by John Lutz
The commissioner stood quietly, and when he spoke it was calmly and softly. “The Justice Killer, Adelaide Starr, the media wolves, they’re all making goddamned fools of us, Andy.”
Without bothering to look at da Vinci or say goodbye, he turned slowly and left the office.
Da Vinci thought it had been nice of the commissioner to say us.
Beam double parked his Lincoln in front of Things Past, not bothering to put up the NYPD placard. He ignored the closed sign hanging in the shop window and pushed in through the door. Lucky it was unlocked, as Nola had said, or he might have punched out the glass with his shoulder, so eager was he to get inside the shop.
He didn’t know what to expect, but he saw that there was no one behind the counter. The shop was empty.
Damn it!
He was headed toward the back room when he noticed Nola. She was standing to his left and slightly behind him, staring at him with wide dark eyes.
“What is it?” Beam asked, moving toward her sideways so he wouldn’t knock anything breakable off the shelves. “What’s wrong?”
“That.” Nola’s gaze lowered to fix on something on one of the shelves, and she pointed.
Beam sidestepped around a mannequin wearing a fake fur jacket and twenties feathered hat, and saw where Nola was pointing.
On the shelf before her was a man’s ring. It drew Beam’s attention, as it had drawn Nola’s, because the shop’s jewelry, the good stuff, was all displayed in a glass case near the register to prevent shoplifting. A key, held by Nola, was needed to get into the case.
At first Beam didn’t understand the significance of the ring. Then, when he did, his blood went cold.
It was Harry Lima’s trademark ring. No mistaking it. Large, gold, gaudy, a dusting of diamonds in the shape of a dollar sign, flanked by rubies and Harry’s initials.
The ring Harry was wearing when he was buried.
45
The air was warm and reeked of fried onions. Seated in the diner down the street from Things Past, Beam said nothing until Nola had a cup of coffee and a glass of ice water in front of her. They were in a back booth near a door to the kitchen. They wouldn’t be overheard here by the dozen other customers at tables or seated at the counter.
Nola took a sip of water, then looked at Beam as she never had before-as if she trusted him-or had to trust him because they were in something together. Something that scared the hell out of her.
“How could it get there?” Nola asked
Beam didn’t have to ask her what it was. Ten years ago, the ring had been found six blocks away from where the rest of Harry’s dead body lay wrapped in black plastic in a dumpster. It was on the ring finger of Harry’s severed right hand. The dead hand was clutching a dollar bill, a clear message as to why Harry was killed: he’d talked for money. To stay out of prison, too, but mainly for money. Harry had always done everything mainly for money. The news photos served as a ghoulish and striking warning to others in his business who might inform.
The warning had worked. Information on the streets in that part of the city became almost nonexistent. No new snitches could be cultivated, and regular snitches disappeared. Either they left town voluntarily, or they had help along the way and would never return.
“I was about to ask you how it could have found its way into your shop,” Beam said. “It was buried with Harry.”
“Of course it was.”
“The mortuary,” Beam suggested. “Robbing the dead.”
Nola was shaking her head. “It was on Harry’s finger when the coffin lid was closed, then the coffin was transported directly to the cemetery. I rode in the hearse with it. The coffin never left my sight until it was in the grave.”
“You saw it lowered into the grave?”
“No, they never do that. They wait until the funeral service is over and the mourners have left. To spare everyone the pain.”
“Maybe-”
“Are you telling me Harry’s coffin was opened?” Nola asked.
“I’m telling you I don’t know. When did you first notice the ring?”
“Right before I phoned you. I even checked to make sure it wasn’t listed as part of the shop’s inventory. Someone must have planted it there within the past week. I don’t think it could have been there more than a day or two, though, or I would have noticed it.” Tears welled in her dark eyes. “Looking at the damned thing nearly stopped my heart.”
“Someone must have put the ring there. One of your customers. Do you remember anyone suspicious?”
