Night Victims n-3

by John Lutz

  “Seventeenth century,” Sayles said, noticing Horn looking at the desk. “Beautiful and practical. I obtained it years ago. Spent a great deal of my youth in the northern provinces of China.”

  “Really? I didn’t know.” Horn didn’t recall that morsel of information from ten years ago.

  “The desk is the only furniture in the room Andrea didn’t choose. She indulged me when I insisted on keeping it.”

  “Andrea?”

  “Sorry-my wife. I’d introduce you but she’s visiting her family in Vermont. You being a policeman of some note, I thought you would have known all that before coming here.”

  “I didn’t know about Vermont,” Horn said. Or China. That’s two.

  Sayles smiled and motioned for Horn to sit in a comfortable-looking cracked brown leather armchair. “Get you something? A drink? I feature fine scotch.”

  “Excellent,” Horn said, settling into the chair. For a second he thought he might never stop sinking into the soft cushion. He watched as Sayles got a bottle and some glasses from an oak credenza and poured two glasses of Macallan.

  “If you want ice or water I’ll have to go to the kitchen,” Sayles said.

  “Straight up’s fine.”

  After handing Horn his glass, Sayles sipped from his own and smiled with satisfaction. Then he settled into a matching armchair facing Horn’s.

  “He lowered himself from the roofs,” Sayles said.

  Horn grinned. “Ah, you’re ahead of me. First up the mountain.”

  “Wasn’t hard to figure out. And because of the climbing aspect, I was interested and followed the murders in the smaller papers before the major media tumbled to what was happening. Two of those buildings would be almost impossible climbs from ground level. And time consuming. Hard to believe anyone could have spent time scaling them, even at night, without being noticed. But going down instead of up, that’s another matter. Wearing dark clothing or dressed to approximate the colors of the buildings, gaining entrance to those windows without being detected would have been within the capabilities of an expert climber. Except for one building, where the Bridge woman died.”

  “That one was more difficult?” Horn said.

  “Oh, that one would have required superb skills. Not to mention iron nerve.” Sayles flashed a sad smile. “I might have been able to do it when I was a bit younger.”

  Horn sipped his scotch and was further impressed. “A climber that skilled. .”

  “Not just skilled,” Sayles said. “Gifted.”

  “With that ability,” Horn continued, “wouldn’t he be well-known, at least to other climbers?”

  “He would,” Sayles said. “And that’s your problem. I know of no one climbing now who might have exhibited such technique and ability.”

  Horn found himself slightly irked by the note of admiration in Sayles’s voice. “What about a good climber with new or revolutionary equipment? Might we be seeing evidence of that and not so much his climbing skills?”

  Sayles considered for a moment, then shrugged. “Equipment could account for some of it. With the new lightweight harnesses and slender but almost unbreakable lines, the new friction belayers that allow someone to virtually walk down a wall, abilities are enhanced, especially in descent. But I was also thinking about other problems your killer had to contend with. He had to be silent. He had to be fast. He had to be as invisible as possible from the ground or surrounding windows, and he had to gain access quickly. And, of course, he had to duplicate his feat in the opposite direction when leaving the scene of the crime.”

  Horn nodded over his Macallan. “He showed some of the skills of an expert B-and-E man. A cat burglar. By the way, this is terrific scotch.”

  Sayles cocked his head to the side and smiled. “Isn’t it, though? The papers I read are calling him a spider. The Night Spider. I suppose because he drops on a line to his victim’s window, then envelopes her, saps her of life, and leaves behind the shrouded and inanimate husk. Much like a spider.”

  “I haven’t read the papers today,” Horn said. He wasn’t surprised the advance news hounds had caught the scent. The Sally Bridge murder had stirred a lot of interest because of her show business connections. And the NYPD could leak like a spring shower. “Night Spider,” he said. “I suppose that’s accurate enough.”

  “Soon they might be calling you the exterminator,” Sayles said.

  “I hope so.”

  “Like Arnold Whatsisname.”

