Chill of Night n-6

by John Lutz

  She moved to the far end of the counter, reached down and opened an out-of-sight drawer, and tossed him the ring.

  Beam caught it and stuck it in his pocket. “Do you want a receipt?”

  “You’re my receipt.” Nola looked at him in a way that made him uncomfortable. “When this business with the ring, the Justice Killer, is over, Beam…”

  “What?”

  “I guess that’s what I’m asking.”

  “I haven’t gotten that far yet,” Beam said honestly. “I’d like to think it’s happily ever after for us.”

  “Such bullshit, Beam.”

  “Well, maybe tolerably ever after.”

  Nola smiled. “That’s more like it.”

  The bell above the door tinkled, and a short, middle-aged woman in jeans and a T-shirt lettered NO FEAR entered the shop. She gave Beam and Nola a blue stare through rimless glasses and smiled. Beam pretended to be interested in a shelf lined with cut-glass vases that all looked pretty much alike.

  Nola asked the woman if she was looking for anything in particular and the woman said she was just browsing. Which she did for about five minutes before buying a beat-to-hell looking antique doll and leaving.

  Beam had heard the conversation before the sale. “She really pay two hundred dollars for that?” he asked.

  Nola nodded. “It’s nineteenth century, and it’s eyes close when you lay it on its back. It’s worth three hundred.”

  “What did you pay for it?”

  “Ten.”

  Beam glanced around the shop. “Maybe there’s more to this antique business than I thought.”

  “Oh, there is,” Nola said. She walked over and turned the deadbolt on the door, then put up the Closed sign.

  “Lunch time?” Beam asked.

  “Already had lunch.”

  “Back room?”

  “Let’s go see.”

  “He’s coming undone,” the police profiler, Helen, was saying in a television interview done outside One Police Plaza. “He’s finding more and more pleasure in his murders, and more and more hell.”

  “He’s conflicted?” asked the interviewer, a man six inches shorter than the statuesque Helen.

  “I thought I made that clear,” Helen said. “Inner conflict is what started his string of increasingly brutal murders, and inner conflict will destroy him. That’s the way it works with serial killers. The process is already well underway. It’s like acid produced by the soul it’s destroying.”

  “That’s very poetic.”

  Helen smiled grimly. “I guess it is. What it means is that the killer’s thought process is breaking down. It will eventually lead to his arrest or suicide.”

  “He’ll get careless?”

  “He’ll take larger and larger risks,” Helen said. “He won’t be able to stop himself.”

  “You’re saying he’s going mad?”

  “Oh, he’s already quite mad.”

  The taped interview with the police profiler was too much to bear. The Justice Killer felt like throwing the remote at the TV. Instead he merely switched channels.

  And there was another interview. This time with the intrepid Beam, saying something about Knee High.

  Justice listened, turning up the volume.

  A few minutes later he sat back, shaking his head.

  Released on his own recognizance!

  Goddamned judges!

  A commercial came on the cable news channel he was watching. A duck, or some other kind of fowl, talking about term insurance. He used the remote to switch to another channel.

  There was a photograph of Knee High, a mug shot taken shortly after his arrest. The hash marks and numerals behind him indicated he was five-foot one with his hair combed almost straight up. He wore a cocky, nervous smile, as if made apprehensive yet enjoying his notoriety.

  “-released this afternoon,” the newscaster was saying. He was a full-faced man in a gray suit with some kind of pin on the lapel. “The court ruled that it didn’t consider the accused a risk to do public harm or to flee. He is not required to wear an electronic anklet.” The anchorman turned to a guest. “Now, if Martha Stewart-”

  Justice switched to another twenty-four-hour news channel. A female anchor with teased red hair was sharing a split screen with the same mug shot of Knee High. They were both smiling.

  Why was Knee High smiling minutes after being booked? Advice of counsel? Was he already working toward an insanity plea?

  Or perhaps the relief of confession had prompted Knee High’s smile when the mug shot camera had captured his image. Or maybe even then Knee High had understood that not everything was lost. Like so many others before him, he could use the system to his advantage.