“No. Customers come and go. They browse, sometimes buy something. Most of the time they leave empty-handed.”
“This time one of them left something behind,” Beam said.
Nola was staring hard at him. “Beam, do you know anything about this you’re not telling me?”
“For God’s sake, no, Nola!”
The horrified tone of his voice must have impressed her. She nodded and sat back, sipping hot coffee. Maybe burning her tongue and not noticing.
“Why would anyone plant Harry’s ring in the shop?” she asked, lowering her cup.
A part of Beam’s mind had been sorting through the possibilities.
“After all these years…” Nola said. “Why now? What’s different?”
“It might be my fault,” Beam said. “What’s different is I’m back in your life, and I’m hunting a killer. He might have followed me to the shop, figured out how I felt about you. Then he could have done some research, read old news accounts and learned about the past, with Harry, with you and me, what happened. It was all in the news, complete with names and photographs.”
“Years ago.”
“It wasn’t years ago I started visiting Things Past.”
“You think the killer you’re stalking has begun stalking you?”
“It wouldn’t be unusual. Serial killers are often interested in the person assigned to catch them. They see what they’re doing as a game. This one certainly does, with his signature.”
“Signature…? Oh, the letter J, in red.”
“Mean anything to you?” Beam asked.
“I only know what I read in the papers, Beam.”
“TV news?”
“I don’t watch television.”
“This wouldn’t be inconsistent with the Justice Killer’s actions. He’d do this to taunt me. He enjoys taunting people.”
The two guys sitting nearest them at the counter had gotten into an argument and were talking louder, yelling at each other with their mouths full of sandwich, something about Italian women. They were young, and both had on Yankees caps, and the caps’ bills started bumping as the discussion became more heated. One of the caps was knocked crooked. Beam wished they’d shut up.
Nola didn’t seem to hear them. “Your killer’s taunting the entire city.”
“I think he’s our best bet as to how the ring got there,” Beam said.
“But how would he get the ring?”
“It has to be a duplicate. He saw the photos in old papers or news magazines. The media made a big deal out of the ring, especially where it was found. As I recall, there were some pretty detailed descriptions and photographs. It was probably in the news somewhere that the ring was buried with Harry. Maybe that’s what gave the Justice Killer his idea-he knew the ring would spook you, and of course he’s throwing in my face the fact that I’m helpless to protect you or anyone else. He can do whatever he pleases, including having a duplicate ring made using a newspaper photograph and descriptions as a model.”
“It doesn’t look like a duplicate ring.”
“Were the stones real?”
“Not as real as they looked. The diamonds were industrial grade, the rubies glass. The gold was fourteen-karat. This ring has the same makeup.”
“How much would it cost to duplicate it?”
“Around a thousand dollars, maybe less. It was more flashy than expensive.” She gazed down at the table, frowning.
“Okay, It
might not be a duplicate.” Beam rested his fingertips on the back of Nola’s cool wrist. “There’s a way to find out.”
She didn’t understand at first, then it hit her like a hammer.
“Oh, Jesus, Beam! We can’t do that!”
“We have to if we’re going to know for sure,” Beam said. Probably just what the Justice Killer asshole wants. “We have to exhume the body.”
Nola sat staring into her coffee cup. More than a minute passed before she nodded. “You’re right. It’s ghastly, but you’re right. “
“I’ll arrange for a court order.”
“The past never goes away, does it?”
“Never entirely,” Beam said.
Nola sat forward and hunched her shoulders, as if whatever had been holding her erect had suddenly given. She began to sob. The two guys with baseball caps at the counter heard, fell silent, and looked at Nola and Beam, then in the other direction. The one with the crooked cap hadn’t straightened it, and the bill was cocked crazily at an upward angle.
The sobs kept coming.
The past had suddenly and horribly caught up with Nola, and she allowed Beam to comfort her.
