Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  “Speaking of which, Agent Alcott, how long do you plan on keeping me here? And my fellow captive, Agent Barnes?”

  He stirred. “As long as it takes, Ms. Cobb. Unless you think that’s a bad idea…”

  She shivered involuntarily, and I could see the naked fear she was containing under her placid demeanor.

  “No, not at all. Just curious. Being shot at is enough to make a believer out of me.”

  “Don’t worry.” Alcott grinned. “We’ll get the bastard. Catching bad guys is kind of a hobby of mine.”

  “Really?” She considered this. “Mine are needlepoint and Tantric sex.”

  I enjoyed watching the startled look on Alcott’s face. And realized how much I was growing to like Claire Cobb.

  “One last question.” Claire turned her head, sweeping the room with her glance. “Where are the two detectives who brought me here from the airport?”

  “Detectives?” I looked over at Alcott. “I thought your people brought Ms. Cobb in.”

  “They put her on the plane in Cleveland. Pittsburgh PD assigned two dicks to pick her up. Bring her in.”

  “Was I that dreadful a passenger?” Claire said wryly. “Did I offend them in some way?”

  His smile was indulgent.

  “No, ma’am. They’re probably working the Loftus killing. Part of an investigation the bureau’s running jointly with the Pittsburgh police.”

  Suddenly, Alcott’s cell phone rang in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out, squinted at the display.

  “Excuse me.” He took the call, listened a moment. “Yes. Okay, send them up.”

  He clicked off and favored Claire with another easy smile. “Speak of the devil. They’re on the way up. Looks like we caught a break.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In response to the brisk knock at the door, Alcott strode across the room and answered it.

  I stood up when, to my pleasant surprise, Sergeant Harry Polk and Detective Eleanor Lowrey entered. I felt the smile spread on my face as I approached them.

  Polk’s reaction, I must admit, was slightly less enthusiastic.

  “Jesus Fucking Christ.” His florid face turned three shades darker. “How’d I know you’d be up to your ass in this mess?”

  “Maybe you’re psychic, Harry.”

  “Or else goddam unlucky.” He gave a gale-like sigh. “Anybody take a shot at you yet, Rinaldi?”

  “Nope. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Yeah, well, a guy can dream.”

  Though I hadn’t seen Harry Polk since last summer, we’d known each other since my involvement in the Wingfield investigation a few years back. Never a fan of my work with the department, he’d grudgingly acknowledged on more than one occasion that he didn’t completely hate my guts. Disliked them, maybe. Found them irritating, absolutely.

  The fact is, though he’d learned to tolerate me, as far as Polk was concerned I’d always be an acquired taste.

  Luckily, Eleanor Lowrey felt differently

  “I’m happy to see you, Danny.”

  She gave Polk a not-so-gentle nudge as she came over to me. As a black woman, and the junior detective in their partnership, she’d learned over the years how to handle Polk. From what I’d gleaned, it was the combination of her wry humor, steely competence, and steadfast loyalty that had earned his grudging respect. Plus, deep down, they actually liked each other.

  “Glad to see you, too, Detective.”

  Though we’d shared drinks—and one powerfully intense kiss—in the recent past, under the circumstances it made sense that she’d merely taken my hand. Colleagues greeting each other at the start of a case.

  “Looks like you and Harry caught a real red-ball here,” I said. “Multiple murders.”

  “Be still my heart.”

  Only then did she allow a warmth to enter her violet eyes. As she slipped her hand from mine.

  Eleanor Lowrey did, admittedly, fit the description Dave Parnelli had rhapsodized about at Noah’s bar. Tall, with striking good looks, she had the strong, sculpted body of an athlete. Her rich blue-black hair, swept back from her face and up, contrasted with the burnt red gloss on her lips and fingernails.

  Just as her scoop-necked fitted sweater and jeans, half hidden beneath her tan overcoat, contrasted with the fashion-challenged Harry Polk. Wearing his usual wrinkled blue suit, he’d already removed his Army surplus overcoat and tossed it over a chair.

  By this point, Claire Cobb had herself risen from the couch and come over to greet them.

  “Hello again, Detectives.” The typical criminal attorney’s collegial, though unmistakably superior, tone of voice.

  “Counselor.” Polk’s reply was more grunt than speech.

  “I understand from Agent Alcott that you’ve caught a break. On the Loftus shooting, I assume?”

