Chill of Night n-6

by John Lutz

  “Floyd?” Nell said. “He’s just a guy. Got in an argument with the doorman about a month ago, when one of his golf clubs was missing after he’d left his bag in the lobby. But he found the club later and apologized. Other’n that, no problems with anybody in the building. But it was Bev, as they called her, who everyone really liked.”

  “And who somebody didn’t,” Beam said.

  “We got the thirty-two caliber slug to help tie it in with the other murders,” Looper said.

  “If it is a thirty-two,” Nell said.

  “And no shell casing,” Looper pointed out. “This shooter walked away from a clean crime scene-typical of our guy.”

  Beam stared out the windshield of the parked car for a moment, then said, “Looper, you talk to Floyd again, then drive the unmarked up to Connecticut and check out his alibi. Nell and I are gonna go to the lamp emporium or whatever, where Bev worked, and talk to her boss and coworkers.”

  Looper opened the Lincoln’s right rear door and started to get out, then paused. “Anything I should know about Floyd?”

  “He didn’t murder his wife, but he’s got a guilty conscience. You work him right, he’ll tell you the truth.”

  Beam watched Looper walk away; he appeared to be absently feeling his pockets for cigarettes.

  “He’ll suck a cigarette before he goes back upstairs to talk with hubby,” Nell said. “It’s that way every day. He needs it to calm down.”

  “That’s his business,” Beam said, “as long as it doesn’t kill him before something else does.”

  Or before this investigation’s finished, Nell thought.

  When the jittery Looper was out of sight, Beam opened the driver’s side door and started to climb out from behind the steering wheel. The intensifying morning heat lowered itself like a weight onto his back.

  “I thought we were going to the lamp emporium,” Nell said.

  Beam leaned farther down and looked across the car at her. “We are, but let’s walk. That was how Beverly Baker usually went back and forth to work. Let’s follow in her footsteps. Maybe, sometime or other, they took her past her killer.”

  After leaving Beverly Baker’s building, Justice had strolled a few sunny blocks, then taken the Eighty-sixth Street entrance into the park. It was such a beautiful morning that people he didn’t know nodded to him and said hello. He returned their friendliness with his own. The latex gloves he’d used to be sure he wouldn’t leave fingerprints in Beverly Baker’s apartment were neatly folded in his pocket, turned inside out just in case some of her blood might have gotten on them. Blood particles could be so minute the human eye wouldn’t spot them, but a police laboratory might. He knew the police had tricks that were almost magic.

  As he strolled along sun-dappled paths, he replayed the Beverly Baker murder in detail-mind like a DVD.

  Good looking bitch, lots of leg, perched with her ass spread and her back arched the way women do when they’re concentrating hard while sitting before a mirror and putting on lipstick. She’d seen him in the mirror, got the message, didn’t want to believe it, been momentarily paralyzed by the realization of her impending death-as they all were. That moment was ice. It froze them.

  Those crystallized seconds belonged to him. In that brief and vulnerable time, they comprehended the reason for their death at his hands. Surely they read the papers, watched television news, overheard conversations. The NYPD had of course long ago informed the media. The entire city knew why people were being killed, former jury forepersons whose hands were bloody, who’d been instruments of injustice. He assured himself that in their final, frozen moments of life, they understood that his was the final judgment and the hand of justice, righting the wrongs they’d perpetrated, the imbalance and pain they’d been so instrumental in causing. Always he read the cataclysmic knowledge in their eyes, but so there would be no misunderstanding, as the light died in them, he whispered the religion and the word that carried his victims to the other side: Justice.

  They died knowing. He lived knowing. He was setting the universe right. On a day like this one, with the sun laughing through the high leaves and the birds telling tales, his mission was especially satisfying.

  He still had work to do, but it was good work. It was right work. Not nearly finished.

  “Bev,” Mary Jean Maltz, assistant sales director at the Light and Shade Lamp Emporium, said to Beam and Nell. She was a stolid woman with dark bangs, a white blouse, brown slacks, and extremely wide thighs and hips. “Everyone called her Bev, not Beverly.” Mary Jean brushed a knuckle across a reddened eye; she’d obviously been crying. “She was a Bev.”

