctor’s hours were generally from 7:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.m five days a week.
But sometimes he worked later, and sometimes he worked Saturdays.
No wonder the whole month of August was lined through and marked exultantly: VACATION!
Delaney knew from other reports that Dr. Simon had charged a hundred dollars for a forty-five-minute session. A break of fifteen minutes to recuperate, then on to the next patient. Dr. Diane Ellerbee charged seventy-five dollars for the same period.
He did some rough figuring. Assuming fifty consultations a week for both Dr. Simon and Dr. Diane Ellerbee, the two were hauling in an annual take of about $420,000. A sweet sum, but it didn’t completely explain the townhouse, the Brewster country home, the three cars.
But the victim had been the son of Henry Ellerbee, who owned a nice chunk of Manhattan. Maybe Daddy was coming up with an allowance or there was a trust involved. And maybe Dr. Diane was independently wealthy. Delaney knew nothing about her background.
He remembered an old detective, Alberto Di Lucca, a pasta fiend, who had taught him a lot. That was years ago, and Big Al and he were working Little Italy. One day they were strolling up Mott Street, picking their teeth after too much linguine with white clam sauce at Umberto’s, and Delaney expressed sympathy for the shabbily dressed people he saw around him.
“They look like they haven’t got a pot to piss in,” he said.
Big Al laughed. “You think so, do you? See the old gink leaning in the doorway of that bakery across the street? You could read the News through his pants, they’re so thin. Well, he owns that bakery, which just shits money. I also happen to know he owns three mil of AT&T.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not,” Di Lucca said, shaking his head. “Don’t judge by appearances, kiddo. You never know.”
Big Al had been right. When it came to money, you never knew. A beggar could be a millionaire, and a dude hosting a party of eight at Lutce could be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.
So maybe the Drs. Ellerbee had sources of income Suarez’s men hadn’t gotten around to investigating. Another hole that had to be plugged.
Edward X. Delaney liked Michael Ramon Suarez, liked his wife, liked his children and his home. But so far the Acting Chief of Detectives’s investigation had been a disaster.
It offended Delaney’s sense of order. He realized that he and his two assistants would really have to start from scratch, He finished the warm dregs of his ale, then went into the kitchen to set the table. He hoped Monica wouldn’t forget the buttermilk biscuits.
“Edward X. Delaney here,” he said.
There was an amused grunt. “And Doctor Murray Walden here,” a raspy voice said. Thorsen told me you’d be calling.
What can I do for you, Delaney?”
“An hour of your time?”
“I’d rather lend you money-and I don’t even know you. I suppose you want it today?”
“If possible, doctor.”
There was a silence for a moment, then: “Tell you what I’ve got to come uptown for a hearing. It’s supposed to adjourn at one o’clock, which means it’ll break up around two, which means I’ll be so hungry I won’t be able to see straight.
This business of yours-can we talk about it over lunch?”
“Sure we can,” Delaney said, preferring not to.
“Delaney-that’s Irish. Right?”
“Yes.”
“You like Irish food?” the psychiatrist asked.
“Some of it,” Delaney said cautiously. “I’m allergic to corned beef and cabbage.”
“Who isn’t?” Walden said. “There’s an Irish pub on the East Side-Eamonn Doran’s. You know it?”
“Know it and love it. They’ve got
Two patients five times a week!
In addition, a few patients’ names appeared in the appointment book one or two times and then disappeared. And there were entries that read simply: “Clinic.” The doctor’s hours were generally from 7:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.m five days a week.
But sometimes he worked later, and sometimes he worked Saturdays.
No wonder the whole month of August was lined through and marked exultantly: VACATION!
Delaney knew from other reports that Dr. Simon had charged a hundred dollars for a forty-five-minute session. A break of fifteen minutes to recuperate, then on to the next patient. Dr. Diane Ellerbee charged seventy-five dollars for the same period.
He did some rough figuring. Assuming fifty consultations a week for both Dr. Simon and Dr. Diane Ellerbee, the two were hauling in an annual take of about $420,000. A sweet sum, but it didn’t completely explain the townhouse, the Brewster country home, the three cars.
But the victim had been the son of Henry Ellerbee, who owned a nice chunk of Manhattan. Maybe Daddy was coming up with an allowance or there was a trust involved. And maybe Dr. Diane was independently wealthy. Delaney knew nothing about her background.
He remembered an old detective, Alberto Di Lucca, a pasta fiend, who had taught him a lot. That was years ago, and Big Al and he were working Little Italy. One day they were strolling up Mott Street, picking their teeth after too much linguine with white clam sauce at Umberto’s, and Delaney expressed sympathy for the shabbily dressed people he saw around him.
“They look like they haven’t got a pot to piss in,” he said.
Big Al laughed. “You think so, do you? See the old gink leaning in the doorway of that bakery across the street? You could read the News through his pants, they’re so thin. Well, he owns that bakery, which just shits money. I also happen to know he owns three mil of AT&T.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not,” Di Lucca said, shaking his head. “Don’t judge by appearances, kiddo. You never know.”
Big Al had been right. When it came to money, you never knew. A beggar could be a millionaire, and a dude hosting a party of eight at Lutce could be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.
So maybe the Drs. Ellerbee had sources of income Suarez’s men hadn’t gotten around to investigating. Another hole that had to be plugged.
Edward X. Delaney liked Michael Ramon Suarez, liked his wife, liked his children and his home. But so far the Acting Chief of Detectives’s investigation had been a disaster.
It offended Delaney’s sense of order. He realized that he and his two assistants would really have to start from scratch, He finished the warm dregs of his ale, then went into the kitchen to set the table. He hoped Monica wouldn’t forget the buttermilk biscuits.
“Edward X. Delaney here,” he said.
There was an amused grunt. “And Doctor Murray Walden here,” a raspy voice said. Thorsen told me you’d be calling.
What can I do for you, Delaney?”
“An hour of your time?”
“I’d rather lend you money-and I don’t even know you. I suppose you want it today?”
“If possible, doctor.”
There was a silence for a moment, then: “Tell you what I’ve got to come uptown for a hearing. It’s supposed to adjourn at one o’clock, which means it’ll break up around two, which means I’ll be so hungry I won’t be able to see straight.
This business of yours-can we talk about it over lunch?”
“Sure we can,” Delaney said, preferring not to.
“Delaney-that’s Irish. Right?”
“Yes.”
“You like Irish food?” the psychiatrist asked.
“Some of it,” Delaney said cautiously. “I’m allergic to corned beef and cabbage.”
“Who isn’t?” Walden said. “There’s an Irish pub on the East Side-Eamonn Doran’s. You know it?”
“Know it and love it. They’ve got
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