by John Lutz
Westerley released Salas’s chin but made sure their gazes were still locked.
Salas didn’t look away this time. His dark eyes were flat and emotionless, maybe the way they’d been when he raped Beth. Westerley knew the distance in those eyes; he’d driven Salas’s sick and evil demon well back in its lair.
“If she ain’t opening the letters anyway,” Salas said, “I don’t see any point in sending more.”
“I’m glad you got that straight in your mind.”
Westerley stood up, then went over and rapped a knuckle on the door as a signal to the guard that he was leaving.
“Go easy on the cigarettes,” he said, with a glance back at Salas. “Those things are killing lots of rats on the outside.”
41
New York, the present
The Skinner had learned the doorman’s routine easily enough. As usual, the man in his absurd quasi-military uniform left his post untended when he bustled down to the corner to hail a cab for someone leaving the building. By the time he was helping his charges into the cab and receiving a liberal tip, the Skinner, unseen, was on his way up in an elevator. Since he was in his deliveryman uniform and carrying a package, anyone glancing at him would have paid him little attention. He was as much a part of the decor as one of the potted plants, and about as memorable.
It was easy for him to slip the apartment door’s knob lock with his honed credit card. He then made short work of the dead bolt with his lock pick.
He wasn’t surprised when he eased the door open and found that the chain wasn’t attached. Judith Blaney was dining out with friends on the other side of town. Probably they would stop someplace else for drinks after dinner. She’d be pleasantly tired when she got home, anxious to kick off her shoes and go to bed. The friends she was with were all women, so Judith was almost certain to arrive home alone.
She’d be surprised when she closed the door behind her and wasn’t alone. The Skinner, an expert at his grisly passion, would take full advantage of that surprise and have her helpless even before she had time to cry out.
He tucked the box, in which he carried his tape and instruments, beneath his arm, and with a glance up and down the hall pushed his way into the apartment.
The Skinner locked the door after him but left the chain off, so when Judith came home she’d think everything was as she’d left it and the apartment was inviolable and waiting for her with its comforts and safety. Her world would seem tight and secure and unchanged.
The killer knew how important unchanged was.
Familiarity was easily mistaken for security. It made for denial that lasted until the end. Well, near the end.
The Skinner smiled, turned, took two steps, and drew in his breath.
He stood still, staring at the man casually seated on the sofa. The man had his hands folded in his lap, his legs crossed, and was staring back at him.
Not a large man, the Skinner told himself. Slender, but with a coiled kind of look about him suggesting a wiry strength. He was wearing pale gray slacks, a black blazer, and no tie. Almost absently, he slid a hand into one of the blazer’s side pockets, but the implication was clear. There might be a gun in that pocket.
The Skinner’s mind was spinning, calculating.
The police? Had they somehow guessed Judith Blaney was to be the next victim?
No. I don’t see a badge. And only one man.
And not a very intimidating one.
If not the police, who?
Then he remembered the other man he’d seen in the vicinity of Judith. Two hunters on the trace of the same prey?
It was possible.
Given the circumstances, maybe even likely.
The Skinner felt grounded again. Though not exactly in control, he was sure he could get on top of this situation even though he didn’t entirely understand it.
“I’m here to make a delivery,” he said amiably.
The man on the sofa laughed. He had neatly aligned features that somehow just missed being handsome. His wavy black hair was combed straight back, as if he were perpetually facing a wind.
“What’s funny?” the Skinner asked.
“You coming to make a delivery, when I came here to give something to you.”
“What would that something be?” asked the Skinner
“An alibi.
“For what?”
“The murder of Judith Blaney.”
“You out of your mind?”
“Like you are. But we want the same thing.”
“Which is?”
“Judith Blaney dead.”
The room seemed to have developed its own heartbeat. The Skinner was breathing softly and evenly. Whatever the hell was going on, there was wriggle room. He’d be able to work something out, even if it meant leaving here with two dead bodies in the apartment.
“I was released from prison six months ago after serving time for a rape I didn’t commit,” the man on the sofa said.
“I know who you are now,” the killer said. “Judith Blaney pointed you out as the man who attacked her. Your conviction was overturned because DNA proved you were innocent.”
“And I know who you are,” the man on the sofa said. “I know what you’re doing and I heartily approve of it. I know you need alibis for the… well, for certain nights. I can provide them.”
“Why should you?”
“You’re going to do to Judith Blaney what I was going to do.”
He drew from his pocket not a gun but a theater ticket. He laid it on the sofa arm, snapping it flat as if it were a card he’d pulled from a new deck. “This is a ticket for a play at the Berman Theater, Tables Turned. You seen that play?”
“No. I’m not much for the theater.”
“I bought it at the box office, paid cash. It’s for tonight’s performance. You still have plenty of time to get there before the curtain goes up.”
“Why should I go see a play when I don’t like plays?”
“So if the police question you about Judith Blaney’s murder, and where you were tomorrow night, you’ll know what you’re talking about when you refer to Tables Turned.”