  Beam was prepared to believe it. He looked around at the sea of lamps and shades and dangling chandeliers. Almost everything was lighted. For display purposes, or in honor of Bev Baker.

  “Everyone loved her,” Mary Jane said.

  Don Webb, an elderly, mustached man whose family had long ago founded the lamp emporium, and who was Bev Baker’s supervisor, finished the phone call he’d been making when Beam and Nell arrived, and walked over to join the conversation. His long, lined face wore a somber expression, but his blue eyes were dry behind thick rimless glasses.

  “It’s a blow to all of us here,” he said, “what happened to Bev.” He fixed Beam with a steady, magnified gaze. “She was the best sales manager we ever had.”

  “Do you mean that literally?” Beam asked. “Forget for a moment about speaking well of the dead. We’re here for the truth. We’re trying to find out who murdered Beverly Baker.”

  “One of the best,” Webb amended.

  “An absolute peach to work for,” Mary Jane added.

  Webb looked at her. “Why don’t you check that floor lamp shipment that came in yesterday, make sure none of the shades are bent.”

  She nodded, slightly embarrassed. With her hips cocked sideways so as not to bump anything, she hurried away in a little side shuffle through what seemed like acres of glowing table lamps, floor lamps, and light fixtures on chains. Beam thought the electric bill here must be phenomenal, but then, they were selling illumination.

  Isn’t that what we came for-illumination?

  “I had no complaints about Bev,” Webb said, when Mary Jane was out of earshot. “She really was damned likable, and she worked hard and got the job done. Sales increased every quarter in the four years she was sales manager.” He gave Beam the same sincere expression he’d worn earlier. “It didn’t hurt that she was attractive and knew how to treat customers, how to talk to them.”

  “How to bullshit them?”

  “How to sell.”

  “Can you think of any enemies she might have had?”

  “No. But then I wasn’t privy to her personal life.” Was there a note of regret in Don Webb’s voice?

  “Might she have been in debt?”

  “I wouldn’t know, but I doubt it. She was well paid and knew how to manage money. Smart woman. Take-charge type.”

  The sort who’d volunteer to be jury foreperson.

  “Any changes in her behavior over the last six months or so?” Beam asked.

  Here Webb hesitated. “A few months ago she began taking longer lunches, coming in late sometimes in the morning. I never complained. I mean, if she came in late, she tended to stay late.”

  “What were her reasons for being late?”

  “Oh, one thing or another. Tell you the truth, I never asked her very often. I wasn’t kidding when I said she was a valuable employee. You don’t mess with people like that in this business or any other; you want to keep them.”

  A flurry of motion made them look to the side. A gray-haired woman who was apparently Webb’s assistant stood just outside the door to his partitioned office, holding up a telephone receiver and motioning frantically to him with her free hand that he had a call.

  “Must be important,” Webb said.

  “Go ahead and take it,” Beam said. “Thanks for your help.”

  Webb nodded gratefully and hurried away.<
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  As Beam and Nell moved toward the exit, Mary Jane, who’d returned to the sales floor, tacked sideways through the sea of lamps toward them on a collision course. Beam liked that. She seemed to have more to say, and she hadn’t wanted to say it in front of Webb.

  Mary Jane was smiling as she intercepted them near a bamboo and wicker floor lamp that was part of the tropical line. “Was Mr. Webb any help to you?”

  “Maybe,” Nell said. “Time will tell.”

  “He mentioned that Bev was coming into work late the past several months,” Beam said.

  Nell decided to keep silent and let Beam handle this, watch him work and maybe learn something from the master.

  Mary Jane didn’t look surprised. “He say why?”

  Beam shook his head no. “Said he didn’t know why.”

  Mary Jane suddenly seemed hesitant, now that it was time to release the words she’d stored up for them. Nell had seen it before when people with something to say to the police also had something to lose: Word jam.

  Beam reached out and gently touched the tropical lamp’s glowing shade, as if caressing a work of art. “Beautiful piece of merchandise. Makes you think of the South Seas.”

