by John Lutz
The puzzle clicked into coherence: da Vinci’s fuzzy familial past, the passion for justice, the questionably earned citations, the MRP cops with their crush caps and leather jackets, the frustration with the slow, slow wheels of the legal system that didn’t grind exceedingly fine, the rapid advance in the NYPD at a comparatively young age.
Andy da Vinci, Deputy Chief da Vinci, was the Justice Killer.
“Surprise,” da Vinci said flatly.
“Not when I come to think of it,” Beam said. Sirens were sounding outside. Both men knew da Vinci wasn’t going anywhere other than down or to jail.
“I got tired of seeing it,” da Vinci said, “the scum of the world coming and going through the system, free to rape or kill again. After April-my wife, Beam-killed herself because the sick scum Davison went free, goddamned free, after what he did to our son, I decided to do something about it.”
“About what?”
“The imbalance in the world. The unfairness. The way the wheel is rigged. So I worked for a while as a civilian in the St. Louis police department, then I joined the NYPD.” He gave a tight smile. “You might say I advanced with a vengeance.”
“You knew everything we were trying to do to nail you,” Beam said.
The smile again, somehow infinitely sadder than a frown. “I controlled the investigation, saw that the controversial cases we investigated went back only ten years-not quite far enough to include Davison’s trial and acquittal.”
“Harry Lima’s ring?”
“I knew about you and Nola. Had a duplicate of Harry’s pimp-ass ring made in Toronto. Used it to point you in another direction and throw you off the scent. Being a cop, even a high-ranking one, has it’s limitations, Beam. I was on a mission, and rules and regulations meant less and less to me.”
“You took too many unnecessary risks,” Beam said. “You could have kept coming and going as a uniformed cop, running the investigation of yourself. Helen was right. You wanted to be stopped.”
“Helen? Maybe she was right. Could be the book on serial killers has them-us-pegged. Maybe I even assigned you to the case because I knew you’d eventually stop me. Maybe that was my way of stopping myself. After a while it became obvious to me that Nell was figuring out what was happening. Nell’s smart. And dangerous. I had to kill her.”
“Did you kill her?”
“No. She’s alive. Lucky. I’m glad.”
“But upstairs-”
“I wanted to prolong the game.”
“That’s what it was to you, a game?”
“Not only to me,” da Vinci said. “And I wasn’t the one who made it a game, played between cops and prosecutors and high-priced attorneys. But it is a game.”
Beam wondered how far back da Vinci’s own game went. “What about Rowdy Logan, in Florida?”
Da Vinci paused before answering. “The left-handed killer who murdered your son. His death wasn’t a suicide. He was one of mine.”
Beam held his breath. “And Lani?”
“I didn’t murder your wife to lure you out of retirement for revenge. Or because I knew she’d talk you out of accepting the challenge. I didn’t murder her at all. She must have taken her own life, Beam, for her own reasons. I’m sorry.”
Beam believed he was.
“Some things you can never know for sure, Beam. Some things you just gotta let go of.”
“Some things.”
“You understand, the game isn’t really about justice. That has to change.”
The chorus of sirens grew louder, then stopped one by one outside the building. A glimpse of blue uniform. Someone was in the lobby beside and behind Beam. Sweeney.
“That has to change,” da Vinci said again.
Behind him, the elevator door opened silently. Rags, with his shotgun. He stepped out of the elevator, the Remington leveled at da Vinci. Beam knew he’d been talking to Nell upstairs. Where was Nell?
“Game’s over,” Beam said, but he knew it wasn’t.
Da Vinci made his last move, raising his silenced handgun to point at Beam. Beam saw that da Vinci’s finger wasn’t anywhere near the trigger.
Rags stepped to the side and let loose with the shotgun, spinning da Vinci completely around in a spray of blood. Beside Beam, Sweeney’s nine millimeter banged away. The blue crush cap once worn by the young motorcycle cop went spinning into a corner.
Da Vinci was sitting on the floor, legs straight out in front of him. The back half of his skull was missing. He bent forward, as if he might attempt to touch his toes, then fell to the side.