  “I was thinking James Bond.”

  Sayles grinned as if thinking, Damned if you didn’t find a sense of humor in the most unlikely places, even in a retired homicide detective who’d seen hell.

  Horn said, “We think the. . er, Night Spider entered buildings adjacent to the victims’, crossed gangways or air shafts to the roof, then dropped down on a line to the victims’ windows.”

  “Sounds plausible.”

  “Wouldn’t that entail a lot of equipment?”

  Sayles ran a finger around the rim of his glass and thought about it. “Not really. As I said, climbing ropes are thin and lightweight these days. And the hardware’s sometimes made of unbreakable but light polymer materials.” The glass rim sang. “Your killer might have simply wrapped the slender line around his waist, had whatever else he needed, including a telescoping or folding grappling hook, in his pockets or taped to his inner thighs. The military developed top secret stuff for Ranger and Special Forces mountain units.” Sayles sat back and took a sip of scotch, his blue eyes watching Horn over the glass rim as if peeking above a foxhole. In this case, he was waiting for another question to be lobbed. It struck Horn as it had years ago what a wily and willful man Sayles was. He knew how to reach mountain peaks, how to get to know the right people, and how to handle media. And now he was living well and more or less anonymously on the momentum of his early success.

  “The military,” Horn said. “A climber as skilled as you say might have been in one of those units, and with the right equipment could be the climber who reached those windows.”

  “I doubt if even Special Forces can climb like that.” Sayles squinted and seemed to look inward. “But I’ve heard of a secret Special Forces mountain unit in the military that works in conjunction with the CIA in black operations.”

  He didn’t have to tell Horn what black operations were-missions done secretly and at times without the knowledge of even the president. For many people in power, some things were better not known.

  “The men in those units are the cream of the cream,” Sayles said. “They go on missions that can’t fail and can never be made public. That’s the only place I can think of where you might find somebody not known to the outside world who can climb like. . well, a spider.”

  “An outfit like that,” Horn said, “doesn’t usually publish its roster.”

  “If such a unit even exists,” Sayles cautioned. “I told you, it’s only rumors that I’ve heard, and now I’m repeating them to you.” He reached into his shirt pocket for a pen, then pulled a small writing tablet from the drawer of a nearby table. After setting down his glass of scotch, he scribbled something on a sheet of paper and ripped it from the pad. Then he stood and crossed the room in three long strides, bending at the waist and holding out the piece of paper for Horn.

  “A name and a phone number to call,” Sayles said. “No promises, but the man who answers might be able to help you. You can mention my name.”

  Horn accepted the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “A name and number. That’s just what an old cop like me needs and wants. The NYPD thanks you again for your services, Mr. Sayles.”

  “I don’t like murder or the people who do it,” Sayles said. “They make the ordinary risks we take in life seem meaningless.”

  Ordinary risks like climbing mountains? Horn started to struggle up out of the comfortable chair, but Sayles waved him back down.

  “Don’t leave till you’ve finished your drink, Captain Horn. Then please have another. I took note y
ears ago that you were an unusual and interesting man. Very different from most policemen. I enjoy talking with you. About climbing, police work, theater, human nature, whatever. .”

  “Not Captain any longer,” Horn said, settling back down. “I retired, then temporarily unretired to handle this case.”

  “Temporary, is it?”

  “Yes. To keep a promise to my wife.”

  “Once a captain always one,” Sayles said. “It’s much more than a title, especially in your line of work.”

  Sayles had it right. But husband was one of those titles, too. Horn had another drink.

  *

  Nina Count, anchor of Eye Spy six o’clock news on cable, put down the notes she’d been studying and looked up at Newsy Winthrop. Nina was tall and blond and icy, all angles from the neck up, curves from the neck down. Said neck was elegantly long, and she consciously accentuated it with V-neck blouses and blazers with long lapels. She was known for her dedication to ratings and her insistence on excellence from the people around her. These people included Newsy, who was thirty-five and hungry for approval and a promotion, who was a small and dark man, with round-rimmed glasses that rode low on his perpetually greasy nose. He had the face of a ferret with spectacles and the soul of a wolverine. Nina was prominent and lusted after because of the long shots that showed off her shapely legs. In New York, her legs were famous.

