by John Lutz
Da Vinci moved an elbow that had been resting on his desk, almost sending a sheet of paper onto the floor. He absently weighted one corner of the paper under one of the wheels of his brass motorcycle sculpture. “And?”
“She’s almost certainly collecting unemployment. It’s a fact of life and a mainstay for most actors. And her jury pay would be deducted from what she draws, at least on a weekly basis. That means she wouldn’t actually be collecting anything for serving as a juror. Her jury service would mean she wouldn’t have time to look for work. We can call her, and theater people like her who are temporarily out of work, hardship cases and excuse them all from jury duty. The media would love it. New York’s supposed to be a friendly town for theatrical performers.”
Da Vinci leaned back in his desk chair. “You’re a devious bastard, Beam.”
Helen dug in a heel and began swiveling an inch back and forth in the swivel chair by the computer. “He really is,” she said, looking at Beam appraisingly.
“Do you think it’d work?” da Vinci asked her.
“Might.”
“Think it’d shut the little pest up?”
“Slow her down, at least.”
Da Vinci smiled. “I gotta say I like it.”
He was still smiling when his phone buzzed, but as he listened to what the caller had to say, the smile faded. His knuckles whitened on the receiver, and he looked at Beam. Away from Beam. Beam didn’t like it.
“Wait here just a minute,” da Vinci said when he hung up. He rose from his desk and left the office before anyone could reply.
“What the hell?” Nell said.
“Looks like it could be bad news,” Looper said, giving his shirt pocket a tap. When a minute or so passed and no one else commented on the obvious, he said, “You ever get your air conditioner fixed, Nell?”
Nell blushed.
She was about to stammer a reply when the door opened and da Vinci blustered back in. He went back behind his desk, sat down, and dropped a piece of red material on his green desk pad.
When he smoothed and straightened out the material, it was about five inches long and cut in the shape of a capital J.
“I wanted to make sure this was like the others,” da Vinci said. “We’ve got another JK victim, over on Third Avenue.”
“Shot?” Looper asked.
“No. Died on the street. Apparently he was made to jump or was pushed from a thirty-first floor balcony. He was an interior decorator who let himself into his client’s apartment and was waiting for her. It looked like it could be a simple accident or suicide until the CSU found the cloth letter tucked into one of his sport coat pockets.”
“Has anyone checked to see if he ever served on a jury?” Nell asked.
“He has,” da Vinci said. “Five years ago. A rape trial. The defendant walked on a technicality.”
“Not the jury’s fault,” Looper pointed out.
“Makes no difference,” da Vinci said. “The jury still could have found him guilty. In our system, a jury can do just about what it damn well pleases.”
“Was he foreman?” Nell asked.
“No, just one of the jurors.”
“Like Tina Flitt,” Nell said.
“We have another change of MO,” Beam said. “Death by falling.”
“A familiar one, though,” da Vinci said, looking at Beam the way he had when he was on the phone. “I think our killer might be trying to tell us something.”
Beam suddenly understood. He felt a chill. “You mean the way Lani died? You can’t think-”
“That he killed your wife to motivate you to become his opponent?” da Vinci said. “I’m afraid it’s possible.”
“But not likely,” Nell said. “If that were true, the killer would have made sure there was a letter J involved. Or he would have made sure some other way that Beam knew who was responsible.”
Da Vinci glanced over at Helen.
“I think she’s right,” Helen said.
“He could still be sending a message, though,” Looper said. “Taunting Beam.”
“Showing us he can get by with anything,” Nell said.
“Sounds more plausible,” Helen said.
Beam slipped his fingertips into his rear pants pockets and paced a few steps toward the file cabinets, then back. He was trying to figure out how he felt about this, sort through grief and anger, reason it out.
Finally he said, “I think Nell’s right. He couldn’t have had anything to do with Lani. And Loop’s right, too. The sick asshole deliberately mimicked Lani’s death to send a message, a taunt.”
Instead of turning to Helen this time, da Vinci seemed to think about it, then nodded. “Yeah, probably a taunt. The apartment with the balcony is a condo unit owned by a woman named Marge Caldwell. Crime scene unit’s over there now getting what they can, but the place got too contaminated when we thought it was accidental death or suicide to give up much in the way of admissible evidence. You can start there on this one. But it looks like our killer got away clean again.”
“The time’s coming when he won’t,” Helen said. “He’ll make a mistake because unconsciously he wants to. He wanted to play his game in the first place with Beam because he knew he’d eventually be nailed.”
“That last one’s hard to believe,” da Vinci said. Now he did look over at Helen.
Helen shrugged.
“If it’s true, he’ll get his wish.” Beam said. He’d sorted through his emotions and knew now how he felt-angry. Even if the killer had nothing to do with Lani’s death, it was as if he’d somehow defiled her. “He’s going to get a return message he isn’t going to like.”
Helen smiled like something carnivorous about to take a bite. Beam still didn’t have much confidence in her, but he was beginning to like her.
37
“You really wanna score some coke?” Vanessa Asarian asked Gina.