  Justice full well knew how firmly fate was on his side, how Knee High was being delivered to him. Fate would side with the avenging angel of justice, the divinity of death. Because of Knee High, the Justice Killer had slain an innocent man. That was the very antithesis of what Justice was trying to do. It could undermine his mission.

  “Oh, he’s already quite mad.”

  What Knee High had done was an abomination. Justice could not let the matter stand, and he would not. That wasn’t madness; it was making a madness right.

  The police would strive to protect Knee High, but even with the tightest security there would be lapses, vulnerable moments. Time would pass without incident, and even Knee High might consider himself in danger only from the usual justice delayed.

  Delayed forever.

  Not this time, little man. Justice hastened, Justice served, Justice pleasured.

  Sooner or later, by breath, blade, or bullet, you belong, to me.

  59

  “This isn’t the usual thing,” Beam said, when Knee High approached him for their meeting in Grand Central Station.

  The little man had phoned Beam personally and requested that they speak, and had chosen the place. The shuffling of hundreds of soles and heels was a constant echoing whisper, as if there were secrets in the stone and marble vastness.

  “Knee High be short,” Knee High said. He moved over toward a wall where they’d be more or less separated from the throngs of train passengers and tourists. “This the most public place in New York, lotsa people all the time. Hard for anyone to follow Knee High, ’cause he get in amongst the masses and everybody be taller, shield him from prying eyes.”

  “That makes sense,” Beam said. “But what I meant is, it’s unusual that a murder suspect who’s out of jail would phone a police detective so they can meet someplace and he can complain about being free.”

  Knee High looked astounded. “Free? You call this free? Knee High got cops comin’ out his ass, mornin’ till night.”

  “All night, too,” Beam said. “That’s because they’ve been assigned to protect you.”

  “Protect Knee High, shit. What they’re hanging around for is a shot at the Justice Killer. You think Knee High don’t know how you guys set up Knee High? Knee High ain’t no fool. Weren’t born yesterday, nor at night, neither.”

  Beam wished Knee High weren’t one of those people who habitually referred to themselves in the third person. It gave the impression there might be another Knee High here.

  “You want that Justice Killer mother come after Knee High,” said Knee High. “You tell Knee High that ain’t the truth.”

  Beam felt no pity. “Whatever position you’re in, you put yourself there,” he said.

  “Po-sition? Knee High’s po-sition is bent over, tha’s what.”

  “Why did you want to talk to me about it?”

  “Knee High wanna be arrested. Then he want you to tell the media in this town, so the Justice mother know and won’t be tryin’ to shoot Knee High.”

  “I can’t arrest you,” Beam said. “The law doesn’t work that way. You could sue me.”

  “Knee High don’t sue people. Way the law works, it’s s’pose to protect the citizens. Knee High a citizen.”

  “Edie Piaf was a citizen until you
killed her.”

  “So why don’t you arrest Knee High?” He held his hands out, wrists together, as if waiting to be cuffed. “C’mon, do your job an’ put Knee High back where that Justice mother can’t get to him.”

  “I can’t do that unless there’s a warrant out for you. You’ll need to speak to a judge.”

  “Yeah. Knee High do that next time we be lunchin’ at Four Seasons. Uh-huh. You see that?”

  “See what?”

  “That big guy in camouflage fatigues, carryin’ an automatic rifle.”

  Beam peered across the teeming marble vastness to where Knee High was pointing. “He’s in the military,” Beam said, “part of Homeland Security. They’re stationed throughout Grand Central.”

  “How you know what he is? What Knee High see’s a man with a machine gun, might wanna shoot Knee High dead. You know tha’s what he ain’t? Anybody can go rent hisself a soldier suit, get hold of a gun, go walkin’ ’round Grand Central, blast the damn eyeballs outta Knee High ’fore you can stop him.”

  Beam knew Knee High had a point, but he wasn’t about to concede it. “I think Knee High’s got a case of the nerves.”

