by John Lutz
“According to the news, the Night Prowler likes to leave his victims-to-be yellow roses.”
Dalia delicately placed a few fries on her sandwich plate, then pushed the rest of them away, where they wouldn’t tempt. She sipped her iced tea and sat back. “Sounds creepy.”
“Sure. She’s probably imagining it. That’s all I can think of.”
“And she wants you to come home so she’ll feel safe?”
“No, she told me I should stay here and do my work. She said the cops’ll be looking out for her.”
Dalia gave him a level, questioning look. “You worried about her?”
“Sure. I don’t want some crazy killer to carve her up.”
“I mean really worried?”
Loaded question. Jubal wished now he hadn’t mentioned Claire’s phone call. Women were…women. Careful here….“Not really worried,” he said, “because I don’t think anything’s really going to happen to her.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I know Claire. And I know Claire pregnant. She could let her imagination get the best of her and one thing would lead to another. Right now, it’s how she is.”
It wasn’t how she was, not really, and Jubal knew it. It was probably the ruby necklace that had started Claire’s mind whirring. She might not have entirely believed his lie, and he didn’t like the cops involved. He knew how to handle her. She needed reassurance. He should bolster his story, maybe surprise her, and soon, with a matching ring or bracelet.
His explanation was good enough for Dalia. She opened her mouth wide, cocking her head sideways in a way that reminded Jubal of a shark about to close on its prey, and attacked her club sandwich.
Jubal thought there was something wonderfully carnal about her.
The next night that the stakeout was in place, Quinn ran it from the vestibule of an apartment building across the street that had a clear view of the entrance to Claire Briggs’s building. They were going on the assumption the Night Prowler hadn’t noticed Pearl starting to follow him last night in the unmarked car. Or if he had seen the car, as far as he knew, it had been innocently parked down the street, or was accelerating after turning a corner.
Fedderman was inside the building across the street, Claire’s building, positioned in a storage room with its door propped open a crack so he had a view of the lobby. He had a hard wooden chair to sit on, which would help keep him awake, and a thermos full of strong coffee. He’d been on a lot of stakeouts during his years as a cop, and he knew how to maintain a kind of not-quite-asleep awareness that allowed him to survey an area for hours effectively without moving and without missing anything. He thought when he retired, he might find a job as a human security camera.
Pearl was parked in the unmarked half a block down, near where she’d been last night, using binoculars to help her keep an eye on Claire’s apartment windows. It was warmer than last night, without much of a breeze, and she was uncomfortable even with the windows down. She knew she couldn’t start the engine and switch on the air conditioner; noise and exhaust fumes might give her away. She, too, had a thermos full of coffee, and also her portable plastic potty. She’d considered telling Fedderman about the device, then figured it wouldn’t be worth the grief.
A couple of undercover cops were nearby, one in a closed dry cleaners a few doors down the street, another dressed as a homeless person in a doorway. In Claire’s living room, reading by one of those lights you clip on a book, was a tough, reliable cop named Ryan Campbell. Quinn knew him from the old days, when Campbell had once taken two bullets in the arm and still hauled down a stickup artist who’d just shot a bartender. Campbell had held the man in the iron vise of his uninjured arm until help arrived.
Claire had shown herself several times at her apartment windows so it would be evident she was home. Home and vulnerable. She was being brave about this. Or acting brave.
Quinn checked with his two-way to make sure everyone was in position; then he settled down and smoked a cigar, making sure its glowing ember was shielded from sight by his cupped hand.
Stakeout mode. One of the things about police work he hadn’t missed. Wait, wait, wait…and almost always nothing happened until the next night, or the next, or the next.
Then suddenly everything might happen.
66
Sometimes Quinn sat, and sometimes he stood so he wouldn’t fall asleep.
But even standing and leaning against the wall in the black vestibule, he was in danger of dozing off.