They were in Haagen-Dazs near where Vanessa shared an apartment with two other NYU students. There were only a few places to sit after buying your ice cream or drinks at the counter. Gina and Vanessa were at a table near the back of the long ice cream shop. The only other occupied table was up front, where three preppy types Gina thought looked like future asshole attorneys were sitting spooning in ice cream.
Vanessa wasn’t one of Gina’s best friends at school, but she was a friend. While Gina had a reputation for being serious and studious to the point of being dull, Vanessa, beautiful, blond, and with improbably large brown eyes, had just the opposite reputation. Both reputations were pretty much on the money.
“I want you to put me in contact with this guy Reggie I always hear you and some of the others talk about,” Gina said. She was trusted by those who knew her well, and they discussed matters involving lovers and drug suppliers in front of her without fear of betrayal. Or so Gina thought. Vanessa’s reaction to her request surprised her.
“You haven’t been talking to the police, have you, Gina?”
At first Gina thought she meant talking about the trial of Genelle’s killer and the Justice Killer, and wondered how she could know. Then she realized what Vanessa meant.
“You’re not really afraid of me snitching to the narcs, are you, Van?”
Not that it was narcotics Gina was interested in. She was more interested in Reggie. For a while he’d been away from the scene, and Gina had learned he was in prison, not for selling or possession of drugs, but because he’d been caught burglarizing a pawn shop in New Jersey.
Vanessa sipped her Diet Pepsi through her straw, making a show of it with her pouty lips for the three preppy types sitting up near the entrance. When she lowered the plastic cup there were lipstick smears the first inch of the straw. The preps didn’t happen to be looking her way. Sometimes, Gina thought, Vanessa could be too much.
“Do you really think I’d turn snitch?” Gina asked again.
“No,” Vanessa said. “But Reg has had problems lately. He was beat up a few nights ago and his merchandise was stole
n.”
“Coke?”
“Coke, grass, meth.”
“I didn’t know he dealt in all of that. I thought he was only a coke dealer.”
Vanessa stared at her wide-eyed, with her jaw dropped as if in shock. It was known around school as the Vanessa look. “He’s a businessman, Gina. Businessmen diversify.”
“That’s investors,” Gina said.
“Same thing. Being smart. Branching out.”
Gina studied her friend. She’d chosen Vanessa to ask about Reggie because she’d long suspected the two might be lovers. Or at least fornicators. The way Vanessa was defending her supplier seemed to underscore the notion. “The guy’s a drug dealer, Van.”
“So’s your friendly pharmacist.”
“I want to talk to Reggie in a friendly way.”
“If you want to try coke, I can get you some.”
“I want to talk to Reggie.”
“You sure you two have never met?”
Gina smiled at her. “It’s nothing like that.”
The Vanessa look again. “Like what?”
“You know what. And you’re making too big a deal out of it. I only want you to put me in touch with someone I don’t know.”
Vanessa looked away and took another sensuous sip through her straw. Distracted this time, though. Gina knew she was considering whether Reggie might be interested in Gina if they met. Gina doubted he would be, but then she didn’t know much about Reggie other than that he dealt drugs and made a bad burglar. Gina knew she was the serious type. She couldn’t picture a hedonist like Reggie being interested in her. But Vanessa might not see it that way.
“What do you want with him?” Vanessa asked around her straw, then did the pouty business with her lips again.
“Would Reggie want me to tell you?”
Vanessa’s cheeks became concave as she sucked in soda. The preps up front were staring at her now, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t want to have sex with him,” Gina said, “only talk to him.”
Vanessa’s eyes widened in genuine surprise this time. Gina didn’t usually talk this way. “Gina-”
“Don’t bother,” Gina said. “It’s none of my business who you or Reggie screw, and it’s going to stay that way.”
One of the preps, maybe a lip reader, looked as if he might get up and make his way back to them, but he didn’t work up the nerve to rise from his little wrought iron chair.
“Okay,” Vanessa said, “I’ll set up a meeting with Reg. But tell no one.”
“I don’t intend to,” Gina said.
“Whatever you wanna sniff or smoke, it’s okay with me.”
“I know that, Van, or I wouldn’t have come to you.”
“Done, then,” Vanessa said. She glanced around as if she’d heard someone call her name, but only as an excuse to survey the front of the shop. “Those guys that look like potential lawyers and doctors been looking at us?”
“At you,” Gina said.
38
“I hardly knew the man,” Marge Caldwell said, obviously tired of Beam’s questions after she’d already given a statement to the police-and less than an hour after Manfred Byrd had died.
“You knew him well enough that he died in your apartment,” Beam said.
Except for Nell, they were seated in the unfurnished living room on imitation Chippendale chairs that Beam and Looper had dragged in from the dining room. Nell was out on the balcony, looking around again to see if the crime scene unit had missed anything, thinking this was an apartment most New Yorkers would die for.
“Well, not exactly in my apartment, thank God,” Marge said. “He was a decorator who was recommended to me by my hair stylist.”
“Who is?”
“Terra. I don’t know her last name. She owns Terra’s Do’s and Don’ts, over on First Avenue.”
“How long have you been going there?” Beam asked. Looper was silent; on the drive over, they’d agreed to let Beam do the questioning.