  Knee High extended a stubby little leg and kicked the marble wall. Had to hurt his toes. “Nerves? Those cops you say s’pose to be protectin’ Knee High-you know what their code name be for Knee High?”

  “No.”

  “They call Knee High ‘the cheese,’ what they say to each other. Damn cop code.”

  “That wasn’t my idea,” Beam said, thinking da Vinci must have mentioned the cheese-in-rattrap analogy when assigning NYPD personnel to their tasks.

  “Whoever’s idea it be, Knee High don’t like it even a little. What he wants is for you to use your considerable in-fluence and get Knee High back safe behind walls.”

  “Well, I guess that makes a certain kind of sense.”

  Knee High gave Beam a suspicious look. The cheese, Beam thought, wasn’t very smart.

  “And you’d like the media informed, so the Justice Killer will know you won’t be available for…justice,” Beam said.

  “That be good. Knee High don’t like bein’ on that Justice mother’s mind.”

  “Okay. I think I can get it done.”

  Knee High backed up a step. “Say what?”

  “I’ll see to it you get your wish: jail, and an informed news media.” Though not necessarily in that order.

  “Minute ago you be sayin’ it was impossible.”

  Beam shrugged. “Things change.”

  Knee High was obviously amazed. What he’d considered a futile, desperate effort was about to bear fruit. “You shittin’ Knee High?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Knee High be safe then.” His relief was obvious.

  “Knee High be safe then,” Beam confirmed.

  But not until then.

  Nell awoke to Terry kissing her bare breasts. She smiled and pulled him to her, cradling his head with both arms, and felt his tongue explore her right nipple.

  They were in Nell’s bedroom, after late-night drinks, then a midnight tumble in her bed.

  It was certainly bright in the bedroom. She noticed the clock-almost eight thirty-and was alarmed for a moment about being late for work. Then she relaxed, remembering the team had agreed to sleep in this morning after working late last night. Except for Beam, who had an early meeting at Grand Central with Knee High.

  This might work out well.

  “I happen to have some spare time this morning,” she told Terry.

  He answered unintelligibly, then kissed her left nipple, the hollow between her breasts, her stomach, lower.

  And raised his head, then sat up.

  “Something?” Nell asked.

  “Yeah. ’Fraid I’ve got an early appointment. He smiled down at her. “Not that I wouldn’t rather stay here for a while. It’s been over eight hours since we’ve had sex.”

  “I don’t like that to happen,” Nell said, and gripped his arm to try pulling him back down on her.

  Easily breaking her grasp, Terry stood up. “I really do have to run. There’s a restaurant over on Amsterdam that needs its fridge looked at before things go bad.”

  “I called you for days before you came over here to repair the air conditioner,” Nell said. “Now you’re mine for a while.”

  “More than awhile,” Terry said. “But this morning I’ve gotta hurry, really. I promised. And you know me and promises.”

  “Do I ever.”

  She watched the athletic litheness of his muscular body as he moved toward the bathroom to shower. Nell loved to watch Terry walk. There was something catlike about him, as if he were unconsciously luxuriating in simple motion.

  He was in the shower less than five minutes, then quickly dressed in short-sleeved shirt, Levi’s, and jogging shoes.

  “Gotta go by my place and pick up my tools,” he said, then walked over to the bed, kissed her, and was gone, leaving behind his smile, a scent of soap, and a few drops of water from his wet hair on her pillow.

  Here, then gone.

  Men.

  Nell lay in bed and closed her eyes, listening to the tick of the rotating ceiling fan. She moved her fingertips lightly over her nipples, then across her bare stomach. With a sigh, she rolled onto her side and found herself staring at the phone.

  Alone in the silence, alone in her desire, she decided without really thinking about it to call Jack Selig.

  He’d be glad to talk with her even if she woke him from a sound sleep. Jack would be up for phone sex, if she suggested it to him. Nell knew that despite his dominating personality, she could dominate him with his love for her. The thought was an aphrodisiac.

  But what she got was Selig’s machine, telling her to leave a message and he’d get back to her as soon as he returned home.

