The Night Caller

by Lutz, John

  Deni appeared dubious. “I don’t know, Coop. I’m not sure we can trust the FBI in this matter.”

  “The Bureau can collate our information, and it has access to more national databases than the NYPD. If there is a nationwide pattern of homicides by the same killer, the FBI might be able to detect it.”

  “Being able to get into more databases isn’t the same thing as trust. FBI agents are rigid thinkers, more concerned with their careers and the Bureau’s reputation than in solving crimes.”

  Coop wondered where she got her ideas. “Don’t swallow stereotypes whole. The FBI agents I know aren’t that way. Especially the one I have in mind. His name’s Fred Willingham. He works out of the Bureau’s New York field office. I think we oughta talk to him, tell him what we have, and see what he thinks.”

  Deni lifted a pudgy knee and clasped her fingers around it while she sat thinking. She used the toe of her foot planted on the floor to move the desk chair near her from side to side on its rollers. That took some leg strength, Coop thought. She said, “I wouldn’t want the FBI taking this case away from us.”

  “I would, if they can find the killer.”

  “Let’s be crass for a moment, Coop: we need to be the primary investigators because we’ve got a book deal going here.”

  “Career first. Isn’t that how you just told me most FBI agents thought?”

  She flashed him the rapacious grin she didn’t reveal in dust jacket photos. “Yeah, it is. And you can be a real bastard.”

  “When it’s necessary,” he said honestly.

  “I guess that’s part of being a cop.”

  “It is. You can put that in your book. Along with a meeting with Fred Willingham. I think we oughta see him. It might get the investigation off the dime, like you suggested.”

  Again the grin that would have made Nero proud. “I love it when you speak cop talk.”

  “Cop talk is reading people their rights,” Coop said. “I’ll call Fred Willingham and set up a meet.”

  “Set up a meet,” Deni repeated. “I’ll make a note of that.” And she did.

  Coop guessed it would make better reading than the Miranda warning.

  Fred Willingham agreed to meet with them the next afternoon at the Sapphire Coffee Shop, where Coop had first met Deni. And Alicia Benham.

  Before going to the Sapphire, Coop subwayed downtown to the offices of Whippet Books on Hudson Street.

  The receptionist, maybe the one who’d hung up on Coop when he’d said he was with Smurger and Bold, called back to Alicia, then told Coop he could go back to her office.

  The office door was open. When he gave it a perfunctory knock and walked in, Alicia was standing behind her desk. She was wearing black again today, a sweater and slacks, and looked even thinner than when he’d last seen her. Her smile was the same, though, and one he enjoyed having beamed his way.

  “How’s the book going?” she asked, when they’d exchanged greetings.

  He smiled back at her. “That’s sort of what I wanted to ask you.”

  “Sort of?” She waved an arm at the chair in front of her desk as an invitation for Coop to sit, then sat back down herself.

  He settled into the chair and looked beyond her out the window. The Statue of Liberty was still out there, far enough away to look like one of those cast-iron miniatures sold in Times Square souvenir shops. He said, “To be honest, I guess I’m here to find out what if anything Deni has written about my daughter.”

  “Aren’t you always honest?”

  Odd question, Coop thought. “Most of the time,” he said. “It’s the easiest way to live.”

  “Tangled webs and all that,” Alicia said. “I suppose you learned that from interrogating suspects.”

  “That brings it home to you,” Coop told her.

  “Can you tell when someone is lying?”

  “Not always right away. But there are telltale signs. And lies tend to become obvious eventually. They’re more consistent than truth in the short run, less consistent in the long run.”

  “And always less honorable.”

  “Most of the time,” Coop said, remembering the lies he’d told family members about whether their loved ones had suffered before death.

  “The truth this time, long and short term,” Alicia said, “is that Deni hasn’t turned in any pages yet. Not even an outline. She says there’s no way to know where the investigation will take her, so an outline would be impossible. That simply doesn’t wash with me. She’ll have to get something to me soon that I can show the editorial board and sales department or the deal is off.”