The mobile phone in his pocket began to vibrate. He waited for whoever was calling to give up, but they didn’t. He finally removed his right hand from Nola’s quaking shoulder, shifted his weight to the side, and worked the phone out of his pocket. Though it wasn’t logical, he was a little angry, wondering who might be calling him at a time like this.
Da Vinci.
Gina was reading Kafka for pleasure. She had become hooked on the writer during sophomore year Russian Literature. When she glanced up, she saw on TV that Carl Dudman had been shot. Her mother was in the kitchen. Gina tried to call her but found that her voice wouldn’t comply. Her throat was constricted.
Dudman dead. Incredible! Someone had figured out a way before Gina. The real Justice Killer.
Dudman dead.
It was real. It was true. It was on TV.
Gina stood up from the sofa and was about to go into the kitchen when a newscaster, standing in front of Dudman’s apartment building, began explaining what the police theorized about the murder after piecing together accounts from witnesses.
It had been simple and effective, catching the overmuscled bodyguard flatfooted. The one with the buzz cut with the little tuft of gray hair in front?
The newsman held up a plastic vial like the one that had contained a rolled slip of paper with the Justice Killer’s signature red J on it that was tossed from the shooter’s car.
Dudman had dropped instantly. The bodyguard said he at first thought his boss had simply tripped. He’d hurried to help him up, but Dudman didn’t respond. By the time the bodyguard noticed the blood on his hand, and on Dudman, the traffic had moved on. The bodyguard pushed the unconscious Dudman into the limo and instructed the driver to speed to the nearest hospital. Dudman was dead on arrival. None of the stunned witnesses could offer any description of any particular vehicle that was passing at the time of the shot.
The building’s uniformed doorman was being interviewed now by another newscaster, a blond woman who seemed overly concerned with what the breeze was doing with her hair.
Gina continued her route to the kitchen and stood in the doorway until her mother, salting something in a large skillet, noticed her.
“Mom…”
In the living room, both of them stood staring at the TV, crying silently as the story continued to unfold on the screen.
Gina wasn’t sure what exactly was going on in her mother’s mind, but she knew what she was thinking. She was glad Dudman was dead-satisfied, actually-but it was Bradley Aimes who’d killed Genelle. Bradley Aimes who, even more than Dudman, deserved death.
As these thoughts took form in her mind, Gina was somewhat disturbed by the fact that Dudman’s death seemed to have whetted her appetite. For death? For vengeance?
For justice!
That the notion had come unbidden made it seem all the more natural, all the more logical. Yes, Aimes deserved to die for what he did to Genelle. His death would be justice. It would be right.
What didn’t seem right was that someone else, not Gina, had killed Dudman and at least partially avenged Genelle’s death. Executing Dudman had been Gina’s responsibility, but she’d let Genelle down. Failed her. What didn’t seem right was that her gun was in her bedroom, in her purse, in a bureau drawer, unfired except for target practice. It lay unused, cold, heavy, forged for a destiny not yet fulfilled. Her gun.
“Gina,” her mother said beside her, “I’m going to phone your father.”
Her gun…
46
“Dudman was a major player in this town,” da Vinci said to Beam. They were in da Vinci’s office. The blinds were closed and a couple of lamps were on. The atmosphere was almost cozy. Da Vinci had carefully returned the chair the commissioner had sat in to its original location, matching its legs with the depressions in the carpet. Beam sat in the chair now, and in his own way he was as intimidating as the commissioner. Those damned, flat blue eyes. Da Vinci was increasingly fighting the feeling that he was losing control of the investigation. “That’s why I gave you all those uniforms to canvass the neighborhood where Dudman was shot.”
“They’re hard at work,” Beam said. “Nell and Looper are correlating the information.”
“They in charge?”
“In the case of Dudman, right now, yes.”
“You should be in charge and up front,” da Vinci said. “Instead you come here and want to talk. It better be important, because Carl Dudman sure was.”