He looked away for an instant, changing position to rest his weight on his other leg, and didn’t notice the darkly dressed figure that appeared from deep shadow beneath a neighboring awning and entered Claire’s apartment building.
Pearl had seen the man, almost rubbing her eyes to convince herself she was awake and hadn’t imagined him. He’d suddenly appeared out of darkness, strolling casually but quickly, and entered the building as if for the thousandth time, as if he belonged there. Cops can move like that after a lot of years on the job, as if they belong wherever they happen to be at the moment. Pearl knew she hadn’t yet reached that point and wondered if she’d be a cop long enough to achieve such natural invisibility.
She used her two-way to contact Quinn.
He came awake all the way and alerted everyone: “Somebody in the building. Might be our guy.”
Who else, at two forty-five in the morning?
“Got him,” Fedderman said softly from his vantage point in the storage room. “He’s crossing the lobby.”
He watched as the man pressed the up button and stood seemingly relaxed, absently rolling something minute between the thumb and middle finger of his right hand, waiting for the elevator to arrive.
It must have been on a low floor, because it didn’t take long to reach lobby level.
Fedderman was patient and waited until the elevator door had slid closed behind the man before making any more noise.
Fedderman, louder: “He just stepped into the elevator.”
Quinn made sure everyone else knew what was happening, then left the shelter of the dark vestibule and crossed the street.
Half a block down, Pearl climbed out of the unmarked and moved toward him at a fast walk. This part made her nervous. The Night Prowler would be out of the elevator soon, might even glance out one of the windows at the ends of the halls and check the streets below. Pearl definitely didn’t belong in the neighborhood, a lone woman cutting across the street diagonally to save time.
Don’t fuck up now.
Quinn was already in the building. She picked up her pace.
Campbell, likewise, knew what might be coming and was ready for it.
He left the lights out in the apartment, and in the dimness moved quietly down the hall and into Claire’s bedroom. He didn’t want to wake her, have her hysterical before anything happened. Most of all, he didn’t want her harmed. He’d make damned sure she wasn’t harmed!
But he wanted this asshole to actually enter her room and make it official, wanted him nailed in the courtroom the way Campbell was about to hammer him here in the bedroom.
He took up position in a corner, close to the wall the door was on. When the sick fuck entered—if he enters—if he even comes to this apartment—Campbell would be like God Himself meting out rough justice.
When the elevator had risen several floors, Fedderman pressed the button to bring the other elevator down to the lobby from where it was high in the building.
The elevators were the old, slow kind, and the one containing the Night Prowler suspect was still rising when Quinn and Pearl entered the building. Quinn looked tired but alert. Pearl looked so eager she reminded Fedderman of a wirehaired terrier he’d owned long ago. Better not tell her that.
Quinn looked at the glowing elevator button, then glanced up at the floor indicator light. The rising elevator was only a few floors below Claire’s.
“He had a building key,” Fedderman said. “Didn’t even hesitate opening the inner lobby door and com
ing in.”
“Maybe one of the tenants,” Pearl suggested, not believing it.
“We’ll have a better idea in a few seconds,” Quinn said.
The indicator light stopped at twenty-nine. Claire’s floor.
“Jesus!” Pearl said.
Quinn glanced toward the street door, which he’d left propped open. “The uniforms are on the way.”
“So’s the other elevator,” Fedderman said, staring up at the falling indicator light, “but it’s slower than a damned diving bell.”
In the bedroom’s quiet darkness Campbell heard only Claire’s even breathing.
Then he stood straighter. He’d heard what had to be the front door’s dead bolt snick, then the door open and the faint click of the latch. His mouth was dry cotton and his drumming heart was the loudest sound in the room. He worked his fingers in and out of fists and smiled thinly, not surprised to realize he still enjoyed this. It was what he was about.
Claire moaned in her sleep, then rolled onto her side.
Not now! Don’t wake up now!