  “I thought that would be your misfortune, too.”

  “Too is the operative word. If this book doesn’t look as if it’s going to be written on time, I’ll cut it before I leave here.”

  “Won’t she sell it somewhere else?”

  “Probably. But for less money, I’m sure.”

  “You don’t give her much leeway.”

  Alicia shrugged. “Business is business.”

  “At Bette’s expense?”

  “I have some influence as Deni’s editor. I’ll do my best to see that doesn’t happen.”

  “Thanks,” Coop said, but he was thinking that with Alicia business really was business. “Bette’s gone and can’t be hurt, but I don’t want her reputation damaged for no reason other than to sell books.”

  “I’ll look out for her, and for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Deni will also be writing about you.”

  Coop knew she was right, but he hadn’t given it much thought.

  “When you get in bed with dogs you get up with fleas. With wolves, sometimes you get up bleeding or not at all.”

  “Deni and I aren’t exactly in bed together,” Coop said.

  Alicia smiled. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  But as he left, Coop wondered if that was exactly what she did mean.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Sapphire Diner was crowded, but Coop had managed to secure a corner booth toward the back and near a window, where conversation would be reasonably private. He sat waiting and sipping a diet cola, watching the press and controlled turmoil of New Yorkers on their lunch hour maneuvering for takeout at the counter, or for booths or tables the instant they became free. Orders were shouted, miraculously remembered, only occasionally fouled up while on the way to or from the display case or kitchen. Noise, shifting motion, seeming confusion. Lunch out of chaos. Somehow it all worked, like the city itself.

  Deni arrived and spotted Coop in the booth. She shouldered her way through the counter crowd and sat down opposite him. One of the waiters appeared, a handsome guy who looked as if he spent five hours a day in the gym, five in a hairstyling salon. He was the kind of waiter tourists figured would be making ends meet while waiting for a break in show business. Deni ordered a pastrami sandwich and a Heineken.

  “I think he’s an actor on one of the soaps,” Deni said, watching the waiter walk away.

  Coop doubted if she’d ever seen the man before. Deni liked to romanticize and feel connected to fame if only by beer and a pastrami sandwich.

  “Wine of our Days, I think,” Deni said, seeming to sense that Coop saw through her and understood her need for reflected celebrity. Her need for so many things.

  That was when Willingham arrived. He shook hands with Coop, then with Deni as he was introduced. The waiter had noticed Willingham and returned, so Coop and Willingham both ordered turkey clubs, Willingham a Diet Coke like Coop’s.

  “Everybody in law enforcement trying to lose weight?” asked Deni, who was the only overweight one in the booth.

  Willingham was even thinner than the rangy Coop, with squarish features and a bristly gray crew cut. Younger than Coop, in his early forties. He had blue eyes that looked into people with a steadiness that was unnerving. Coop could see that he was making Deni uncomfortable.

  “You can’t be sensitive about your weight,” she told him with a smile.
r />   “Could be but I’m not,” Willingham said. Coop wished the agent had dressed differently today. He was wearing a blue suit, white shirt, red and blue tie with a miniature knot. Most likely person in the diner to be an FBI agent.

  “Thanks for your willingness to listen to us,” Coop said, trying to smooth the way.

  “You made me curious on the phone,” Willingham said. “And I heard about Bette. I’m sorry.”

  “You people are like a big family, right?” Deni said. “No matter what organization you’re in. Just cops who come together when there’s a problem.”

  “Pretty much like a family,” Willingham said. “And like real families, we don’t always get along.”

  She gave him her rapacious smile. “I hope we can all get along this time. There’s something in it for all of us.”

  Willingham looked at Coop. “You said on the phone this is about Bette.”

  “Maybe more than Bette,” Coop said. Pausing only when the food was brought to the booth, he recounted what had happened since he’d discovered Bette’s body in the cottage.

  Willingham listened carefully, absently eating his club sandwich and probably not tasting it.

