by John Lutz
Letty had cheered up the financial channel staff and viewers with a rosy forecast of unchanging interest rates and a recommendation to buy three promising small savings and loans in the Midwest. Sleeper stocks, she’d called them. No, she didn’t own them. No, Helmont and Brack had no sort of financial relationship with them. They were simply undervalued stocks with clean financial sheets and solid multiples. Buy ‘em!
All three stocks had gained share price by the time the market closed.
Letty was feeling good as she left Helmont and Brack’s new offices near the former site of the World Trade Center, looking forward to dinner at home and a warm bath before going over the numbers on a prospective New York bank merger.
On the subway ride uptown to her apartment, she studied her reflection in the dark window on the opposite side of the car. There she was, looking back at herself, much as she must have appeared on the TV screen. Would you trust this woman? Have secret fantasies about her? She cocked her head, then smiled slightly. She’d been professionally coached for her television appearances, but maybe she should practice more in front of a mirror. Who knew where TV spots might lead, especially if her stock recommendations panned out? Maybe to one of the regular financial panel shows.
What would her father think of her now, she wondered, after his admonitions and cautionary lectures about gambling in the stock market? Her own portfolio was flourishing and well hedged. She was even thinking of moving into another, larger apartment.
That is, if the television appearances worked out, if she struck a spark with viewers. Someone who knew one of the producers told her, in confidence, that ratings more than held up for her announced spots. The viewers liked her. Letty gazed steadily at her framed reflection across the aisle and let herself dream.
She had no idea she’d made a new fan that afternoon, who’d boarded at the same stop and was riding with her in the subway car, watching her watch herself.
“Why don’t you come to bed?” Paula asked Linnert from the bedroom doorway.
He’d been sitting for over an hour at his computer. Paula thought he looked particularly handsome shirtless and in his boxer shorts, seated in his Aeron chair in the soft lamplight and working the keyboard. But she had other ideas about how he could use his nimble fingers.
“Almost with you,” he said, without looking at her. Kind of miffed her.
Another few keystrokes and he turned to smile at her.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“Bought some stock on-line.”
“I thought the markets were closed.”
“The main ones are. But there are after-hour markets, or you can place an order anytime that’ll be executed when the markets open the next day.”
Paula grinned. “Are you one of those notorious day traders who lost their shirts? I look at you, I don’t see any shirt.”
“Nope, I’m an investor, not a trader. Done okay, too. How do you think I pay for you, Miss High Postage?”
“With your passionate love.”
“Cheap at the price.” He shut down his computer and stood up from his desk chair.
“What’s the hurry?”
He looked puzzled. “I thought you were madly moist.”
“I am. I mean, why did you have to buy stock tonight instead of waiting till tomorrow morning?”
He shrugged powerful tanned shoulders. “I was in the mood. And an analyst I respect recommended these stocks this afternoon on the financial channel. Small savings and loans. Sleeper stocks in the Midwest.”
“Ah, and you want to get in before it’s too late.”
“Well, as early as possible. This analyst knows her stuff; she moves a stock for more than a day’s pop. She’s a solid researcher.”
Paula’s grin widened. “Come over here,” she said, “and I’ll show you some research.”
Letty stopped at a newsstand a block from her apartment and picked up Business Week. Her eye fell on a tabloid’s bold headline: city of fear. Beneath it was a photo of the New York skyline. what woman is safe? asked the caption of the lead story.
Ridiculous! Letty shook her head and smiled, paying for the magazine and turning away. A city of over eight million people, and women are supposed to be afraid a serial killer will single them out. Her smile stuck. Hell, a serial killer might be preferable to some of the losers I’ve dated recently.
Only kidding, she said to herself a little uneasily as she quickened her pace and pressed on toward her apartment.
Toward the security of home.
42
The uniform with the scar on his face was on duty in the hall when Horn knocked on Anne’s apartment door. He looked over at Horn, gave a little half smile, and nodded. Horn nodded back, not smiling, as Anne opened the door.
“You’ve settled in nicely,” he said, when he entered and looked around. The apartment didn’t look so cold and modern. No cardboard boxes in sight. More pieces of furniture she hadn’t put in storage were in place. Some of the wall hangings were familiar. A framed impressionist print she’d always liked was on the wall over the sofa. Horn felt like someone in a hotel room where he’d stayed before.
Anne looked good. She was wearing a beige blouse, dark brown slacks, and had her hair pulled back in a French braid.
“Going out?” he asked.
She looked at him.
“Never mind.” Horn sat on the sofa and waited. She’d phoned him and asked for this meeting.
She didn’t offer him a drink and didn’t sit down herself. She said, “I’m going nuts here under guard.”
“You’d be nuts not to want to be guarded.”
“I don’t have to be convinced of that. I even appreciate what you’re doing, Thomas. I’m well aware I’m receiving special treatment because of you. I’m also aware of the kind of danger I’m in. I can count on an anonymous heavy-breathing phone call almost every night.”
“I know,” he said. “They’re from public phones around town. The receivers are always wiped clean of prints.”
