Chill of Night n-6

by John Lutz

  Beam didn’t think it was a waste of time. It was always possible the killer had left something, even if he hadn’t gotten inside the limo. We all leave a wake as we move through life.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

  Da Vinci hadn’t waited long to get into a frenzy. “You at the Parker scene?” he asked Beam, over the cell phone.

  “We’re here,” Beam assured him. He filled in da Vinci on what little there was to know.”

  “So we’ve got the red letter J tucked under the wiper, and it looks like the judge was shot with a thirty-two caliber slug.”

  “Could be a thirty-two. We’ll know soon as they do the postmortem, then ballistics can see if we’ve got a match with the other JK shootings.”

  “It’ll match,” da Vinci said glumly. “Remember Raymond Peevy?”

  Beam didn’t have to search his memory far. “The shitbird who shot up a van full of kids on the Verrazano Bridge about five years ago?”

  “Yeah. It was six years. He lives in California now and grows grapes. The late Judge Parker refused a prosecutor’s appeal on a verdict that set Peevy free on a technicality.”

  “Can’t think of a better way to become the late Judge Parker.”

  “Why we’ve got us another JK killing, Beam. You and your team have gotta nail this bastard before the commissioner nails me. I’m the one talked you up, Beam, and I told it true. You’re the best one to get inside this freak’s mind, anticipate him, be where he is, and stop his evil heart. Are you working toward that goal?”

  “You know damn well I am.”

  “Okay, okay. “Da Vinci seemed to calm down.

  “Why do you think he uses a thirty-two?” Beam asked.

  “It’s what he has. Scumbags like JK usually don’t go out and buy weapons. They use what’s at hand.”

  “He doesn’t use a twenty-two, like some pros,” Beam said. “Three or four in the head at close range. A thirty-two’s got more punch, but it isn’t as sure as a thirty-eight, forty-five, or nine millimeter.”

  “It’s had enough punch so far.”

  “True. But this is such a careful killer, you’d think he’d want to make sure his shots counted.”

  “They can count, with a thirty-two.”

  “If the shooter knows how to use one. Or increases the load.”

  “So you’re saying he’s a gun nut and a good shot, but not a pro?”

  “Or he knows guns and is a good shot trying not to look like a pro.”

  “Hmm. Could be you’re overthinking this.”

  “Could be,” Beam admitted.

  “And at this point I’m more interested in results than in theory.”

  “Understandable.”

  “I’m asking, Beam, please don’t disappoint me.” He sounded as if he thought Beam really had a choice.

  “I’m trying not to disappoint anyone,” Beam said.

  “Aren’t we all?” da Vinci said.

  Sometimes Beam wondered.

  He slid the phone back in his pocket and watched the glowing taillights of the truck towing the limo disappear around the corner like the watchful red eyes of some retreating animal.

  The city was full of predators.

  Gina had always thought Carl Dudman was the one most responsible for setting Genelle’s killer free. It wasn’t only that he was jury foreman. She’d watched him in TV interviews after the trial, a big man with sandy hair and an easy smile. He had charisma and confidence and it was obvious that things came easy to him. What would it be like to be a man like that in this world, instead of a helpless young girl like Genelle?

  Gina had some idea, only she wasn’t as helpless as Genelle had been. She was four years older than when her twin sister died, and she was wiser. She was also more determined. She’d always been more determined than Genelle, and obviously the stronger of the two. They’d both known it almost from infancy, and their parents had reinforced the knowledge. Their father had loved them both, but he was fond of saying Gina had self-confidence coming out of her pores. Of course, he was right. And now Gina had a mission. A celestial responsibility that only a surviving twin could understand. She had a duty to her dead twin.

  With that duty had come sudden opportunity. Dudman perfectly fit the profile of the Justice Killer’s victims. All Gina would need to do after shooting him was leave the red letter J near his body. She’d seen reproductions of it in the press after the murders where the letter had been scrawled on paper, and once with lipstick on a bathroom mirror, and she’d practiced and could duplicate it precisely.