  She was aware that Newsy was her legs-her practical and efficient legs.

  It was Newsy whom she sent on errands and assignments, who did her bidding and returned with hard facts-hard enough, anyway. Quick and precise and pithy Newsy. Invaluable. Behind every successful woman. .

  “This is some potent shit,” she said, after motioning for Newsy to close the office door. “These women were all murdered by the same sicko who came at them in their sleep like a nightmare.”

  “The Night Spider,” Winthrop said.

  “That’s what the Times calls him. I wish we’d thought of it first.” Nina glanced again at his notes. “It looks like most of what you got here is from the Times’”

  “That’s where most of it is,” Newsy said. He grinned, a dark lock of hair from his widow’s peak dangling over his forehead. “From a mole in the NYPD, to the Times, to us.’ ‘

  “Why don’t we have somebody in the NYPD?”

  “We do now.”

  Nina smiled in a way that made Newsy’s stomach flutter. Not an unpleasant sensation.

  “But the New York Times, Nina. They’ve got resources and lots of ways to check their facts. I figured, even though most of what I gave you’s on record, you’d at least have it right and all in one place and be up to speed on the case.”

  “Thomas Horn’s acting as an advisor to the police,” Nina said. “That’s a crock of shit. If Horn’s involved, he’s in charge.”

  “How come you say that?”

  Nina snorted. “Horn was probably in charge of the delivery room five minutes after birth. He’s a smart, tough cop. Old school and with no quit in him.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Newsy said. “S’posed to be a real piss cutter. Beat up a couple of mob guys in Brooklyn about five years ago. Took their guns away from them first. But lots of times you hear that about old cops and it’s bullshit.”

  “Seven years ago,” Nina said. “And it isn’t bullshit this time. But Horn has a softer side when you get to know him. He’s not just a goon set to catch a goon.”

  There was a look in Nina’s eyes Newsy wasn’t sure he liked. “You know him well enough to say that?”

  “Well enough I might be able to get his cooperation. Use him as a source.”

  Newsy’s face split wide in an admiring grin. “You get the lead investigator as your source, we’ll have the competition by the balls. But how about what we’ve got so far? Good enough for the six o’clock? There’s some tape of the crime scenes, just the buildings from the outside. Cops are keeping a pretty tight lid on this one. You wanna go for the six, I can get you the tape.”

  Nina gave him her sincere on-camera smile. Newsy knew it was canned as shucked corn, but he liked it anyway.

  “We’re not only gonna put it on the six,” Nina said, “we’re gonna lead with it.”

  11

  “Sure, I know her,” said the bartender at Brook’s Crooks. “I got a photographic memory for faces. That’s Pattie.”

  Paula caught Bickerstaff ‘s expression in the mirror behind the long, curved bar. It was one of pleased disbelief, as if he were ice fishing and had just yanked a ten pounder up through the hole. Sometimes luck was on the side of the good guys.

  “She’s not a regular. Only been in a few times when I was here.” The bartender looked concerned as he glanced up from the photograph lifted from one of Pattie Redmond’s credit cards. The place wasn’t yet crowded but somehow managed to smell like stale beer. “That ain’t a good shot of her, though. Pattie’s a real attractive woman. She could make it as a regular.”

  “What do you mean by ‘making it as a regular’?” Paula asked the bartender, a skinny, buzz-cut guy who had a silver ring through one nostril and looked too young to be serving liquor. He was wearing a black, sleeveless Brook’s Crooks T-shirt with a name tag that said he was Lightfinger.

  “Not what you might be thinking, ma’am. This is an up-an’-up kinda place. I just meant we got a good class of single women who come in here regular. This is one of the best places to meet them. Then what goes on between people outside of here’s something we can’t control.” He grinned. “You’re a cop, and you could be a regular.”