  When they were finished with lunch, everyone ordered coffee, Deni a cheese Danish. Coop handed Willingham the large yellow envelope containing information on the case, including the two footprint photos.

  Over coffee, Coop and Deni watched while Willingham methodically examined the envelope’s contents. He spent a long time studying the crime scene photos, then the shots of the two footprints.

  When he’d replaced everything in the envelope, he handed it back to Coop. “The footprint photos are a questionable match,” he said.

  “You kidding?” Deni asked. “They had to have been made by the same shoe.”

  “Says in there the patterns haven’t been matched with a manufacturer.” Willingham nodded toward the envelope.

  “That’s why we don’t have a definite match,” Deni said in exasperation.

  “The murder methods are different. Different weapons.”

  “That’s this guy’s thing, doing it different ways in different cities so the cops won’t tie in the crimes and figure there’s a serial killer operating. He’s read the literature, knows how you people think.”

  “It’d make a helluva crime novel,” Willingham said. “So what’s the connection between the victims? I mean, what ties them together in this guy’s mind?”

  “The long hair, for one.”

  “Gotta be more than that,” Willingham said. “You and Coop said yourself the victims seemed to have known and trusted their killer—killers.”

  “What about the fact they all seemed to have been sexually fondled with latex gloves?”

  “What about it? Either of you got latex gloves at home?”

  Deni and Coop exchanged glances and shook their heads no.

  “Well, neither of you are worried about leaving fingerprints anywhere,” Willingham said. “But if you were, you could probably find some place within a few blocks of here that sells latex gloves.”

  “You really think it’s a blind alley, Fred?” Coop asked.

  Willingham sat back and rippled his fingers on the table. “All I’m saying is, I’m skeptical. I don’t think you’ve got enough here that I can take it to my superiors in the Bureau and trigger an investigation.”

  “What would make you less skeptical?” Deni asked.

  “Mainly, I’d like to see some connection between killer and victims, something in their pasts that led to these women knowing and trusting this guy—if he exists. A few of these crimes, there’ve been arrests, trials, and convictions.”

  “People are wrongfully accused and convicted all the time,” Deni said. “It’s the American way.”

  Willingham showed a ghost of smile. “Not all the time, I hope.”

  “I’m sorry,” Deni said. “You know what I meant.”

  Coop had been watching Willingham. “There something else, Fred?”

  Willingham looked at Deni. “Family members know how to read each other.”

  Deni sat back and crossed her arms. “You two guys gonna let me in on what’s going on here?”

  “You came to me at a bad time,” Willingham said to Coop. “The NYPD is particularly sensitive right now about the feds usurping their authority. Bette’s murder, the case is strictly local, belongs to a couple of detectives in Queen’s South Homicide. Hell, they haven’t even bucked it up to SID. The Bureau can’t go charging into it and take it over. Especially right now.”

  “Shit!” Deni said. “A turf war. Just like in the movies.”

  “Call it a police action,” Willingham said.

  “I call it Bureau politics,” Coop told him.

  “It is that, Coop. NYPD politics, too.”

  “Shit!” Deni said again.

  Coop and Willingham said nothing for a while.

  Coop slid the envelope across the table toward Willingham. “I understand your position, Fred. Just do me a favor and keep the envelope, will you?”

  “Even without the politics, Coop, I’d still be skeptical.”

  “I understand, Fred.”

  Willingham nodded, reached for the envelope, and laid it on the seat beside him.

  “What now?” Deni asked.

  “Now I go to my regular job at the Bureau.” Willingham shifted his weight and reached for his wallet in a hip pocket. “That was a damned good club sandwich.”

  “It’s on us,” Coop said. “That was the deal, Fred. That way we own you.”

  Willingham grinned as he stood up, then rested his hand on Coop’s shoulder. “You own me, then. Bye, Deni.” He shook hands with her, then turned around and made his way toward the door, the yellow envelope clutched at his side.

  Deni stared after him, scowling. “That went nowhere.”

  “Not yet,” Coop said. “Maybe not ever. But he took the envelope.”