  Could she do it? Actually squeeze a trigger and put a bullet in Dudman? There was no way anyone could know something like that for sure until the time came. She’d know it when she was looking down the barrel at him.

  But she had confidence.

  And in her purse she had the hard, cold thirty-eight caliber semiautomatic Reggie had sold her. He’d smiled as he counted her money, and he’d casually told her that if she did use the gun she should wear gloves and she could drop the weapon anywhere-and she should as soon as possible-because it couldn’t be traced to her or to anyone else.

  But she wasn’t going to drop it anywhere. The Justice Killer didn’t leave his gun where the police might find it.

  She straightened up from where she’d been leaning against a building and eating a knish she’d bought from a street vendor at the corner. Her eyes narrowed against the sun reflecting off a windshield. There was Carl Dudman, emerging from the building across the street, where his real estate agency was located.

  Gina hadn’t seen him since the trial, and he looked slightly older and heavier. But he still made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. If she were a different sort of person, not as careful, less determined, she would have simply gone into the real estate agency offices and shot her way to where he was and then killed him. The way those people did on the news almost every week somewhere, and for less reason than Gina’s. Newscasters often described them as “disgruntled.” Sure they were disgruntled.

  But Gina was more than disgruntled, and she knew that indiscriminate blasting away left too much to chance. Besides, she didn’t plan on being apprehended or to kill innocent people.

  There would be no direct and easy way to kill Dudman, not even one involving wholesale slaughter. Dudman was no fool. He must know he was in danger and was being careful. She’d have to bide her time.

  A tall, hefty fellow, with a buzz cut only a little longer and gray in front, and wearing a tight blue suit, was right behind Dudman, looking this way and that. He strode with a step surprisingly light for such a big man. He reminded Gina of nothing so much as a bull getting a feel for the ring and a matador. A dangerous looking guy.

  Gina took a bite of knish and smiled as she watched the giant usher Dudman through the orange scaffolding in front of the building, then into a waiting limo. As he moved, he let his gaze slide up and down the block, over her like cool water. Satisfied but obviously still wary, he lowered himself into the car after Dudman.

  It wasn’t surprising that a rich businessman like Dudman would have a security system, including bodyguards. That meant extra planning for Gina, and extra work and time.

  Gina didn’t mind putting in the hours, and she did have some advantages. A bodyguard with the Justice Killer on his mind wouldn’t be suspicious of a pretty young woman with a smile just for him. Or a college student applying for an internship. Or a naive young girl new to the city and lost and needing directions.

  The possibilities were almost endless, and one or more of them would work. The trick was in the choosing. Then in the execution.

  Someone clever, patient, and determined, could breach any security system.

  Gina truly believed that a genuinely determined person could do just about anything.

  43

  “You home, Beam?” Nell asked him on his cell phone.

  Beam glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. Ten fifteen.

  “Yeah, I’m home.�
��

  He tried to hide the thickness in his voice. He’d been sitting in the darkness of his den, sipping Glenlivet eighteen-year-old scotch to relax, letting his mind roam over the landscape of the investigation. He liked to do that, give his unconscious free reign from time to time. It had worked before, and he was willing to try anything to nail the Justice Killer.

  Trouble was, he kept finding himself thinking about Nola. Nola cocking her head to the side the way she did when she listened to him. Nola standing behind the antique shop counter as if in judgment of him, her lingering look and the graceful line of her back and shoulder as she turned away from him in calm dismissal.

  “Beam? You near a TV?”

  “Not one that’s on.”

  “Better turn it on to the Matt Black Show.”

  Beam knew who Black was, a young guy with a late-night local talk show on cable. He had tightly curly hair, wore snappy double-breasted suits, and had a space between his front teeth like Letterman. But there the resemblance ended. Black was lots of things, but funny wasn’t one of them.

  “Beam, you there?”