Rags kicked aside da Vinci’s gun, needlessly keeping the shotgun aimed at his fallen body. Sweeney advanced, still holding his nine in both hands, pointed down at da Vinci. Procedure.
Looper opened the lobby door and came halfway in, gun drawn, and scanned the scene, taking everything in.
His eyes lingered on da Vinci. “Holy shit!”
He holstered his gun, then signaled to someone outside, and came all the way in, followed by two EMS paramedics lugging equipment. They glanced at da Vinci’s body.
“Not that asshole,” Sweeney said.
“Upstairs,” Rags said. “I’ll show you.”
Looper couldn’t stop staring at da Vinci’s corpse. “Jesus!”
“That thing still work?” one of the paramedics asked, pointing to the elevator door peppered with bullet holes.
“Try it,” Beam said.
The paramedic did. It worked.
“What about Nell?” Looper asked.
“She’s upstairs,” Rags said. “She’s okay. Somebody else isn’t.”
More uniforms streamed into the lobby. Two rode the elevator up. Others went thumping up the stairs. A crime scene investigation team would be here soon.
“We better get upstairs, see Nell,” Beam said.
They waited for the elevator to return to lobby level.
“Helen will need to be told,” Looper said, glancing back at what was left of da Vinci.
Beam was surprised by Looper’s insight and sensitivity. Must have shown it.
“I think he was in love with Helen,” Looper said. “And she felt the same way about him.”
“They were in love,” Beam said. “He must have known she was slow poison. It works that way sometimes.”
“Well,” Looper said, “she’ll have to be told.”
Barely five minutes had passed since da Vinci had been shot. Outside in the night, the city was alive with sirens.
“My job,” Beam said.
73
The city soon became itself again, a sprawling construct of chaos seeking its own balances and levels. And justice. Business was conducted, for the most part legally. Trains and subways ran more or less on schedule. Trash was picked up on designated days, late or early. Crime was committed, collars were made, defendants cut deals or stood trial, and were convicted or walked.
Adelaide Starr was released from custody, as well as jury duty. Her book debuted at number three on the New York Times nonfiction bestseller list. Television talk show appearances led to the starring roll in a new musical about Evita Peron.
Helen Iman left the NYPD within a year and became a profiler for the FBI. She became involved with a former agent, and they bought a house together in Virginia, in a secluded, wooded area not at all like New York.
Terry Adams lost the use of his right arm, but he continued his acting career with more success, beginning with a role as an Argentine general who was Evita Peron’s secret lover.
Nell and Jack Selig were at opening night, applauding.
A month after da Vinci’s death, Nell quit the NYPD and married Jack Selig. Nell had saved Terry’s life, but not their love and trust for each other. She’d made her choice around three a.m. in the crackling darkness of her apartment living room, and she and Terry both knew it.
The Evita Peron play is still running, but with its third cast. The Seligs spend time in New York, but live most of the year in Europe. Selig manages his investme
nts on his computer, and finances construction projects in France and Germany. Often he does this from an office on his yacht. Nell is reasonably happy.
Beam slipped back into retirement, and a deepening relationship with Nola. Neither of them fears or yearns for the past, but Beam spends much of his time at Things Past. He’s developed a passion, and a discerning eye, for antiques. He and Nola expanded the shop, and moved into an apartment on the same block. They are more than reasonably happy.
While they deal in antiques, they live for the present and future, and don’t do a lot of thinking or talking about Harry, or Lani, or Beam’s former life as a homicide detective. They have friends, most of them in the antique business, or collectors. They meet at conventions or auctions, and now and then go out for dinner, or travel together. Their friends notice nothing unusual about Beam and Nola, other than they don’t have a cute story about how they met.
Occasionally Beam wonders about the one Justice Killer victim, Bradley Aimes, who was shot with a bullet that matched none of the guns found among da Vinci’s effects. But he doesn’t wonder a lot.
Gina Dixon moved away to attend college in California.
She majors in Criminal Justice.
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