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The Night Caller

Page 5

by Lutz, John


  “Why do you say that?”

  “If I were you, I’d suspect me. Especially since Bette and I had the argument and temporarily split up. To tell you the truth, I’m glad I’ve got an airtight alibi. It was a chance thing that people were with me most of that day and that evening, when she…died. Normally I’d have had enough time to drive into New York and back. I might have had dinner alone after work, maybe watched some TV, then gone to bed.”

  If this Watkins was guilty, Coop thought, he was really something. “I’ll check everything out. Don’t worry about that end of it.”

  “I won’t,” Watkins said. “It’s hard enough to deal with the rest of this shit, believe me. Well, I guess you know.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Watkins noticed the sharpness in his tone. He said, “Go ahead, ask people anything about me. Come back and question me, if you feel you have to. I’ll understand.”

  “You seem like an understanding guy,” Coop told him.

  This time Watkins didn’t pick up on the irony. “My friends say that. People tend to spill their guts to me. Maybe I should have been a cop.”

  “Everybody thinks that at one time or another.” Coop set the mug on a table and stood up to leave. The NYPD had asked Watkins the obvious questions; Billard could show him the file or fill him in. “It’s not like they imagine.”

  “That’s what Deni Green said this morning about being a writer.”

  “Deni Green?” The woman Hillary Bland had mentioned.

  “Yeah. She said she was a book writer, doing research on Bette’s murder. So I talked to her awhile, answered some of the same questions you asked.” Watkins raised his thick eyebrows in sudden concern. “You think I shouldn’t have talked to her?”

  “I think you should have consulted a lawyer before talking to either one of us,” Coop told him.

  Honesty deserved honesty in return.

  Honesty with each other was dear to both of them. Sitting outside in the cool Seattle night, each with a mug of light beer, Georgianna Mason and Cindy Romero waited for their vegetarian pizza to arrive. Though they were virtually on the sidewalk, the restaurant had see-through plastic curtains and overhead heaters that produced plenty of heat.

  Georgianna and Cindy had been roommates years ago at Kansas State, and had remained friends after graduation. They had few secrets from each other. Now nearing middle age, they were still a striking pair, Cindy with her dark hair and eyes, and the fair-skinned and sandy-haired Georgianna, who possessed the delicacy of a porcelain ballerina that had just stepped down from the lid of a music box.

  They both knew the pain of terrible marriages and bitter divorces, but both still held hopes for romance and permanent relationships.

  “So you only met this guy on the Internet,” Cindy said. “You’ve never seen him face-to-face.”

  Georgianna fluffed her long hair back in place where it had come loose in an outdoor heater’s warm breeze. Hard on the ends, she thought. “I’ve seen his digital photo.”

  “If it was him. Some guys will lie to you about their digitals.”

  Georgianna smiled. She’d expected skepticism. But if Cindy had read Bret’s (she’d discerned his name when he slipped up and used it) e-mail, she’d feel differently about him. From the first few exchanges of messages in a political chat room, both she and Bret knew something was going on between them. They not only shared liberal politics and a concern for the planet’s future, they liked the same books, movies, and food. They both worked out regularly and believed in alternative medicine. Cindy, along with the rest of the human race, would have to learn that electrons could carry first love. Georgianna had revealed her real name to Bret, but she understood his caution, why he still preferred to use only his screen name in correspondence. You could meet all sorts of people on-line, some of them pests that were hard to get rid of later.

  Cindy took a swig of beer and smiled at her. “Don’t mind if I’m jealous and bitchy. I truly hope you’ll get on famously with this guy if you really meet.”

  “Oh, we’ll meet. He’s down the coast in San Francisco. And he owns a new BMW he’s dying to test on the highway.”

  “My, my. So he’s rich.”

  “No, it’s a new used BMW. He emphatically told me he wasn’t rich. He has something to do with software development in Silicone Alley.”

  “Then he’ll be rich.”