  “Here and moving toward the television.” Feeling my way in the dark. Ouch! Stubbed toe. Teach me to sit around in my stocking feet.

  “You okay?”

  “Okay, Nell.”

  “You won’t be in a minute. Black’s guest is Adelaide Starr.”

  Beam groaned as he found the remote and switched on the small-screen TV in the bookcase.

  “I’m hanging up,” Nell said. “I don’t want to miss a cute word.”

  In the soft light from the TV, Beam carried the remote back to his desk, sat down, and sipped more scotch as he turned up the volume.

  Adelaide Starr had on a lacy black and white low-cut dress and was wearing her blond hair in pigtails. She looked like Little Bo Peep, minus the sheep but with great bazooms.

  “But we’re celebrities,” Black was saying through his gaping grin. “We deserve special treatment.”

  Studio laughter.

  Adelaide was smiling innocently while leaning forward to display cleavage, pretending to be listening hard to her host. “If I really thought that,” she said, “I’d move to France.”

  “You wouldn’t have to do jury duty there,” Black said. “They just whoosh!-off with your head.”

  “I’m being serious,” Adelaide said. “I don’t want to do jury duty.”

  “You’ve made that clear.”

  “But I don’t want special treatment just because I’m an actress. And nobody I know in show business wants to be safe from this killer at someone else’s expense.”

  Studio applause.

  “Let me get this straight, Adelaide. You raised four kinds of hell because they were going to make you do jury duty. Now you’re complaining because they’re excusing you?”

  “No! Well, no, yes! It’s like a trick on their part. A gamwit.”

  Confusion on Black’s face. “Gambit, you mean?”

  “Gam something.”

  Black ogled her legs. “Gams! Yeah, sweetheart!”

  “You know what I mean. Don’t make fun of me, please!”

  “I’m not, I’m not. So you think the authorities are simply trying to sidestep trouble by showing preference?”

  “Of course I do! Don’t you?”

  “Well…yes. You’re too much for them, sweetheart.” Black grinned conspiratorially into the camera, then turned again toward Adelaide. Serious time. “So what, seriously, do you suggest?”

  “A mora…whatchamacallit. Where somebody stops something?”

  Black looked puzzled. Then he brightened. “A moratorium?”

  “Exactly. Don’t give celebrities special treatment. Give everyone equal treatment under the law. Let everyone be safe!”

  “I like what you do with your lips when you say that, dear. Saaafe! And of course, you’re absolutely right. On a serious note, you are right.”

  “We’re supposed to be a country with equal opportunity and equal responsibilities, no matter what color we are or where we came from or any of that stuff. The city’s giving show business people a free pass when it comes to jury duty. Until the Justice Killer is caught, they should give everyone a free pass. Everyone in New York who’s legible for jury duty is an American!”

  “If they leave out people whose handwriting you can’t read, that’d include a lot of us.”

  Adelaide appeared puzzled and upset. “You know what I mean. We’re all in the same boat, with the same rights as oars, and we can’t sink together, and it’s an American boat!” She rose to her full meager height and thrust out her breasts. “Maybe you’re not supposed to stand up in a row boat, but I am! For myself and everyone else out there! In or out of show business!”

  The applause was loud enough to make Beam ease back on the volume. The camera played over a standing ovation before returning to the set.

  Black was on his feet, hands clapping. “Take it to ’em, dear!”

  “We demand a moratorium!” Adelaide said. She bent over to smooth her skirt, flashing more cleavage, then began pumping her tiny right fist in the air as she had outside City Hall. “Moratorium! Moratorium!” The studio audience, still on its feet, joined in. Volume built. Larger fists pumped the air in unison, faster and faster.

  Matt Black slumped down in his chair with an exaggerated look of wonder and helplessness. Never had he seen anything like this.

  After letting the place cool down only slightly, Black pumped his own fist in the air. “Commercial! Commercial!” He grinned. “We’ll be right back. Don’t go away. Why would you go away?” Then, as the camera zoomed in for a close up, an aside to the TV audience: “Somehow I don’t think she’ll be moving to France.”