  Mary Jane definitely didn’t want to talk about lamps. “Did he mention Lenny Rodman?”

  “No…” Beam seemed thoughtful. Nothing rough or threatening about him now; merely a benign if looming gentleman who happened to be a cop. He seemed just as interested in the lamp as in what Mary Jane had to say.

  “Lenny’s why,” Mary Jane said in a near whisper.

  “Who exactly is this Lenny?” Beam asked with a smile. Definitely on Mary Jane’s side. “Other than Bev’s reason for tardiness?”

  “Fire extinguisher lamps.”

  “Ah!” As if Beam understood.

  “Lenny wholesaled us grosses of the damned things and they haven’t retailed for beans. Lamps made outta obsolete fire extinguishers. Can’t give the things away. Lenny sold himself to Bev, though. He fed her a line and she took the bait along with the hook. Smart as she was, she couldn’t control her heart, love being so blind. She thought she was using the guy, sneaking around with him, and he was using her.”

  “An old story but sad one,” Beam said. Nell thought he might actually cluck his tongue. “Did her husband suspect?”

  Mary Jane looked incredulous. “Are you kidding? That guy’s so wrapped up in fairways and doglegs it’s all he thinks about. He was ignoring Bev for a little white ball. That was part of the problem.”

  “Really? Did she confide this to you?” Beam leaning closer, intent with interest, making Mary Jane his coconspirator.

  “Some of it, but not all. Didn’t have to. Women can tell. You understand, I’m sure.”

  Beam did. He also understood that Mary Jane didn’t like Lenny Rodman, or maybe liked him too much, or she wouldn’t have made it a point to mention him.

  Now she wanted to do more than merely mention. She was ripe.

  Time to dish.

  He aimed his kindly smile at Nell like a flashlight, then at Mary Jane. “So tell us about Lenny.”

  11

  Beam and Nell were in Beam’s Lincoln, on their way to Lenny Rodman’s Brooklyn address, when Beam’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Taking a corner with one hand on the steering wheel, he yanked out the phone, flipped up its lid, and glanced at the Caller ID. Looper.

  “Beam, Loop.”

  They were breaking the law, using a hand-held phone in New York while driving, Nell thought. Felt good.

  “I talked to Floyd Baker, then called two of his golf buddies,” said Looper’s voice on the phone, almost breaking up as the big Lincoln rounded the corner and rocked as it straightened out. Looks like his alibi is tight. In fact, he already seems to be getting over his grief at his wife’s death. Once it was obvious he wasn’t going to be a suspect, all he wanted to talk about was this eagle he made on the tenth hole. Popped the ball out of a sand trap, it bounced once and hit the pole, then dropped straight down into the cup. Says he shot two on a par four. You believe that?”

  “I dunno,” Beam said. “What do his golfing partners say?”

  “I checked it out with them and they swear to it, too.”

  “Think you could get them to say it under oath?”

  Nell was looking intently at Beam.

  “Hah!” Looper said. “You a golfer?”

  “Used to be. Get them to swear to it and we can believe it.”

  Beam broke the connection.

  “What?” Nell said anxiously. “We catch a break?”

  “Ever actually seen anyone use their sand wedge to clear a trap and eagle the hole?” Beam asked.

  She stared at him, confused.

  “Floyd Baker’s not a suspect,” Beam said. “His golfing buddies confirm his alibi.”

  “Golf,” Nell said. “It’s one of the few male diseases that don’t infect women.”

  Beam thought about telling her that was because women couldn’t drive the ball as far, then decided he’d better not. Besides, plenty of women liked golf.

  The phone, still in his hand, vibrated again, startling him. He flipped the lid back up and said hello without taking his eyes off the traffic ahead.

  “Da Vinci here, Beam. Get anything interesting on the Beverly Baker murder?”

  “I just talked to Looper. Looks like Floyd Baker’s in the clear. He was out on the links when his wife was killed.”

  “Links?”

  “You don’t golf?”

  “Never.”

  “Floyd was playing golf in Connecticut at the time of his wife’s murder, shot an eagle out of a sand trap, has witnesses.”