  “Rich isn’t necessary,” Georgianna said. She took a sip of beer and lowered her frosted mug, grinning. “But it wouldn’t hurt.”

  Cindy leaned toward her across the table. “Seriously, I know you’ve been down for a while. I hope the future is good for you.”

  “Thanks,” Georgianna said, squeezing her friend’s hand. “At least now I feel like I’ve got a future.”

  Chapter Eight

  Coop remembered seeing a small bookshop, Long Good-bye Books, on First Street as he was driving into Haverton. After leaving Lloyd Watkins he drove there, found a parking spot immediately in front of the shop, and went inside.

  The shop’s interior was small with narrow aisles, packed with books new and used that were mostly paperbacks. It was warm inside, and had a pleasant musty scent, the way Coop thought all bookshops should smell.

  The cash register was on the right but no one was behind the counter. At a small round table at the back of the store sat a slender woman with straight blond hair and squared bangs. She glanced up from paperwork she’d been engrossed in and smiled at Coop. “Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

  “There might be,” Coop said, careful not to brush against books as he made his way to the back of the store.

  “We’re a mystery bookstore,” said the woman, “named after a Chandler novel. I can help you with mysteries.”

  “That I need,” Coop told her. “Ever hear of a writer named Deni Green?”

  The blond woman put down her pencil and stared up at him. “The Maltese Kitten?”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s the title of Deni Green’s latest Cozy Cat mystery. She was in here this morning and offered to sign whatever copies I had. Fortunately I had three of them.”

  “Do you still have a copy?”

  The woman smiled. “All three. Cozy Cat is an old series and getting kind of stale.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “What they’re all about: a woman who has a cat and solves crimes.” She got up and went to a crammed bookshelf, then pulled out a hardcover copy of The Maltese Kitten. “It’s a parody of the famous Dashiell Hammett novel, Maltese Falcon.”

  “I like Hammett,” Coop said.

  “More’s the pity,” said the woman, and handed him the book.

  The dust jacket illustration was of a gray cat sniffing at a smoking revolver against a field of bloodred. Coop looked at the back of the book and there was Deni Green’s photograph. She was a slightly overweight woman with short hair and dark ringlets on her forehead. Her features were symmetrical and strong, with arched eyebrows, a broad jaw, and thin, slightly curled lips. Coop thought that if she were a man she’d be described as looking like a corrupt Roman emperor, maybe Nero.

  “I’ll take this,” he said to the bookshop woman.

  “You won’t like it if you like Hammett.”

  “You don’t seem eager to sell it.”

  “I suppose I’m not. I’m more interested in my customers believing my recommendations and coming back to buy more books. You want a cat mystery, there’s always Carole Nelson Douglas. Or Lilian Jackson Braun or Rita Mae Brown. They haven’t used up all nine of their lives.”

  “It doesn’t matter with me, I’m from out of town.”

  “You’re still a customer.”

  Coop studied the expression on her lean, pale face. “What was your impression of Deni Green when she was here?” he asked. “I mean, as a person?”

  The bookshop woman gave him a gentle smile. “I didn’t like her much. She seemed arrogant and insecure.”

  Coop we
nt with her to the register at the front of the store and paid for the book. “I can’t wait to get into this,” he said.

  She looked at him as if he were about to start down a ski jump without skis.

  The Night Caller snapped on his latex gloves and explored. He saw that holistic medicine seemed to have caught Georgianna’s interest. There were various self-help medical books stacked in a bookshelf, and new wave posters on the walls espoused the benefits of various diets and exercise regimens. Some of the posters were political, about corporate greed and global warming. The posters, and the lineup of herbal food supplements in the medicine cabinet, left little doubt as to her newfound direction. She wanted to save herself and the world. Now, there was a tall order.

  The refrigerator and a check of her various Internet visits and bookmarks on her computer revealed that she’d become a vegetarian. Magazine clippings, stuck to the refrigerator with magnets, explained how such a diet could virtually guarantee a longer life. The Night Caller smiled. More than most people, he knew there were few reliable guarantees in this world. Fate was unpredictable and sometimes sadistic.