  Suddenly a sincere man in a leather jacket was trying to sell Beam a wristwatch that was an exact replica of the one worn by B-17 bomber crews in World War Two, only this one kept time with a battery and a chunk of quartz.

  Beam’s phone rang, the land line this time. He sat forward in his desk chair and lifted the receiver.

  “Nell again, Beam,” came the voice from across town. “Did you see it?”

  “Saw it.”

  “Whaddya think?”

  “Two things. I think she’s way ahead of da Vinci. And I think I’m going to pour myself another two fingers of scotch.”

  “I just poured some bourbon in a glass.”

  “Raise your glass.”

  “’Kay.”

  “Up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mine, too. A toast. To Adelaide.”

  “Adelaide,” Nell said on the phone. “And France.”

  This morning Jack Selig was wearing gray flannel slacks, a navy blazer with big shiny brass buttons, and a white shirt open at the neck to reveal a red ascot. Nell thought he looked exactly like what he was-a rich guy who owned a yacht.

  They were having breakfast in the grill of the Marimont Hotel in Midtown. The place was all red carpeting, red drapes, white tablecloths with folded red napkins, polished oak paneling, and subtle touches of gleaming brass. The china looked as if it might be rimmed with real gold. Nell was impressed, as she was sure Selig wanted her to be. The softening up period. Nell had seen and heard it all before and knew how it worked. But, damn, this guy was handsome despite his burden of years. And there was that yacht.

  And there was Terry.

  “Rough night?” Selig asked.

  Mind reader. “Why?” Nell asked. “Do I look it?”

  Selig smiled. “Instead of stunningly beautiful, you look stunningly beautiful and tired.”

  “It’s this case.”

  “The investigation into the Justice Killer murders?”

  “Yeah. The pressure to find this creep never lets up. I know when we’re finished here”-she glanced at her watch-“which better be within an hour, I’ve gotta go join the battle again. And it’s a hard one.”

  “It doesn’t have to be your battle, Nell. You never have to go in to work again if you don’t want
to.”

  “Yes,” Nell said, “I do. You need to understand that I do.”

  He looked puzzled behind his quiche. “But, why?”

  “I suppose because we all have our roles to play in life. The ones we chose. I’m a cop. You’re a…”

  “What?”

  “Wildly rich and successful.”

  “I wasn’t always, and you weren’t always a cop. Fate doesn’t have to rule our lives. We choose, and we can unchoose. We can change roles when we get the opportunity, when we have the courage.”

  “That wasn’t fair, Jack.”

  He smiled and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “You’re right, it wasn’t. I apologize. Lord knows, I wouldn’t question your courage.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. Nell could see outside a window, a double-decker bus full of tourists slowly driving past in the bright sunlight. New York pretending to be London.

  “The point is, this killer doesn’t have to be your personal responsibility,” Selig said.

  “He does, Jack. He is.”

  “What about your boss? Detective Beam? Seems to me the investigation is his responsibility.”

  “Not his alone. We’re a team.”

  “Almost everyone’s on some kind of team.”

  “Not where people are dying.”

  Selig forked in a bite of quiche, chewed, swallowed. “I wasn’t thinking of it that way. You’re right, of course.”

  “Not of course, but I’m right.”

  He smiled. “You getting your dander up, Nell?”

  She made herself calm down. “No. Dander down.”

  But it wasn’t. Not entirely.

  Selig was looking at her as if she were something infinitely precious and available that was rapidly slipping away. “Is there someone else, Nell?”

  Bastard! “Yes. No. Jesus! Yes, there is!”

  He looked so injured she had to fight the instinct to reach across the table and squeeze his hands and apologize. He looked suddenly older. Helpless.

  What have I done?

  “Another, younger, man…” He said it as if he’d expected it to happen all along. Maybe he had. “Are you sure about him?”