She wasn’t breathing as deeply and evenly, perhaps rising toward wakefulness. Campbell was getting worried. But didn’t something always go wrong?
It was a well-built apartment and the floors didn’t squeak. He couldn’t be sure of the location of whoever had entered. He stood staring fixedly at the bedroom door, which he’d left open about six inches.
C’mon in, asshole. Come right on in.
And the intruder did come in. Quickly and quietly. He seemed almost to float across the room, then stood motionless at the foot of the bed.
Campbell held his breath and watched. Fuckin’ creepy.
The Night Prowler stared down at Claire in the dim, buzzing silence. Almost as if he were offering a prayer.
For someone about to die.
Then he turned toward Campbell.
67
The figure at the foot of Claire’s bed was on Campbell in a second. The veteran cop had no time to react. He felt a burning sensation in his left arm. One he’d felt before.
Knife!
He knew he was cut.
Instinctively he grabbed the knife arm of his assailant and bent it back. Not easily. He was shocked by the man’s physical strength. Campbell head-butted him, gave the arm an extra twist, and the knife dropped to the floor.
Something slammed into the side of Campbell’s face. The Night Prowler’s fist. Other goddamn arm! He moved in close and the two men began to grapple. Campbell knew he must be losing blood, but the wound couldn’t be serious or he’d feel a greater loss of strength in the arm that was cut. Still, this asshole was powerful. The Night Prowler wrenched his arm free from Campbell’s grasp, gave the veteran cop a bear hug that lifted him off the floor, then flung him halfway across the dark bedroom. The nightstand toppled and the lamp on it went flying.
The Night Prowler was struggling toward the door now, with Campbell hanging on and trying to trip him up, drag him down. A small, pale hand clutched Campbell’s opponent’s throat, surprising Campbell. Claire! Awake and in the fray! Jesus! No!
Campbell felt the Night Prowler’s weight shift and saw the man’s open hand slam into the side of Claire’s head. She fell back into dimness and he heard her body hit hard against a wall. Campbell didn’t think she was badly hurt, but in the corner of his vision he saw her slide to the floor, stunned.
Then he felt something behind his left knee, pressure on his left shoulder, and he was on the floor himself with a jolt. Pain! Base of the spine.
The Night Prowler was loose and darting toward the living room, the door to the hall, and escape.
Never, dammit!
Campbell scrambled halfway to his feet and launched himself after the fleeing dark figure. He managed to grasp an ankle and hold on as he was dragged across the floor. Frantically he tightened his grip, until his fingers ached as if they might break or his nails might bleed.
They were in the living room, where it was darker than the bedroom. Campbell reached up with his free hand, clutched the fleeing suspect’s belt, and hauled himself to his feet. For his effort, he was punched in the stomach, grabbed beneath the arm, and spun around. Strong! I’m getting old or this is one powerful guy.
As they clung to each other and fought to control the fight, they turned in a clockwise circle. Furniture bumped and scraped the wall. A lamp crashed to the floor. Neither man spoke, but they were breathing hard and grunting in their battle to gain the upper hand. It was almost as if they were locked in a mad dance, but the direction was steadily toward the door.
Campbell was losing, and he knew it.
In the hall, Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman heard the struggle. They ran toward the apartment door, and Fedderman was about to put a shoulder to it when Pearl reached out and turned the knob.
The door opened to the living room and the two powerful figures grappling in the dark.
Quinn went in first, feeling the others close behind. He heard the door bounce off the wall and slam shut again behind them, cutting off even the dim light from the hall.
No time for that now!
He led the charge.
Campbell’s breath whooshed out of him as something drove hard into his left side. He was forced back and away, losing his grip on the Night Prowler and collapsing to the floor. He was in a three-point stance, his knees and one palm rooted to the carpet.
He knew what was happening. Help had arrived and made the wrong guess as to which of the struggling shadows was the Night Prowler.
Not me, damn you! Not me!
