by Lutz, John
Dani sensed strongly that Etta was in danger. She worried about her. Feared for her. She was surprised by how intensely she cared.
Rica was tired enough that when she entered her apartment the first thing she thought about was dropping into bed and letting herself go unconscious.
Then she noticed the desk by the window. Something maybe only a cop would have noticed. Rica always, always, closed drawers all the way after opening them. Some kind of anal thing, she’d once been told. Well, maybe.
But one of her desk drawers was open perhaps a quarter of an inch. The drawer where she kept her notes on the Torcher case.
Before going to the desk, she glanced around.
Everything seemed okay, undisturbed. Except for that lamp shade that was slightly crooked, as if somebody might have brushed it. She might have brushed it herself on the way out and not realized it.
Rica wasn’t the sort to stand and agonize. She did a quick walk-through of the apartment, which didn’t take long, considering the size of the place. She encountered no monsters, and nothing else seemed to have been disturbed.
She went back into the living room and examined the desk.
The contents of the drawer had definitely been disturbed. Her notes were at a slightly different angle to the sides of the drawer, and she was sure a paper clip had been lying on top of them.
Stack! He must have come in and looked at her case notes. Checking on her, in their new intimacy. What was hers was his.
Screw that!
Then it occurred to her that he didn’t have a key. She smiled. That would be no problem for an experienced cop like Stack.
Stack, all right. Something to know about him. Maybe he’d say something about it to her. She’d wait for that. See what happened.
Then she told herself to ease up, she was thinking and acting out of exhaustion. There was probably a reasonable explanation for the drawer business, and she was the one being paranoid. Stack might only have wanted to refresh his memory about some aspect of the case, so he’d dropped by when she wasn’t home and done just that. They were sleeping together, so why shouldn’t he feel free to take that liberty? There was no real reason to believe he’d be checking on her work.
She made extra sure the door was locked, then staggered toward the bedroom already beginning to undress.
Lying in bed, she thought about what had happened. Maybe she was unused to intimacy and that was why she was making too much of a small thing. It could happen when you lived alone, lived for your work. It could happen. Especially when you were so tired and not thinking straight….
By the time she fell asleep, she was no longer mad at Stack.
No longer uneasy.
No longer on guard.
FORTY-ONE
The next afternoon, Chips dropped Mirabella off at work, and at the last moment, just before she closed the car door behind her, told her he’d be seeing somebody in the city about a consultant’s job and would spend the night there. He’d be home sometime the next morning, and she wasn’t to worry about him.
But she was worrying already, he could tell.
Consultant’s job! Does he think I’m brain-dead? “Listen, Chips, why don’t you just tell me—”
“I’ll explain later,” he said, glancing behind him. “I can’t stay parked here, baby. I hate spending the night away from you. It’s business.”
“But what kind of—”
“Baby, I gotta go.” An angry horn blast behind the Neon made Mirabella jerk. Good. “See, I’m holding up traffic parking here. I’m a navigational hazard.”
“But, Chips—”
“Tomorrow morning, baby.” He blew her a kiss. The driver behind him gave the horn two long blasts this time.
“Blow it out your…” Mirabella was shouting at the driver, as Chips pulled the Neon back out into traffic and drove away. There was no doubt she was upset.
Chips was breathing kind of fast, but he felt okay about this. You could trust any woman only so far, even a dumb one like Mirabella. When he got back to the house in New Jersey, he’d pack his suitcase and put it in the car with what he’d need for the job. Maybe drive the Neon to Philadelphia and leave it in the airport parking garage, then buy a ticket to Boise. He knew somebody in Boise, and the law would never think of looking for a guy like Chips in a place like Boise, was his reasoning. Though he’d never been to Boise.
“We’d like to speak with you,” Rica said to Myra Raven. She’d been sitting at Stack’s desk and working the phone most of the afternoon, when at 4:10 P.M. she was finally able to get through to the real estate maven. Myra Raven, according to the receptionist, had been in a meeting all afternoon. Rica would bet that if the receptionist had a wooden nose, it would be about the size of a two-by-four.
“Speak with me? The police? About what?”
Rica picked up something in the woman’s voice. Why do I think you’ve been avoiding this conversation? “It’s just a routine matter concerning the Torcher murders. We thought you’d be the logical person to ask some general questions regarding New York real estate.”
“Me? But, why?”
Rica put a deliberate chuckle in her voice. “Well, I guess it’s just because yours is the most successful real estate agency in town, and everybody else we’ve asked about the subject recommended we talk with you.” Another chuckle, like the ones in Stack’s repertoire. “You’re what we in police work call an expert.”
“As in expert witness?”
“Oh, I don’t think it would go that far. It’s just that if we knew more about New York real estate, the investigation might go easier. Your chance to perform a public service, I guess. We’ll hardly trouble you. We’ll come to you, and I promise we won’t take up much of your time.”
“Well…”
“It could be great publicity for your company. Unless of course you wanted to keep our conversation confidential.” You don’t have a reason to refuse, lady. Unless you want to attract suspicion.