  Then the smile faded and was replaced by a thoughtful expression. Georgianna’s Internet lover was a worry and a risk. Something had gone slightly wrong and there were things she remembered even if only hazily—he was sure of it from their talks afterward. Things the soul searching of love and lovers’ talk might bring to the surface. The series of e-mails suggested that the cyberlover and Georgianna would soon meet face-to-face.

  Perhaps they’d have lattes at Starbucks, share a bed, then decide that would be the extent of their affair. The simple rutting of fools.

  But perhaps they would be delightfully compatible and their relationship would deepen, the way Internet romances were supposed to work in the second stage. True lovers had no secrets. Sin eating was one of the great benefits of passion, and one of the great dangers.

  Each time before, the Night Caller’s visit had terminated long before Georgianna returned home, and she had entered an unoccupied apartment.

  This time would be different. He wasn’t ready, didn’t have the terrible, wonderful need, but this time it was necessary in order to ensure his survival. That was his right. It was ordained out of darkness and insects.

  She would enter confidently, locking the door and thinking she was separating herself from the perilous outside world. The Night Caller knew what an illusion that was for everyone. Locks were simply distractions to lovers and demons, who were usually on both sides of them anyway. Georgianna remembered that from the time of reptiles but denied it, like everyone else. Almost everyone else. The Night Caller knew how they thought and how they didn’t, all of them. He listened to their secret voices and knew their muted screams. They heard none of it, confident they were someone else. Someone safe.

  Once inside, the click of the lock still in her mind, Georgianna would glance about, wary and vaguely aware. But there were places in the apartment where she wouldn’t look before lowering her guard even more, places where she didn’t really want to look. She would instead occupy herself in the way of women living alone, preparing a snack, taking a shower, reading, getting ready for bed. Thinking she was alone, protected by doors and locks and odds. Aware that no one could enter the building without the knowledge and approval of the doorman, or enter the underground garage without punching in a code on a residents’ keypad that would raise a gate. The code was also needed to use the elevator from the garage level. Very tight security in this building.

  But hardly tight enough.

  When all of his senses told him it was time, the Night Caller would approach Georgianna gradually but surely, closing the distance between survival and death until he was one with her.

  Like the others, she wouldn’t hear a thing until it was too late.

  It was his game, moving silently as time.

  And he was on his game.

  Chapter Nine

  Coop awakened rather late—he could tell by the brightness of the room—and found that he didn’t feel like getting up. It had been a tiring day yesterday in New Jersey, and traffic delays had made the drive home twice as long as it should have been.

  He thought about breakfast. His recommended: grapefruit juice, Special-K with a banana, skim milk. Coffee, black. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he wasn’t turned off by the thought of food.

  Good sign. According to Dr. Gregory, anyway.

  He lifted a heavy arm, threw back the covers. Then he pulled himself upright and swung his legs to the floor. His head felt woolly, but that wasn’t unusual first thing in the morning. The transition from sleep to wakefulness seemed to be getting more difficult. He’d just sit on the edge of the bed for a while.

  The Maltese Kitten was resting on his nightstand. He picked it up and thumbed through the first few pages. The publisher’s Web site was listed, but not their phone number. He opened the drawer and took out the Manhattan phone directory. Already his arms felt stronger, and his head was clearing.

  He found the number, then picked up the bedside phone and punched it out on the keypad.

  A recorded voice gave him his options and corresponding numbers to press. None of the options quite fit trying to get in touch with the author. Maybe that was on purpose.

  Coop hung up the phone, flipped open the novel’s cover, and read the first few pages.

  Nothing like Hammett.

  As he was closing the book he noticed the lettering on the dedication page: This Cozy Cat adventure is for the purrfect editor, Alicia Benham.