But Campbell could only scream the words internally. He was still trying to inhale before his heart gave out, when someone grabbed his injured arm. Somehow a yelp of pain made its way out of his gaping mouth.
Apparently, it was enough. The arm was released and a voice in the dark said, “Campbell?”
Campbell finally gasped and drew in wonderful oxygen.
Still unable to speak, he blocked out his pain and managed to get to his feet. Around him in the dark he could hear a lot of movement, but not as if there was a struggle. Lucky fucker’s gonna make it outta here!
Campbell had lost. A sense of hopelessness and defeat rushed through him so forcefully that he felt like weeping.
The lights came on.
Pearl, groping over rough plaster, had found a smooth plastic wall switch and flipped it up.
In the almost blinding brightness, everyone stared wide-eyed.
Standing with his hand on the knob of the door to the hall, staring back at them, was Jubal Day.
Campbell tried to take a step toward Jubal but couldn’t get his body to respond to his will. You didn’t make it out, you bastard. I beat you!
Jubal, as surprised by the sudden brightness as Campbell, was also motionless.
With everyone momentarily paralyzed, this was a game that could be won by whoever moved first.
68
Fedderman was closest to Jubal, which was why he might have been the first of the good guys to move. He took a long step and reached out for Jubal but was met with a stiff left jab. Pearl was there. She slipped another left and got inside Jubal’s arms so he didn’t have leverage to punch hard. He immediately backed away and raised both arms in surrender.
She spun him around and shoved so he was pressed with his chest and the right side of his face against the wall. He didn’t resist as she worked his hands behind him and cuffed his wrists.
“You can’t do this!” he said in a shocked voice as he felt the handcuffs dig into his flesh. He turned around unsteadily and stared at everyone.
“Can and are.” Pearl pulled her shield and held it up where he could see it.
The door opened and the two uniforms from downstairs, who’d been on the last elevator ride, came in with guns drawn.
“We got him,” Pearl said, waving at them to lower their weapons. “We nailed the bastard before he could get out the door!”
“Jubal?”
Everyone turned to loo
k at Claire standing in the living-room doorway. She was sagging against a wall, staring uncomprehendingly at her husband. “You’re in Chicago….”
“He’s here,” Quinn said. “And he’s under arrest for murder.”
“Don’t listen to this bullshit! Call me a lawyer, Claire!”
“Jubal…?”
“A lawyer!”
Fedderman read him his rights, then grabbed his left arm above the elbow. Pearl had the other arm.
“I notice you didn’t ask if your wife was hurt,” Pearl said to Jubal.
He glared at her in a way that made her glad he was cuffed.
Quinn looked over at Campbell. His left arm was bleeding, but he otherwise seemed all right. The knife wound didn’t look too serious.
“Knife’s in the bedroom,” Campbell said.
Quinn sent Fedderman in to bag it. Fedderman seemed awfully reluctant to release his grip on Jubal, as if nobody in his right mind finally captured something so elusive, then didn’t hold tight to it.
“Looks like this is what we want,” Fedderman said when he returned holding up the plastic evidence pouch containing the knife. He displayed it like a prize. “Thin blade about ten inches long, sharp edge and point.”
“It’s goddamn sharp, all right,” Campbell said.
“You want an ambulance?” Quinn asked, making sure but knowing the answer.
“Fuck a bunch of ambulances,” Campbell said.
Tough old bastard. We need more like you. Quinn glanced at one of the uniforms, the younger of the two, black, with a calm look about him, eyes never still.
“We’ll drive him to the hospital in the cruiser,” the cop said. He looked at Campbell and grinned. “You’ll need some stitches, Sarge, if you’re not too scared.”
Quinn expected Campbell to explode.
Instead, he said, “This little prick’s kinda my protégé.”
The cop nodded. “I’ll see the old fart’s taken care of.”
“And I’ll see you spend the rest of your career chasing Times Square sketch artists,” Campbell growled.