Myra Raven said nothing. Neither did Rica. She knew when not to talk.
After a long pause, Myra’s defeated voice came over the line. “I would insist on confidentiality. For business reasons.”
“You would know best about that,” Rica said, with a huge grin. “We can be at your office in fifteen minutes, get it over with.”
“Today, you mean?”
“It happens I’m on a cell phone, and we’re only a few blocks away from you.”
A sigh like water from a tap came over the phone. “All right. Anything to help the police stop these ghastly fires. Not only are they tragic in human terms, they’re terrible for business.”
“I can imagine,” Rica said. “See you soon.” She hung up the phone before Myra Raven could change her mind, then looked up at Stack, who’d been standing next to his desk listening to the conversation.
“Bullshit like magic,” he said with a smile.
“I learned from a master.”
“We’ll use the light and siren for a while,” he said. “Maybe we can make it in less than fifteen minutes. If she’s got something to be nervous about, it’s all the better if we’re a little late and she has to wait.”
At that moment in New Jersey, Larry Chips was hefting his suitcase into the backseat of the Neon. There would be room in the trunk, but he didn’t want his clothes to pick up any of the accelerant scent.
He shut the Neon’s door and went into the garage. On the workbench were five leak-proof containers that were ice bags of the type used by hospitals to relieve swelling and headaches. They were pliable plastic encased in rubberized blue felt. Once full and attached with duct tape to his inner thighs, his waist, and the small of his back, they would conform to the shape of his body and draw no attention beneath his knee-length coat. Though they were plastic, it would take a long time for the accelerant to cause enough of a chemical reaction for them to leak. Chips had been using them for years, using phony ID if he had to in order to buy them from medical supply stores; they we
re ideal for his purpose.
Using a metal oil-change funnel, he carefully transferred the contents of most of the orange juice bottles into the ice bags. As an afterthought, he filled two more of the plastic bags to put in his coat’s generous side pockets. He didn’t spill a drop.
When he was finished, he arranged the swollen ice bags on the workbench and stepped back. He was satisfied with his preparations, still relaxed, though soon he’d be on edge in the way he enjoyed.
There was only one ice bag left over. He carried it with him into the house, then went to the kitchen and got some ice from the refrigerator. It wasn’t the kind of refrigerator that supplied crushed ice, so he had to dump a couple of trays in the sink and break up the cubes using an ice pick. Scratched the hell out of the sink, but what did he care? He’d stuff some ice in the plastic bag, add water, then sit on the sofa with the bag over his eyes and forehead, taking it easy and going over in his mind his plans for the evening. He could unwind completely that way, wait for the edge, and the cold bag would help him relax and at the same time keep him from drifting off to sleep.
It felt good, knowing he was leaving New York tonight. He’d done enough here, shown himself to too many people. Though that old photo the cops and media were flashing around no longer looked much like him, there was still a chance some sharp citizen would recognize him, then phone America’s Most Wanted or some such shit. He remembered an old guy, name of Ernie, who was so afraid of being on one of those TV shows he couldn’t even watch football, thinking there might be a network commercial—
Enough ice. He turned on the cold side of the tap and held the ice bag beneath the spigot. Good. Still not a drop spilled. A challenge met. That meant his luck would hold tonight. He began screwing the bag’s white plastic cap back on.
“Chips.”
He spun around, feeling cold water splosh over the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.
Mirabella was standing in the kitchen doorway. “Jesus, baby! You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were at work.”
A funny look in her eye. Not exactly anger. Not exactly fear. “You got a headache, Chips?”
“Matter of fact I do. I was gonna turn on some music, lay back on the couch, and try to relax with this ice bag on my head.” Keeping his voice casual. “How come you came home? You’re feeling okay, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t feel right about the way we left each other, you saying you wouldn’t be home this evening. All night, you were gonna be gone. But here it is evening, and you’re home.”
“I came to pick up some things; then I’m gonna drive back into the city.”
“You can’t do any of that if you’re laying on the sofa with an ice bag on your head.”
“I didn’t plan on getting a headache.” He made himself grin. “Hey, why the interrogation?”
“I got to thinking about a lot of things, Chips. About us.”
He nodded. “I think about us all the time.”
“I saw your suitcase in the car, Chips.” She moved farther into the kitchen now, maybe starting to get really mad, hurt. “I saw the garage door was open and went inside. There are more ice bags on the workbench. I unscrewed the cap on one to see what was inside.” Another step toward him. “I’m not stupid, Chips. I know who you really are. You’re the Torcher. I just want you to—”
Jesus! Where’d the ice pick come from? How’d it get back in my hand?
It was as if the ice pick had a mind and mission of its own, as if it were pulling Chip’s hand rather than him pushing it into Mirabella low between her breasts, then up into her heart, almost lifting her off the kitchen floor. She made only a slight sound, a funny little “Uhnn!” Then she fell back and down, sliding off the ice pick.