  Coop lifted the receiver and hit REDIAL to get the office of Whippet Books again. This time he managed to talk to a live person and asked to speak to Alicia Benham. “I’m calling in regard to one of her authors, Deni Green,” he said.

  “Oh!” said the woman on the other end of the line. “Are you with Smurger and Bold?”

  Coop didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I am.”

  “We asked you not to call here again,” the woman said, and hung up.

  Coop wondered if it was even possible to get in touch with an author.

  The phone rang a second after he’d hung up.

  He lifted the receiver and said hello.

  A woman’s voice: “Mr. Cooper?”

  He said that he was. “Is this the Mr. Cooper who’s the father of Bette Cooper?”

  “Who is this?” Coop asked.

  “My name’s Deni Green, Mr. Cooper. I tried to catch up with you in Haverton but kept just missing you. I think we need to talk. I might have some information about your daughter.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “The papers said you were an ex-cop.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s the kind of information a cop would be interested in.”

  “That was the right answer,” Coop said. “When and where?”

  “How about the Sapphire Coffee Shop on Amsterdam? Say, half an hour?”

  “Fine. I live a ten-minute walk from there.”

  “I know, Mr. Cooper. Coffee and bagels are on me.”

  Coop got to the Sapphire Coffee Shop first. It was a narrow diner with a long counter, booths opposite by the windows that looked out on Amsterdam. Swinging doors led to the kitchen in back. Two bored waiters slouched whispering to each other like conspirators near a pass-through serving counter where the orders were posted and filled.

  Right now there were no orders on the steel-spiked carousel. Coop already had his black coffee in front of him, and the breakfast crowd was long gone. The only other customer was a man in a tweed overcoat, perched on a counter stool and forking in an omelet while reading a Village Voice.

  Among the people walking past the window by his booth, Coop thought he recognized Deni Green from her dust jacket photo.

  Sure enough, the woman in the black coat, wearing the squarish black hat, black slacks, and black boots, carrying the thin black leather briefcase, entered the coffee shop.

  She saw Coop right
away, strode over, and whipped off her hat and grinned. “Deni Green,” she said.

  Coop stood up and they shook hands.

  “So, Ezekiel Cooper. Anybody ever tell you you look like Gary Cooper the actor?”

  “Now and then.”

  “What do they call you? Ez? Zeke?”

  “Everyone calls me Coop,” he said, “like the actor.” He studied her. Stocky build beneath the oversize coat, features as strong and empirical as in her photograph. One of those women who would have been attractive thirty pounds lighter, but who had been thirty pounds overweight all her adult life. Her flesh-padded dark eyes were bright and voracious and projected an eagerness bordering on obsession. “Why were you looking for me in Haverton, Ms. Green?”

  “Call me Deni, Coop.”

  He smiled. “Same question, Deni.”

  “Let me fill you in before I answer.” One of the slouching waiters unslouched and sauntered over to take her order. “Coffee and a bagel with schmear,” she said. “Want anything else, Coop?”

  “Just a topper on the coffee.”

  The conspiratorial-looking waiter nodded and went away.

  “I’m a mystery writer,” Deni said, “and a pretty well known one at that.”

  “The Cozy Cat series,” Coop said.

  She grinned fiercely, pleased. “You a fan?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Then you know the Cozy Cat books are fiction. Now I’ve decided to branch out into nonfiction, try my hand at a true crime book.”

  Coop didn’t like the way this was going. Already burdened by his grief and what he might find out about his daughter, the last thing he wanted was some pesky writer telling her secrets to the world. “Are you saying the crime you’re going to write about is my daughter’s murder?”

  “Not exactly. It’s something more. Something much larger.”

  The waiter brought her coffee and a toasted bagel sliced, with a slab of cream cheese on each half. While he was setting the food on the table and topping off Coop’s coffee, Deni was digging in her black briefcase. She got a dab of cream cheese on the edge of her hand, noticed it, and licked it off. Like a cat, Coop thought.

 

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