“Aren’t you kind of ahead of events?”
“Yeah. And that’s a good place to be. I did hard time in prison because of Judith Blaney. I want her dead. Obviously I can’t kill her, because the police will be all over me as soon as she turns up not breathing.”
“Then you’re the one who needs an alibi. Not me.”
“And I can have one, when I know for sure what night she’s going to die.”
“ Can you know that?”
“Yeah. Haven’t you been listening? It’s tomorrow night. I’ll be sure and have a solid alibi. Tomorrow evening, you go wait with the ticket holders outside the Berman Theater or in the lobby, and do something to make yourself memorable. Nothing drastic. Maybe pretend to trip over something and almost fall. Or get into a little argument about somebody crowding ahead of you. That kinda thing.”
The man on the sofa paused, waiting for the Skinner to say something more. The Skinner didn’t.
“But you don’t go into the theater auditorium,” said the man on the sofa.
“Why should I? I already saw the play last night. Tonight.”
“Exactly. Instead you filter away without anyone noticing, and come here, and wait for Judith.”
“And?”
“Then you have your fun. Just like you were going to do tonight. Only you can prove you were at the theater. At least a few people from the lobby or waiting outside in line will remember you. You can describe the play. To top it off, you’ll have a ticket stub.”
“I won’t have a ticket stub for tomorrow night’s performance.”
“Yes, you will. I’m going to give you one. If it isn’t a stub, it’ll have a bar code on it. They do that so tickets can’t be counterfeited or used twice. There’s only one bona fide ticket for that seat on that night, and it will have been used, and you’re going to have it or its stub.”
“They’ll recall that somebody sat there, but they won’t remember who, not by the time the police finally get around to checking on you. They won’t even recall if it was a man or woman. Besides, you’ll have the canceled or torn ticket. And the ticket will have been paid for in cash. There won’t be a record of who bought it.”
“Where you gonna get this canceled or torn ticket?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll get it, and you’ll have it. We’ll meet the day after Judith’s murder, and I’ll give it to you.”
“And you get what out of this?”
“Judith dead. As the prospective prime suspect, I can’t kill her myself.”
“But you know I’m going to kill her anyway.”
“That’s true.”
The Skinner studied the man on the sofa for a long time. Then he came to a conclusion and smiled. “You don’t have the balls to kill her.”
“That’s true, too. My years in prison… took a lot out of me.”
“I’ll bet,” the Skinner said. “And I bet I know how. You and Judith Blaney have got something in common now.”
“Never mind that. I’ve been following Judith, trying to scare her, I admit. But she knows I won’t hurt her. I can’t. The police’ll be on me even before her body drops. When I noticed you were watching her, too, I figured out who you must be. I thought of something that’d be good for both of us, and neither of us can talk about it in the future or we’ll mess ourselves up. We’ll both be safe. I won’t have Judith to brood about any longer, and you’ll have an alibi for the time of her death. Not a perfect alibi, but one good enough to hold up if they don’t have much else in the way of evidence. And I’ve been reading about you. You don’t leave a lot of evidence.”
“I don’t leave any.”
“Still…” The smaller man shrugged. “A little insurance…”
“You could simply have let things take their course and made sure you had an alibi for the time Judith left the world.”
“Let’s call having somebody else kill the bitch my insurance. I’m never going back to prison.”
The Skinner thought about it and decided he really didn’t have much choice. He didn’t want to kill this little poof. That would be too messy and complicated. The way to neutralize him was to make him an accomplice.
He walked over to the sofa. The little man might not have balls, but he didn’t look scared, only curious. Maybe it was the look of a guy who’d already lost all he had.
The Skinner picked up the theater ticket from the sofa arm and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
“Good,” the man on the sofa said.
The Skinner moved toward the door.
“Enjoy the play. Remember it,” said the man on the sofa. “It’s a musical.”
“God!” said the Skinner, and let himself out of Judith Blaney’s apartment.
42
Hogart, 1992
Beth Brannigan had never felt so much pain. The contractions were coming closer together, tying her into knots so she could hardly breathe.
The baby is trying to get out. He’s trying to be born.
Beth found herself terrified and astonished, as if this were something she’d never suspected would happen. As if she hadn’t been waddling around all those months with a new life inside her.
A complete surprise.
The bedroom window lit up with a flash of distant lightning. A storm on the way. Just what Beth needed.
Thunder rumbled through the darkness outside. A few large raindrops struck the window, and then came the steady plinking sound of rainwater dripping against the metal elbow of the downspout.
Beth switched on the bedside lamp and glanced at the numerals on the clock radio. Two-thirty a.m. Babies picked the damnedest times to be born.
If this was the real thing.
Even if it wasn’t the real thing, what was she going to do to find out? Wait until her water broke before calling for help?
She reached for the landline phone by the bed and considered calling 911. Then she decided that would probably bring Sheriff Westerley or his deputy Billy Noth.
Beth realized it was Westerley she wanted to come, to be by her side.
