by John Lutz
“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 always 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.
Paula got out her notepad and copied it.
“He’s not a suspect, is he?”
“I dunno,” Bickerstaff said. “Why do you ask?”
“I can tell you Gary’d never kill anyone. I mean, I know the guy some from seeing him around here. In my job, you can just tell about people. Guy’s probably got the balls of a field mouse.”
“We won’t tell him where we got his name and address,” Paula said, figuring Lightfinger might be afraid of Gary, whatever the size of his testicles. “While I’m writing things down, what’s your real name, Lightfinger?”
Lightfinger looked confused. “Lightfinger. Ethan Light-finger. I’m from Canada.”
“Ah!” Paula said, and wrote.
“And I’m not worried you’ll tell Gary where you got his name. I’m just trying to help out by letting you know he’s not the kinda guy who’d kill somebody. For Chrissake, I told you the guy’s an accountant!”
“You think accountants never kill?” Bickerstaff asked.
“Can you name me one?”
Bickerstaff was stumped.
“What about bartenders?” Paula asked. “Can they be killers?”
“Never,” Lightfinger said. He swallowed hard. Had to ask. “Can they be suspects?”
“All the time,” Bickerstaff said.
They thanked Lightfinger for his cooperation and left. Paula tried hard not to glance back.
Horn read the name Sayles had given him: Goesling. No first name. Horn sighed. Maybe Goesling was one of those people like Sting or Bono who had only one name. But then, would he have chosen Goesling?
Whatever, Horn stood closer to the phone and punched out the number after the name. It had an unfamiliar area code.
Only two rings, then a man’s voice said hello.
“Er, Mr. Goesling?” Horn asked.
A pause. “Who is this?”
Horn explained who he was. Then: “Royce Sayles suggested I call you. You do know Royce Sayles.”
“Know of him.”
“He said you might be able to give me some information about a secret Special Forces unit. It’s a police matter, Mr. Goesling. Homicide. More human life might be at stake.”
“A secret Special Forces unit? Shouldn’t you be calling the military?”
“I thought maybe I was.”
“No.”
“But you do know what I’m talking about? A top secret elite combat unit that engages in black operations?”
Again a pause. Longer.
“Tell you what,” Goesling said, “I’ll call you back. Not right away, maybe.”
“Sure. Listen, I understand you have to be—”
But the connection was broken, the empty line droning in Horn’s ear.
Goesling had been cryptic, all right. And maybe not much help. His weren’t the loose lips that might sink ships.
Horn replaced the receiver harder than was necessary. Not military, my ass!
He hadn’t asked what Horn meant by black operations.
Horn had made the call from a public phone rather than his brownstone. Everyone had caller ID these days.
Caller ID probably would have designated that his call had come
from a public phone. Yet, when Goesling told Horn he’d call him back at some point, he hadn’t asked for a number. He probably already knew Horn’s number.
This stirred the hair on the back of Horn’s neck.
Neva Taylor stood brushing her hair and staring out her apartment window. At last she had something she’d always wanted: a view of Central Park.
The apartment itself was smaller than she’d imagined for herself. Her promotion after landing the Massmann Container advertising account hadn’t come with a commensurate salary that allowed for the penthouse she was certain was her eventual destination. Neva, a tall redhead who’d been a cheerleader as well as president of the Women’s Political Forum in college, was long on ambition and knew how to attain her goals. It didn’t hurt that she had large green eyes, a film-star figure, and was stunningly attractive even without the minimal makeup she wore. Her 147 IQ didn’t hurt her chances, either. Add to that artistic talent and a marketing degree, and here she was, a rising star in one of the biggest advertising agencies in the country.
So she was only temporarily satisfied with this fortieth floor, one-bedroom co-op in the Weldon Tower, one of the most desirable addresses on the Upper East Side. She wouldn’t have been satisfied with it at all except for the Central Park view. In fact, she’d purchased it because she knew she’d have an inside track in the future when one of the penthouse apartments came on the market. She figured that in less than two years she’d be able to afford one. She already had the unit she wanted picked out. It was a spacious three-bedroom, and it had the same view as the smaller, lower unit she’d bought. Sooner or later the present owner, a man who managed a chain of exclusive jewelry stores in New York and Philadelphia, would move. And Neva was prepared to make him an irresistible offer if he wasn’t inclined to move. She’d be able to afford it. Neva planned early and with confidence.
She turned away from the sweeping green rectangular vista below and surveyed her living room, then the view over a serving counter into the modern kitchen. Neva had moved in only six busy weeks ago, but still the place had a comfortable lived-in look. The living room had a sofa and chair, dark blue to contrast with the soft gray carpeting, an asymmetrical mahogany coffee table from Bloomingdale’s, brass lamps with fluted white shades, red throw pillows, and accent pieces that included a large Bingham print mounted on the wall behind the sofa.
Near the table in the entry hall hung an unlettered rendering of the Massmann Container Industry full-page ad, a succession of foam cups, each larger than the other, about to collapse together in the manner of subsequently larger fish following and about to devour each other simultaneously. It didn’t match the rest of the expensive decor, but Neva didn’t mind. The advertising artwork did, after all, represent what was responsible for that decor and the co-op unit itself.
She leaned forward slightly so her forehead rested against the cool glass of the window. This was like a dream, the way her career had unfolded since she’d arrived in New York. Maybe it was true what the gas-bag politicians kept saying, that if you played by the rules, good things could happen. She gazed down at the street that seemed miles below. She was moving higher in the world. She felt herself ascending even as she stood there motionless.