  Deni turned her scowl on him. “That mean something significant in guy talk?”

  Coop finished his coffee in one long sip before answering. “Means he took the envelope.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Milligan’s Lounge was on West 86th Street, near Columbus and the entrance to Central Park. Theresa Dravic worked at Vale’s Jewelry on Columbus, three blocks away from Milligan’s. More and more, she was walking those three blocks after work.

  At quitting time at the large discount jewelry store, she said good-bye to the manager, Harv, and went out into the cold. Though it wasn’t yet Thanksgiving, holiday shopping had increased business. Vale’s had been crowded much of the day and evening with early gift buyers examining, shop-lifting, and sometimes buying jewelry.

  The cold felt good to Theresa after the overheated store. Always Harv insisted on turning the thermostat up. Always one employee or another sneaked over and turned it back down. Until Harv had a lockbox installed around it. Now everyone sweltered all day, except Harv.

  Theresa was an attractive woman in her forties, with long dark hair and a figure that still caused men to pause and look twice. Bitten by the cold at last, she buttoned her fur-collared coat all the way up and strode past her bus stop toward Milligan’s. She held herself erect as she walked, aware of the male eyes fixed on her. She used to enjoy knowing she was the center of male attention. But it had gotten old, along with her. Like a lot of things.

  Once or twice each week she phoned and told her roommate Vera that she’d be working late. But where she went was to Milligan’s, and sat on a bar stool and drank dry white wine because it was a woman’s drink, not an alcoholic’s. She drank the same kind of wine at home, too, from bottles hidden where Vera wouldn’t find them. When she was home and had company and she needed a drink, she’d go into the bathroom, where there was a bottle hidden among the towels in the linen closet.

  Sometimes at night she’d sit watching TV, warm and comfortable. Vera, a TWA flight attendant, would be with her if she wasn’t on a date or working a flight out of La Guard
ia. On top of the TV was a framed photo of Theresa’s daughter Jan, who was in Chicago, a student at Northwestern with an apartment just off campus.

  Theresa had plenty to live for and wondered why she wasn’t happy or at least contented. It wasn’t cheap, keeping a daughter in college, which was why she’d taken the job at Vale’s, but she really didn’t mind working. She still missed her husband Vincent, who’d been dead for three years now. But she’d learned to survive without a man. And she loved Jan, who was doing well at school. With Theresa working, there was enough money if they watched how it was spent. So why wasn’t she satisfied with her life? Why did she crave and need and have to go to the bottle?

  Usually she drank too much at Milligan’s and left walking unsteadily.

  Lately she’d limited herself to three glasses of wine. She’d stopped wondering why she had to go to Milligan’s at least once during the week and usually twice. It wasn’t for the wine. Not since she’d met Chris.

  A car slowed and the man driving blatantly leaned down so he could peer out at her, as if she were some kind of hooker. It wasn’t that sort of neighborhood. Didn’t the asshole know any better?

  Theresa quickened her pace, gaze locked straight ahead.

  “Hey, Terry! Theresa, it’s me, Harv!”

  She slowed and turned her head, and saw that the car’s driver was indeed Harv, who must have closed the store early.

  “You want a lift, Theresa?”

  She shook her head no. “Thanks, but I’m meeting someone.”

  He smiled and looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. He was always trying to get in her pants. One of those guys who figured a widow in her forties couldn’t hold out for long.

  Horns honked. Harv shrugged, waved, and drove on.

  Theresa knew what he was thinking: Maybe next time. Eventually. Inevitably.

  There was Milligan’s, half a block ahead. The board out in front said they were serving angel hair pasta tonight. She decided that if Chris wasn’t there, she’d hang around and have supper. She would have wine with her meal.

  Then later, as she often did, she’d walk down to the park entrance and venture just slightly inside to sit on her usual bench. There she’d give herself time to recover from her meal and her drink, so she wouldn’t make a fool of herself on the bus. So Vera, if she happened to be home, wouldn’t think she’d had too much to drink.