Chips had always heard that once you killed, it was easier each time. He guessed now that was true. He even tried to feel remorse but couldn’t. His mind, bent on self-preservation, was too busy racing ahead to explore the new terrain of his life.
In a way, Mirabella was now a problem solved. A problem he hadn’t asked for. So why should he feel guilty? The truth was, any second she mighta gotten a wild hair up her ass and called the law down on him. At least Chips knew now where she was, what she was doing. On the kitchen floor, doing nothing. Guilt? Piss on it. Why should he feel guilt?
What did bother him, what was kind of eerie, was the look on Mirabella’s face when the ice pick went in. Not really surprised. It was if she’d been expecting something like what happened. Like it was why she’d come back home.
Chips understood women. He knew she had come back just so she could catch him in a lie, so he’d have to show her he loved her enough not to kill her. That was what she wanted, but not what she really expected. She got what she expected. She put him in a position where he didn’t have any choice.
He stared down at her body where she’d rolled onto her side against the cabinets under the sink. Her skirt was up around her thighs, twisted tight. One red high-heeled shoe was off except right at the toes. Fuckin’ loser! What else could I do?
He dumped the ice and water from the plastic bag into the sink, then carried the bag out to the garage.
When he came back, the bag was full. He carried it into the kitchen and glanced again at Mirabella’s body. Worthless bitch! He was still so mad at her, at what she’d done to him, that he felt like kicking her. He actually drew back his right foot, then stopped.
What good would it do?
What would it change?
FORTY-TWO
The interview with Myra Raven might have gone better.
“What do you think?” Rica asked, as Stack maneuvered the unmarked through heavy midtown traffic.
“Myra’s a tough number. And smart.”
“She was playing dumb,” Rica said.
Stack steered around a florist’s delivery van parked with its flashers blinking and turned a corner, then had to brake again and join a new line of stalled traffic. Rica watched his set features in the reflection of oncoming headlights. She knew his mind was working relentlessly behind that Mount Rushmore exterior. Give the man time to think.
After another two blocks of stop and go, she finally said, “So how do you see it?”
“We keep Myra in mind,” Stack said.
“That’s all? Keep her in mind?”
“No,” Stack said, “that’s not all. We go over those co-op board minutes again, the ones where she was mentioned. We talk to her employees, see if we can get one of her salespeople to—”
The radio crackled and a patched-through call came in on the detectives’ band. Rica recognized Mathers’s voice. “Stack, we just got a squeal on a homicide in an electronics store around Fifty-sixth and Lex. You and Rica will be interested.”
“We’re near there now,” Stack said, and punched the accelerator.
Officer Dennis Blainer was a sixteen-year veteran of the NYPD. He sat on a big Samsonite suitcase on display near the door, thinking about how it had all happened. And what it might mean to him.
Rattling doorknobs. That was how it started. That was how a lot of things started, when you were walking a beat. You rattled doorknobs, making sure a property was secure. That was what beat patrol was all about. It was boring most of the time, almost all the time, strolling from one shop door to the next, gripping cold metal with your gloved hand, giving a doorknob a quick turn or pressing a swinging door to make sure it was locked.
Automatic, almost hypnotic, was the act of walking a beat in this part of the city.
Until one of the doorknobs turned.
So the owner or manager forgot to lock up when he left. It’s happened before.
Without opening the glass door, Blainer peered through it into the shop’s dark interior. He saw nothing but shadows and stillness. Place might as well be a photograph.
He was about to turn away when a dull gleam caught his eye, like something had moved and reflected what little light there was. It had been real. He was positive.
Blainer
felt his heart jump. He backed away, out of sight of anyone who might be inside. Then he used his two-way to call for backup, drew his gun from its holster, and kicked up his courage to enter the store.
It was one of several electronics stores in the area, the kind that sold luggage, plastic Statues of Liberty and Empire State Buildings, and umbrellas. But mostly its profit came from cameras, watches, cell phones, stereos, and various handheld electronic devices for everything from reading novels to surfing the Internet.
Blainer had been around. He knew enough to reach up and use his cupped hand to silence any bell that might be above the door. Only there was no bell. Instead there was an electric eye somewhere that sounded a brief but loud electronic beep. Blainer immediately chastised himself. What the fuck did you expect, in an electronics store?
He stood still just inside the doorway, listening to his breathing and the distant whisper of traffic, not knowing one from the other. Then he heard something else, a slight scraping sound, coming from the back of the store. As if someone had bumped into something and moved it on a concrete floor.
His limbs stiffened by fear, he made himself get away from the doorway so he wouldn’t be such an inviting target. Part of him wanted to slide over a few feet, then slip back out the door and get as far away from the place as he could. But that was impossible. That wasn’t his job.
Slowly he made his way toward the faint sound. Whoever might be there would make it out the back way soon—if there was a back way. He didn’t like himself for it, but he found himself hoping there was another way out.
There was only silence as Blainer edged through almost total darkness toward a doorway with a heavy curtain pulled across it. The entrance to the storage room, no doubt.