  Da Vinci was unmoved. “Ballistics says it was a steel-jacketed thirty-two caliber slug that killed Beverly Baker. It matches the others. Same gun that killed the previous victims.”

  “Killer doesn’t seem to care that we’re making a match,” Beam said. He braked to a stop for a traffic jam as they neared the bridge. “I mean, he’s careful enough he recovers his shell casings, and wears gloves so he doesn’t leave prints, but using the same gun and knowing we can match it doesn’t seem to concern him.”

  “Maybe he’s only got one gun,” da Vinci said.

  “Could be that simple.” Traffic was moving again, but barely; Beam’s foot came off the brake and the long-hooded Lincoln crept forward like a dark, chrome-festooned predator. “But a guy like this, you’d think he’d know where to get his hands on more than one gun.”

  “He doesn’t worry about getting caught,” da Vinci said.

  “None of them think they’ll get caught. At least not until they’re ready. They’re all smarter than we are. I think he wants to be sure we match the murders, just in case one of the letter Js blows away or isn’t noticed. The steel-jacketed slugs penetrate flesh and bone better and don’t get too misshapen, so the lab can pick up marks on them and ID the gun. The bullets are part of his signature. He wants to be sure he gets the notch when each of his victims dies.”

  “Not just for us, though,” da Vinci said. “The media’s starting to heat up on this, just as I feared. They’re zeroing in on the anti-Semitism angle.”

  “They’re wrong,” Beam said, and told da Vinci about Nell’s theory, along with the fact that Beverly Baker once served as a jury foreperson.

  “Impressive,” da Vinci said. “You buy it?”

  “Hard not to. The media’ll like this angle, too.”

  “You bet they will. That’s just what the asshole wants, I’m sure. You know how they are, in it for the notoriety, even if their name’s not in the papers.”

  “Not in the papers at first, anyway,” Beam said.

  Traffic was moving rapidly now. He had to concentrate to steer one-handed while talking on the phone. Breaking the law. Well, not technically, since he was the law. “I think we oughta let everything hang out,” Beam said. “Hold a press conference. Give the media what we know. The NYPD leaks anyway. You might as well get credit for being up f
ront with the press, get them on our side. And the publicity might shake something loose.”

  “I was thinking we could hold back on the matching bullets, give them another red letter J to chew on.”

  “They’ll find out about the bullets anyway, if they don’t already know. And they’re dead certain to stumble across the jury foreperson tie-in.”

  “You’re right.” Da Vinci obviously didn’t like admitting it. “You’re also beginning to break up.”

  “Nell and I are in my car, approaching the bridge; that’s probably screwing up the signal. You want me with you for the press conference?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, too.”

  The connection was broken. Beam flipped the phone closed and slid it back in his pocket so he could drive with both hands on the wheel.

  “Pressure getting to da Vinci?” Nell asked.

  “He’s still got his sense of humor,” Beam said. “So called.”

  12

  Lenny Rodman’s address belonged to a seriously rundown brick and stone building on Kloss Avenue in Brooklyn. The block was made up of almost identical buildings.

  Cloning gone bad, Nell thought.

  Except for a few that showed signs of being rehabbed, the buildings shared the same state of hopelessness. Small patches of grassless dirt on each side of the concrete stoops harbored only a hardy weed here and there, as well as rusted tricycles, empty soda bottles, and beer cans.

  Beam parked the Lincoln two buildings down from Lenny’s, placed the NYPD placard where it was visible on the dashboard, and hoped for the best. Under the casual scrutiny of half a dozen or so people sitting out on the stoops, he and Nell walked down the jaggedly sectioned, uneven sidewalk to Lenny’s building.

  There was a dirt-splattered red and yellow plastic car for a kid about five in the front yard, next to a leafless tree about three feet high that was surrounded by a low wire fence and supported by three pieces of twine wrapped round the spindly trunk and staked in a triangle. Nell stepped on an already shattered glass crack vial and thought the tree had about as much chance as a child born into this world on this block of Kloss Avenue. She knew that parts of Brooklyn were quite beautiful, desirable, and getting more expensive by the minute. This wasn’t one of them.