She smiled. “Yeah, I guess you would know.” She paced a few steps this way and that-like an animal marking off territory-as if trying to locate the best position from which to speak. “I’m going back to work at the hospital, Thomas.”
He didn’t answer immediately, knew she was touchy and couldn’t blame her. “Your old job?”
She nodded. “Finlay was by here today to talk to me. The Vine family’s changed their minds. They’ve rejected any settlement and want more money, claiming the stress of their tragedy and the lawsuit have caused a regression to the severe depression Vine suffered after his military service. The main cause of stress is identified as Kincaid Memorial Hospital.”
“So Finlay wants you back,” Horn said. “All’s forgiven, huh?”
“Not really. Neither of us forgives the other. But I need a job, and the hospital needs me back in my old position in order to mount its best legal defense.”
“You mean they don’t want to risk a whistle-blower out there unaccounted for.”
“I suppose that’s part of it. From my end, I’ll have employment and an excuse to get out of this apartment.”
“Which we tried to get you to leave.”
“By getting out, I don’t mean running away,” Anne said. “I won’t do that, won’t give in to fear. It’s my life, and I’m damn well going to live it as I choose. But I’m no fool. I recognize the danger better than anyone. I want to know what you think of my returning to work.”
Horn sat back and extended his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I know you want something to do, but this isn’t really the time-”
“It’s exactly the time,” she interrupted, “if I’m going to remain sane.”
“And alive?”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Could you arrange. . Would it make that much difference if I were guarded here or at my office? There’s already some security at Kincaid anyway. I thought it might even be easier.”
�
��You’d be working day hours?”
“I’ve been promised them.” She smiled. “They do need me if they want to successfully plead their case.”
“You almost sound as if you’re looking forward to a court fight now.”
She shrugged. “When your life’s threatened you gain a different perspective on fear and stress. On what’s important.”
“And going back to Kincaid is important to you?”
“Very.”
He looked at her standing there in the soft light filtering through the sheer curtains. Light like a time machine. She might have been the Anne of twenty years ago. They might have been—
Don’t think it, you idiot!
He sat up straighter, then stood. “What you want can be arranged. But I want something in return.”
“Oh?”
“When things get tight and really dangerous-and they will-I want your word that you’ll follow my instructions.”
“Instructions pertaining to what?”
“To anything. We’re in a game with a psychotic killer who wants you as his victim. There might not be time for me to explain or try to justify whatever it is I’m asking of you.”
“You have my word, Thomas.”
“I’ll talk to Rollie Larkin.”
They looked at each other. She gave him a smile.
He waited for her to stop him and thank him as he left, but she remained silent behind him.
Oh, well, he’d demanded something in return. And leaving her this time, walking away from her, the painful wrench he felt didn’t rip quite so large a rent in his heart.
Horn spoke with Larkin later that day. Anne’s return to work didn’t really require that much extra security since she’d simply be office-bound rather than spending most of her time in her apartment. In fact, it enabled some of the security force to work closer to her, passing as hospital personnel. Ida, Anne’s assistant, had been reassigned. The uniform assigned as Anne’s last defense, who was usually the scar-faced cop Horn had seen several times stationed in the hall, could be outside her office door rather than noticeably hanging around outside her apartment.
“Police profiler can’t understand why our man’s staying in the New York area,” Larkin said, while he and Horn puffed on cigars in Larkin’s office. There was a small exhaust fan humming away in a window, tugging at the smoke. Horn had heard they’d made this a smoke-free building and wondered if it was true, if Larkin didn’t give a damn. Might well be. Horn decided not to ask.
“Maybe he can’t refuse a dare,” Horn said.
Larkin exhaled a cloud of smoke and squinted through it at Horn. “You mean he sees it as a dare that we’re bent on catching him?”
“That could be part of it. And I’m afraid part of it’s me. He’s making this personal.”
“So why doesn’t he go after you?”
“Might, eventually.” Killing Anne would be an initial step in murdering me, using her death to torture me before he finishes the job.
Both men were thinking the same thing. Neither put it into words.
“I don’t see why he doesn’t simply try for Anne,” Larkin said. “God knows, he’s had plenty of practice.”
“I don’t know the answer to that,” Horn said. “What’s the police profiler have to say?”
“What you just said. She also said we might expect more murders after Alice Duggan’s, with approximately the same amount of time between them as between Mandle’s previous victims. That means we might have a couple of weeks, at least, to prevent the next killing.”
And the next intended victim might be Anne, Horn thought.
Larkin flicked ash from his cigar. “If Mandle keeps killing, and it turns out there’s some kind of pattern in the murders since his escape, it’ll be clear he’s toying with you and Anne, doing his sadistic act. But Duggan looks like the earlier random prey. High-rise apartments and windows difficult to reach, that encourage a kind of false sense of security and a carelessness, are what seem to dictate his choice of victims. There’s no apparent similarity in physical type or in the work they did, and their ages varied. Some were divorced, some had never been married, and one was widowed.” Larkin finished his cigar and snuffed it out in an ashtray. “Seems obvious Mandle’s read the literature and knows how to avoid a pattern.”