“It’s because Dudman was important that I’m here. We both know his murder was pretty much a simple and clean operation done by a pro.”
“We thought before that the Justice Killer might be a pro,” da Vinci said. But he seemed interested now. Beam had something in mind.
“And a pro would find it easy to obtain all the information he needed on a rich and semi-famous target like Dudman,” Beam said. “Once he’d done that, all the security in the world wouldn’t have made much difference.”
“You’re saying our killer is a real pro-a hit man, or maybe ex-Special Forces or Delta Force.”
“Maybe. But it’s the victims I think we should be concentrating on now, and not the ones like Dudman. More like Manfred Byrd.”
“The decorator? There are thousands of them in this town. It’s not as if he had his own TV show or wrote a book on how to decorate on a dime. He was a nobody except for the Draco case.”
“Which occurred almost ten years ago. Even Byrd had pretty much put it out of his mind. His friends and acquaintances said he never mentioned it. He wasn’t like Dudman. To find out about Byrd, the killer had to dig deeper. Unlike with Dudman, for instance, he’d have to find Byrd. Simply locating him wouldn’t be all that simple. Then what? Is he married?”
“Hardly,” da Vinci said.
“The killer wouldn’t have known. And he wouldn’t have known what Byrd did for a living, where he did his shopping, drank, dated. Did he go to movies? What kind? Was he an early riser? Maybe a jogger? How old was he? When was his birthday? What was his credit rating? Did he have a car? Did he take cabs or subways or both? Did he drink to excess? Do drugs? Have a steady lover? Own a gun? Use the library? The Internet? Have a safety deposit box? All the kinds of things a pro would want to know in order to have a full picture.”
“All or most of it, easy enough to find out,” da Vinci said.
“Much easier with Dudman than with Byrd, because Byrd required more digging into public records. Court records, deeds, newspaper items, credit records.”
“We talked about this,” da Vinci reminded Beam. “We start digging to find out who’s seen people’s personal records, medical, the kinds of books they read, their Internet habits, employment history, what have you, and the civil libertarians are all over our asses.”
“That isn’t going to change,” Beam said. “What is legal is to
set up surveillance cameras in or outside libraries, newspaper morgues, courthouses, wherever public records are stored. We might just capture an image, then be able to capture the real thing.”
Da Vinci sat back in his desk chair, thinking about it. He rubbed his chin as he’d seen the commissioner do. “It’d sure as hell save department hours. Manpower. Womanpower.”
“It’d be legal, too,” Beam said. “People can’t claim the expectation of privacy in public places. I don’t think the ACLU would object.”
“Some of those places already have taping systems. Part of Homeland Security.”
“True,” Beam said, “but I’m talking about even more cameras, more angles, more coverage. I’d rather have cops poring over those kinds of tapes, trying to spot something to grab onto, than using their time covering ground we know from experience with this killer probably isn’t going to give us anything.”
Da Vinci was quiet, pondering, then he sat forward and grinned widely. “Okay. Makes sense. I’ll see that more cameras are installed wherever pubic records are kept. We got people who can sit and view security tapes, maybe spot somebody doing nothing suspicious, but doing it where the records of more than one victim were stored. That kinda thing.” In the still, warm office, he rubbed his hands together as if he were cold and trying to warm up. “This is the sorta suggestion I expected you to come up with, Beam. I’ll notify the chief what we have in mind; I’m sure he’ll approve it.”
“Tell him it’s your idea, if you want,” Beam said. “I’m retired anyway, or will be again soon, I hope.”
Da Vinci flashed his Tony Curtis grin. “That’s awful generous of you, Beam.”
“I don’t mind seeing you get ahead.”
Da Vinci understood. “We’re the same kind of cop. That’s why I brought you back for this investigation.”
“That’s why I came back,” Beam said. “That, and I was having trouble being someone I wasn’t.”
Da Vinci stood up behind his desk. Busy man. Lots to do. “Anything else, Beam?”