She put the phone back in its cradle and rooted in the tiny nightstand drawer until she found his number.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the night. Rain began falling in a torrent.
When Beth picked up the phone again, a strange thing happened. Some of her fear disappeared, and it was replaced by an odd kind of exhilaration. This was really happening. She was about to become a mother.
She made her call, alerting what had obviously been a soundly sleeping Westerley, who came awake in a hurry.
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t have called if I wasn’t,” Beth said. “You told me-”
“Huh?”
“What?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I was putting on my pants. How close together are the contractions?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“We got some time, then. Stay calm.”
“I’m glad you know something about this. What was that?”
“Knocked over a lamp. Oww! Damn it!”
“Sheriff? Wayne? You okay?”
“Yeah. Stubbed my toe. You stay calm and I’ll be there before you know it.”
“Wayne?”
“I’m leaving. I’ll see you soon.”
There was a crash, and he hung up.
Beth lay in bed smiling, until the next contraction.
The seven-pound-four-ounce baby boy was born at 6:07 that morning. The birth had been accomplished without complications. It hadn’t been easy for Beth, but it was less painful than she’d expected.
Sheriff Westerley had stayed at the clinic throughout the ordeal of birth. He came into her room a few minutes after the nurses had given Beth the infant to hold.
He leaned over the bed, and she thought he might kiss her on the forehead. Instead he straightened up and smiled down at her.
“He look’s like he’s got all his parts,” he said.
She laughed. That hurt a bit, but the pain didn’t dent her relief and euphoria. “I’m gonna make you his godfather.”
“Fine with me,” Westerley said. “In fact, I’m honored.”
On the birth certificate Beth used her maiden name, Colson. The space for father was filled in with unknown. Beth named the baby Edward Hand, after her grandfather. Her son would be Edward Hand Colson.
Beth, lying in bed with her eyes closed and with an inner peace that she’d never believed possible, was already thinking of him as Eddie.
43
New York, the present
Fedderman and Penny Noon were eating pasta at Vito’s Restauranti in Lower Manhattan. The food was a lot better than the neighborhood.
“The angel-hair pasta’s terrific,” Penny said, winding another bite around the tines of her fork, “but I wouldn’t risk coming here alone for it.”
“Mean streets,” Fedderman said. He had on the new suit and looked better than merely respectable.
Penny paused in her winding and raised her eyebrows. “You’ve read Chandler?”
“And Hammett,” Fedderman said. “We detectives like detective fiction. It gives us a break from the real thing.”
“The novels aren’t realistic?”
“Sometimes, but not usually,” Fedderman said. “Down in Florida, when I was sitting fishing and not catching anything, I read a lot.”
“Just detective fiction?”
“Mostly. Connelly, Grafton, Parker, Paretsky, Mosley…”
“Those are fine writers.”
“I left out a lot who are just as good. There’s this guy in St. Louis…”
“Something about you,” Penny said. “When we met I knew somehow you had a literary bent.”
Fedderman took a sip of the cheap house red. He’d never considered himself the literary so
rt. He realized Penny was doing something for him, lifting him in ways he hadn’t suspected possible.
“Sometimes your boss, Quinn, seems like a character out of a book,” Penny said.
“A good book?”
“The best. There’s something about him. He can make you trust him. And he’s handsome in a big homely way. Like a thug only with a brain. It’s easy to see that people respect him. And sometimes fear him.”
“It can be the same thing,” Fedderman said.
“Have you ever seen Quinn angry?”
“Sure have. And sometimes he’s angry and you don’t know it. That’s what’s scary. He’s tough in ways that are more than physical.”
“You obviously respect him.”
“I know him. He’s a good man. We’ve been friends for a long time. Rode together in a radio car back in another era.”
“Has police work changed that much?”
“Society has. Police work changed along with it.”
Penny was going to ask what Fedderman meant by that when his cell phone buzzed.
“Sorry,” he said, smiling apologetically as he dug the phone from a pocket and checked caller ID. He delayed making the connection. “It’s Quinn.”
“Of course. He sensed we were discussing him.”
Fedderman pressed TALK. If the call was one he didn’t want Penny to overhear, he was ready to remove his napkin from his lap and stand up from the table.
But it was Quinn who did most of the talking, and the call promised to be brief: “We’ve got another Skinner victim, Feds. Woman named Judith Blaney.” He gave Fedderman Blaney’s address.”
“On my way.”
After breaking the connection and slipping the phone back in his pocket, Fedderman said, “That’s something that hasn’t changed about police work. We get a call, day or night, and we have to respond.” He reached across the table with his right hand and stroked the back of Penny’s hand, so delicate and smooth. “I’m sorry.”
“We both are,” she said. “But I understand.”
Fedderman noticed that his right shirt cuff was unbuttoned. He raised his arm to fasten it, at the same time waggling a finger to summon their waiter.
“I’ll put you in a cab, then I’ll have to drive cross-town,” he told Penny. He’d driven them to the restaurant in the unmarked and had it parked outside near a fire hydrant.