“So no woman can feel secure,” Horn said.
“Yeah. So any woman in New York might be a victim and has to walk around terrified because of him. Loves power, does Mandle.”
“Single women.”
“Huh?”
“Mandle’s victims were all single and lived alone,” Horn reminded Larkin. “No live-in lovers, no roommates.”
“True,” Larkin said. “Like Anne.”
“Like Anne.”
And, as it turned out, like Letty Fonsetta.
Horn received news of her murder over his cell phone as he was driving away from his meeting with Larkin.
It was like Alice Duggan’s murder. Letty Fonsetta was lying on her back in bed, tightly shrouded in her blood-soaked sheets, a rectangle of duct tape slapped over her mouth. There was a depression in the center of the gray rectangle, from when she’d tried to draw her last, desperate breath, and even that was denied her. A clot of blood clung to her hairline. It was where she’d been bludgeoned. On the floor near the bed was a small, triangular marble clock with blood and a clump of hair stuck to one of its corners. Horn was sure it would yield no fingerprints.
“Only three days since the last murder,” Paula said.
“And her apartment’s only on the third floor,” Bickerstaff added.
“Three’s wild,” Horn said. “Think that means anything?”
“Only if you’re a numerologist or poker player,” Bickerstaff said.
“The short interval between murders,” Paula said, “might mean he’s getting desperate. More driven by compulsion.”
“More dangerous,” Horn said. He wondered if Mandle might be sending a message to Anne and him: Any night now. Sooner than you think. Trying to heighten the terror. “The killer get inside the usual way?”
“He did,” Paula said. “Dropped five stories from the roof, which he reached from an adjoining roof. I’m wondering why, though.”
Horn looked at her. “Why what?”
“Where Letty’s window is, he could have easily reached it from the ground without being seen. It looks out on an alley where he wouldn’t have been noticed. So why didn’t he choose the easy way in and out?”
“You said it yourself,” Bickerstaff told her. “Compulsion. He’s locked into a ritual. Gotta do it the same way every time.”
Horn glanced over at the intense and somber techs gathered like visiting physicians around Letty Fonsetta’s body. Now you make house calls. Too late.
“What do we know about this one?” he asked.
Paula tucked in her chin and consulted her notes. “Forty-one years old, divorced, a stock analyst and sometimes TV personality. She was on a financial channel just this morning, touting stocks.”
“Anybody still pay attention to people who do that?”
“Sure it wasn’t the comedy channel?” Bickerstaff asked.
Paula glanced up from her notes to nail him with a glare. “Neighbors said she pretty much kept to herself but was friendly enough. Didn’t notice any men coming or going at her place. A career type. And successful.”
“Like Alice Duggan,” Bickerstaff said.
Paula had closed her notepad. “There’s something else she had in common with Duggan. They were both public figures. Not exactly famous, but public. Duggan was an off-Broadway actress with her name and photo on a poster and playbills outside a theater. And Letty Fonsetta was recently on television.”
Once again, Horn was glad he’d chosen Paula for his investigative team. “They’d be easy enough to find and follow,” he said. “This is a media city. Lots of prospective victims like that. Mandle chooses his prey from public women who are most likely to be living alone, then find
s out where they live, probably by following them from wherever they practice their professions. If his simple requirements are met, they’re in his web.”
“If they live alone in high-floor apartments,” Paula said, “they’re as good as dead as soon as he lays eyes on them. And there might be another reason he’s choosing public figures. He understands that people feel they know them, maybe even identify with them. Women will think, It could have been me.”
“It might be simpler than that,” Bickerstaff said. “Maybe he’s murdering women in the public eye because he knows they’re attractive and he’s in a hurry. Instead of walking around looking at the buffet, he’s choosing from a menu.”
“Compulsion,” Paula said. “Getting more powerful and controlling. More urgent.”
“At least Anne isn’t in the public eye,” Bickerstaff said.
“She doesn’t have to be,” Paula said. “Mandle already knows where she lives, and probably where she works.” She glanced at Horn, maybe regretting her words. She and Bickerstaff exchanged a look.
Horn seemed not to have heard them. After a parting glance at the carnage, he instructed them to follow their usual procedure, then left Letty Fonsetta’s apartment as soon as possible.
He already had his hand in his pocket and was clutching his cell phone. He wanted to get someplace where he could speak privately. Wanted to tighten security around Anne immediately.
Compulsion.
Another one. He had to find another one, a chosen one. Had to work fast. Wanted to get to his goal, to Anne Horn.
To get this over with, even though he yearned to draw it out, to enjoy it. And he was enjoying it. Christ, the need! Each one increased the need! All different but the same! The need! Like a fire that consumed fire. .
He might not even have glanced at her as he walked past the Projections movie theater except for the usher standing outside smoking a cigarette, leaning down, and flirting through the window slot where money and tickets changed hands. “How’s it goin’, Nadine? You wanna sell me a ticket for a ride?”