She gave herself a mental jolt of reality. She didn’t need the penthouse. Not quite yet. This was a suitably comfortable and impressive apartment. And a safe one. The first three floors of the Weldon Tower featured elaborate stonework and curlicued iron bars over the windows. Then the building stair-stepped upward in three soaring, offset planes, with gleaming windows set like a pattern of rectangular jewels.
At least they’d seemed that way when Neva had first laid eyes on the building in the bright morning sunlight.
No need for bars on her windows to distract from the view. Here she was high above the rest of the city. Here she was secure.
The Night Spider sat on the park bench in the dusk and studied the Weldon Tower through small but high-powered Leica binoculars. What was the woman doing, standing so close to the window, leaning out as if there were no glass between her and the outside world, as if she might be about to take flight? It appeared that her forehead was actually touching the smooth glass pane. Light from a lamp somewhere behind her shone through her flaming red hair, setting it aglow like the lowering sun.
Moving the binoculars only slightly, the figure on the bench took in the buildings on each side of the Weldon Tower. They were considerably smaller, falling short of the Tower’s height by about ten stories. That was all right. The Night Spider knew that the back of the Weldon, facing the opposite block, was only thirty-five stories, and within reach from the roof of the building behind it. The lower building was snugged up to the Weldon to form a completely enclosed air shaft that was sheer brick wall above the fourth floor.
To reach the Weldon’s roof, the Night Spider would have to scale ten stories of that wall above the air shaft, avoiding windows overlooking the shaft. Ascent before descent and the prize—the confection to be wrapped and consumed from the inside out. He would not let this one lose consciousness except for brief periods; he would patiently, painfully, draw her out through her eyes. Until. . .
He moved the binoculars back to the fortieth-floor window.
The prize was no longer visible.
The Night Spider studied the building a while longer, counting windows horizontally and vertically, occasionally making notes in a small pad on his lap.
“Wacha lookin’ at, Mister?”
A blond boy about ten, in jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, was stooped down and tying his shoe near the bench.
“You should get out of the park,” the Night Spider said. “It’s going to be dark soon. Not a safe place.”
A wide, confident grin. “It’s okay, I’m with my mom.”
Trudging along the path about a hundred feet away was a large, lumpish woman pushing a blue baby stroller. She was moving slowly and looked tired.
“So wacha doin’, spyin’ on people?” There seemed no hostility or disapproval in the boy’s question.
“Peregrine falcons,” said the Night Spider.
“So what’re those?”
“Birds that hunt other birds. They live in angles and on ledges of buildings high up and snatch other birds right out of the air.”
“Sounds neat.”
“It is neat. That’s why I’m a bird watcher. In case your mother asks what the stranger you were talking to was doing. Bird watching. It’s my hobby. I especially like peregrine falcons.”
The boy raised his eyebrows curiously. “So these falcons just fly over an’ grab the other birds, like pigeons or some-thin’ just flyin’ along, an’ then eat them?”
“That’s pretty much it. They do it fast. Things flying along up high aren’t as safe as they think.”
“And you watch it?”
“That’s why I’m here. I watch it and write down what happens.”
The boy started to say something more, but his mother called sharply and he waved a hand and bolted away to join her. His sneakered feet made soft slapping sounds on the paved path.
The Night Spider watched the slight, receding figure for a while, then raised the binoculars back to his eyes.
Found the correct window.
. . . aren’t as safe as they think.
12
“Schnick as in prick,” Bickerstaff said, as they climbed out of the unmarked.
“Try to behave,” Paula told him.
Gary Schnick’s building didn’t have a doorman, but when Paula and Bickerstaff entered the spacious, rather shabby lobby, a fat man in gray overalls watched them with a sideways gaze from where he sat on a sofa. The lobby had a cracked gray-and-white-tile floor, red concrete planters with obviously fake ferns in them next to the scattered furniture, and an odor that suggested insecticide.
Paula and Bickerstaff studied the bank of tarnished brass mailboxes.
“He’s in 106,” Paula said, spotting Schnick’s name above one of the
boxes in the top row. Something white was visible through the slot; Schnick hadn’t picked up his mail today. Above the name slot was an intercom button, but Paula could tell by the many layers of paint over it that it didn’t work.
“Help you?” a smoker’s hoarse voice asked behind them. “I’m the super.”
It was the guy in the overalls, looking much bulkier now that he was standing.
“We’re looking for Gary Schnick,” Bickerstaff said, showing his badge. “So far we found his mailbox.”
The obese super’s complexion turned the drab gray of his uniform. His reaction interested Paula. Bickerstaff, too. They moved closer to the man.
“I can tell you he’s not home,” the super said. Paula noticed he smelled like stale sweat and cigars.
“What else can you tell us?” she asked.
The super’s doughy face widened, and flesh beneath one of his eyes began to tick. His mouth worked for a few seconds but no sound came out. Clearly there was an inner struggle going on here.
“Gary didn’t mention any police,” the super finally said.
“So what did he mention?” Bickerstaff used his quietly menacing voice. Watching all those Clint Eastwood movies paid off.
“Said where he was gonna be,” the super spoke up immediately. “Told me to call him if anybody came around looking for him. Didn’t mention any police, though.”
“Police you got,” Paula said. “What’s your name?”
“Ernie Pollock.”
Bickerstaff made a show of writing it down. “Okay, Ernie, what can you tell us about Schnick?”
Pollock sucked in air, expanding his already immense torso. “Nice guy, is about all. I don’t hardly know him well enough to tell you more’n that. He does some kinda accounting work in his apartment. He offered once to do my taxes. I told him, hell, they ain’t that complicated. My girlfriend Linda does ‘em for me. She says we’d get married, only it’d cost us.”