  Nell didn’t feel like leaving a message. Not now.

  She replaced the receiver and fell back on the bed.

  The hell with both of them, she thought, then set the alarm to sound in half an hour and went back to sleep.

  60

  “Cops everywhere,” Knee High muttered to himself.

  He was out on his balcony, thirty-five stories above the street, and could barely make out the blue uniformed figures; might not have noticed them at all, except by now he knew where to look. He knew there were also plainclothes cops down there, and undercovers in the building. Asshole detective Beam wasn’t kidding when he said the law would be where Knee High was, but Knee High knew they were more interested in capturing who shot Knee High than in protecting Knee High.

  He wished the wheels of bureaucracy would turn faster and he could be safe in jail. Damn paper pushers took forever to do everything.

  His skin began to crawl. He didn’t like being out on the balcony more than a few seconds, but he had to come out now and then so he could actually see some of his protectors-so-called, anyway-and know for a fact they were on duty. There was no denying the Justice mother psycho was coming after Knee High, and Knee High had a better chance of survival with the cops than without.

  Justice mother might be sighting in on Knee High right now with a rifle, so Knee High hurried back inside and pulled the sliding glass door shut, then closed the drape.

  Maybe he oughta call Beam, see if he could use his pull to hurry things along. Clerks and various ass kissers, even judges, take it seriously when a bad mother like Beam puts the eye on ’em and makes a suggestion.

  But he’d already called Beam several times, and Beam either gave him a line of bullshit or didn’t call back. Seemed nobody gave a shit about Knee High.

  The apartment was cool and shaded by thick drapes, sparsely furnished except for black box speakers larger than most of the furniture. Alongside the door was the only wall hanging, a five-by-five blow up of Cold Cat, photographed from behind, performing at a jammed concert, people on their feet, yelling, Knee High down in the right-hand corner, waving his arms and urging them on. Knee High couldn’t look at
the poster without getting pissed at Edie Piaf.

  Part of a kitchen was visible through a pass-through, white cabinets, refrigerator, a corner of a stove. On the pass-through’s shelf sat several white foam takeout containers and some empty beer cans. Similar containers were stacked on a low coffee table with more empty cans. There were more containers and cans on the floor. Knee High hadn’t left the apartment for days, and had all his food delivered from the Great Wall Restaurant over in the next block. Egg foo yung, usually beef, sometimes chicken or pork for variety, made up almost all of Knee High’s diet. Sometimes he wished he had some cold or room-temperature pizza for breakfast, but for lunch or dinner he never chose it over egg foo yung. Knee High considered ordering a pizza this evening to go along with his regular order and not eating it, just putting it up someplace so he could have it cold tomorrow morning.

  He looked at his watch, a TAG Heuer given to him a few years ago by Cold Cat. Food should be here soon. He’d phoned the order in twenty minutes ago. The restaurant always used the same delivery guy, Hispanic dude with tattoos all over him. The cops would recognize him and not get excited. Delivery guy didn’t like all the cops around at first, maybe thinking they’d ask for his green card or something. But it wasn’t him the cops were interested in, so by now he’d relaxed and enjoyed the fact that Knee High tipped tall.

  “Notice the cops on your way up here?” Knee High would always ask him.

  “Was nothing but,” the guy would always answer with a smile. It made Knee High feel better, knowing his new friends in blue were present in such numbers.

  Delivery guy would hand over the takeout, and Knee High would give him three ten-dollar bills even though the check was always for eighteen dollars. Guy would always tell him gracias and give him a big smile. Knee High would smile back, just for the human contact. He was a people person, had always loved being around people.

  In anticipation, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and got out three tens, slipped them folded over in his shirt pocket so he’d be ready for the delivery guy. Returned wallet to pocket.

  His heart was hammering and he stood still, breathing deeply. This was getting to him, knowing the Justice mother was out there wanting to kill him. True, he had security, NYPD style, but security could only go so far. That Dudman guy, he’d had professional bodyguards, and Justice still got to him, shot him dead as John Lennon.