“I’ve been there exactly once,” Marge said. “I’ve only been in New York a little over a month, and I wasn’t crazy about Terra.” She unconsciously raised a hand to touch her permed, graying hair. “She insisted on doing my hair her way. She’s like a lot of hair stylists-she doesn’t listen.”
Beam had read the preliminary report on Marge; it briefly described a markedly ordinary woman except for one thing.
“You won the Michigan lottery?” he asked, making sure.
“Three point nine million dollars,” Marge said, with an expression suggesting she’d answered the question many times before and it annoyed her.
“Congratulations,” Looper said.
Marge looked over at him and smiled. He was a nice man, not like Beam.
“Why did you decide to move to New York?” Beam asked.
“To be somewhere my ex-husband isn’t. We’d just been divorced when I was notified of my winnings. He’s had a change of heart.”
“I’ll bet,” Nell said, having just wandered back in from the balcony. She looked at Beam and Looper. “Nothing out there except for the fantastic view,” she said. “Not so much as a scuff mark.”
Beam wasn’t surprised.
Marge’s patience seemed to be wearing thin. “Look,” she said, “it’s not as if I don’t want to help, but I really don’t know anything. I talked to the police right after I came home and learned what happened. The officer took notes.”
“I’m sorry to bother you again,” Beam said, “but there’ve been developments that make it necessary we talk with you again.”
“The Justice Killer?”
“He’s the main development.”
“Is the news right? Did the Justice Killer push Manfred off my balcony?”
“It looks that way.”
“Then I can’t see what you want with me. I was ten blocks away when it happened.” Marge seemed upset and was obviously getting uncomfortable in her chair. She didn’t want to be unpleasant, but they were pressing her.
“We need to be thorough,” Beam said, “so I’ll have to ask your indulgence. Did anyone other than you and Byrd have a key to get in here?”
“No. Look, I hardly even know anyone in New York. Like a lot of other people, I came here for anonymity.”
“Did you ever see Manfred Byrd socially?”
“Look,” Marge said again, as if she actually had something to show Beam, “Manfred was simply somebody I hired to help me decorate this place. He was…flighty. We weren’t about to see each other socially, but I think we liked each other okay. I could tell he was very good at what he did. And, I think if he was still alive, he’d say I was one of his clients that actually listened to him and took his advice.”
“Did he complain about any other clients?”
“Not specifically. He only mentioned a few times that it was frustrating when people paid for his advice then refused to take it.”
Like with Terra the beautician, Beam thought. He said, “Do you remember ever seeing Mr. Byrd in anyone else’s company?”
“I only saw him when he came here,” Marge said, “other than when we went shopping together for decorators’ materials or furniture.”
“And how often was that?”
“Three-no, four times. Once for paint and wallpaper, and three times for furniture.”
“When was the last time?”
“Two days ago. We bought a sofa to go in this room. It will be the only furniture in here with a pattern.”
“I don’t see a sofa.”
“We’re-I’m still waiting for delivery, on the sofa and several other pieces of furniture. We didn’t want any of it here until the painters were finished.” Marge’s body gave a quick little start, as if experiencing a tiny shock. “Look,” she said, “I didn’t lie to you, but I was wrong. I do think I remember something I haven’t mentioned. Manfred told me once he kept getting the feeling he was being followed.”
“Did he have any idea by whom?”
&nb
sp; “No. He did think it was a man.”
“Then he’d seen this person?”
“I don’t know. If he did, I don’t believe he described him.” She clasped her hands in her lap and appeared pained, thinking. “His exact words-exact as I can recall them-were, ‘This can be a dangerous city, Marge. Sometimes I think there’s a man following me. But maybe I’m getting paranoid.’”
“He said that, about being paranoid?”
“Yes, I remember the conversation because I thought it was odd he’d be upset. I mean, a man following him. I should think he might have been pleased. You know, a man…”
“Got it,” Beam said. “And when was this conversation about being followed?”
“Oh, three or four days ago, I believe. We were measuring for drapes.”
“Was that the only time he mentioned this man?”
“Yes. And to tell you the truth he didn’t seem terrifically upset about it. I mean, it was just idle conversation. That’s why I didn’t remember it before.”
Looper and Nell were looking at Beam. Tina Flitt’s husband had said the same thing not long before his wife was murdered; he had the feeling he was being followed. The Justice Killer stalking his prey while he was being stalked. The dangerous game he’d chosen to play.
Beam closed his notebook and stood up. His right leg felt weak and almost gave at the knee. Had it fallen asleep while he was perched uncomfortably on the hard chair, or was it suffering some sort of delayed reaction to his having been shot?
Whatever. The leg seemed to be regaining feeling and strength.
Beam made himself smile. “We appreciate your help, Ms. Caldwell, and we apologize for the inconvenience.”
Marge stood also, a little stiffly like Beam. She smiled. “That’s okay. You’re only doing your job. And I like the way you don’t call me missus. It makes me feel unmarried.”
“No trouble at all. If you remember anything else, Ms. Caldwell…” He handed her a card.
“Of course.” Marge slipped the card into a pocket of her skirt.
“Are you going to hire another decorator to complete the work?” Nell asked.