  Paula, who hadn’t been thinking anything disapproving beyond murder, was surprised. “You’re saying Pattie wasn’t a hooker? Just like some of the other women who hang out in here aren’t?”

  “He’s a bright guy trying to help us without hurting himself,” Bickerstaff explained. “I think he’s successfully avoided a visit from the vice squad.”

  Lightfinger, who’d been fidgeting, was suddenly motionless. “You used the past tense,” he said to Paula. “Did I hear the past tense?”

  “Pattie Redmond is past tense,” Bickerstaff confirmed. “She’s been murdered.”

  “Oh, man! Ain’t that some shit. .” Lightfinger gripped the bar with both hands and leaned in on it. For a moment Paula thought he might faint. “Shot or something?”

  “Stabbed.”

  “You got any idea who did it?”

  “We’re trying to get an idea,” Paula said. “That’s why we’re talking with you.”

  Lightfinger went to the shelves of bottles on the back bar, poured himself a Jameson, and tossed it down straight as if he needed it in the worst way. Sensitive guy.

  When he returned to the bar he looked pale but steadier. “Yeah, Pattie was no hooker. She just came in and had a margarita or two, listened to the music, maybe danced.” Lightfinger saw no reason to mention the woman Pattie was with the first time, Ellen something. Not unless he was asked. Why spread trouble like a germ?

  Paula tried to imagine the Patricia Redmond she’d seen, alive and smiling and gyrating on the dance floor. She found it impossible.

  “She sounds lonely,” Bickerstaff said in a tone that suggested he was lonely himself. Maybe he was, Paula thought with a twinge of sympathy. No wife or family to speak of, looking forward to a lonesome retirement.

  “I wouldn’t know if she was lonely,” Lightfinger said. “I think she just didn’t know losers when she saw them.”

  “Your customers a lot of losers?” Bickerstaff asked.

  “No, but a lot of my customers are losers.”

  While Bickerstaff was struggling to make the distinction, Paula said, “Can you recall if she left with anyone?”

  “She might’ve.” Giving away nothing.

  “Ever see her with a guy named Gary?”

  Uh-oh! Gotta avoid being an accessory here. Lightfinger pretended to brighten with recollection and stood straighter behind the bar. “Yeah! Sure! Gary Schnick. I know his name because he’s alwa
ys flashing business cards around. He and Pattie were drinking together last night over in that corner booth.” He motioned with a stringy, muscular arm, revealing a coiled snake tattooed on his inner right biceps. “But I can’t say I saw them walk outta here together.” Might not have seen them.

  “Could they have left together without you noticing?” Bickerstaff asked.

  “Sure. I’d hate to think what happens around here without me noticing.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have one of Gary’s business cards, would you?”

  “Naw, I throw that kinda stuff away when I close up. But I remember he’s an accountant works out of his apartment. Freelance accountant, he calls himself. Not a bad guy, but tell you the truth he’s a pain in the ass around tax time, comes in here mostly to drum up business instead of pussy.”

  “Accountants.” Bickerstaff smiled philosophically and shook his head, the way some people do when they hear the word lawyer.

  “Gary ever pick up any other women in here?” Paula asked.

  “Not as I can recall. But it wasn’t from lack of trying.”

  “Yet attractive Pattie Redmond went for him.”

  “Like I said, she wasn’t a regular. Could be she just didn’t see enough of the guy to judge him.”

  “I’m sure you remember the address on his business cards,” Bickerstaff said hopefully.

  “No, but maybe he’s in the book.” Lightfinger turned around and got a Manhattan phone directory from a shelf beneath the beer taps. He laid it on the bar, flopped it open, leafed through some pages, then turned it around for Paula and Bickerstaff to see. As he’d swiveled the directory on the bar, he’d kept his forefinger in the same spot. There was Gary Schnick’s address and phone number, halfway down the page.