  Eleanor spoke. “No, Ms. Cobb. On yours.”

  She turned to Alcott. “We got word from Cleveland PD. An hour ago, Ohio Highway Patrol found the shooter’s van. The one Ms. Cobb described. It was left in a ditch off the interstate, about twenty miles from the city. No plates, but the VIN number confirmed it as stolen. The owner had reported the theft earlier today.”

  “Not much of a break,” Alcott said stiffly.

  “Depends on how ya look at it.”

  It was Polk, collapsing onto a cushioned wingback chair with a weary sigh. As if breaking some kind of spell, this allowed the rest of us to find seats as well.

  “We’re just startin’ to put things together,” he went on, pulling a dog-eared notebook from his jacket pocket. “Steubenville PD emailed everything they have on the Cranshaw shooting, and we’ve had uniforms canvassing the Oakland area where the judge got whacked this morning. Biegler and the Assistant Chief want to meet tomorrow at nine a.m., to lay everything out. See where we are.”

  “Christ.” Alcott shook his head. “Biegler.”

  I knew Lieutenant Stu Biegler as well, and pretty much shared Alcott’s low opinion. Biegler was Polk’s and Lowrey’s boss at robbery/homicide, a high-handed stickler for procedure who spent most of his career making sure his ass was covered. Not that it mattered, but he was even less a fan of mine than Harry Polk.

  Eleanor said, “I’ll collate the data from the three participating departments, so we’ll have what we need for the meeting.”

  Her eyes caught Alcott’s. “Truth is, from what I’ve seen already, there might be more to work with than you’d think. Apparently, somebody saw the guy who shot Earl Cranshaw leave the scene in a Chevy sedan. Which was later found abandoned in a parking lot nearby.”

  “Had it been reported stolen, too?” Claire asked.

  Eleanor nodded. “Yes. Again, plates gone, but traced through the VIN number.”

  “What about the judge?” Alcott said. “Anybody see the shooter? His car?”

  “There we don’t got shit,” Polk replied. “So far. But we just started workin’ the case. It’s too soon to cry in our beer about it.”

  “The thing is,” Eleanor said, “even with what little we know, we can build a map of the killer’s movements. From Steubenville, where he shot Earl Cranshaw, to here in town to kill the judge, then back to Ohio—Cleveland, this time—for the attempt on Ms. Cobb. Apparently using a different stolen vehicle for each hit.”

  “Assuming he kept to the pattern when it comes to Judge Loftus,” I said.

  “Big assumption,” Polk said. “Especially since our canvas hasn’t turned up a single witness to the judge’s murder. The killer coulda been drivin’ the fuckin’ Batmobile, for all we know. But it was so early in the morning, there weren’t any other people in the hotel lot.”

  Alcott scratched his nose thoughtfully.

  “Ohio, then western Pennsylvania, then back to Ohio. Not the most efficient route to take.”

  “Maybe he’s not in
terested in efficiency,” I offered. “Maybe he’s crossing his victims off the list in a specific order. For some specific reason.”

  “Which presents another problem,” Eleanor said. “Since we don’t know for sure who’s on the list…I mean, the number of people…how will we know when he’s done?”

  “Well,” Claire Cobb said quietly. “One thing for sure. He won’t be completely done until he tries again to kill me. And succeeds.”

  “Let’s hope we nail him before he gets the chance.”

  “Yeah.” Polk growled, climbing slowly to his feet. “Which we can’t do if we’re just sittin’ around here.”

  As Eleanor and I rose as well, Polk tilted his head in the direction of the master bedroom.

  “Who’s watchin’ the tube in there?”

  “Special Agent Lyle Barnes,” Alcott said. “Retired,” he added meaningfully. “Since he worked the Jessup case for the Bureau, we figure he’s probably on the killer’s hitlist. So we’re babysitting him, too.”

  “Well, he must be goin’ deaf. Got the goddam TV up loud enough.”

  For some reason, Polk’s words sent off an alarm bell in the back of my mind. Inexplicable, yet there it was.

  Agent Alcott must have felt something similar, for his brow suddenly tightened, and then he was heading for the door to the bedroom. I followed him.

  He turned the handle. It was locked from the inside.

  Shit, I thought. Another locked door. With my shoulder still aching from breaking down the one at the motel in Braddock. At least, this time we had more manpower on hand for the job.

  By now, Polk, Lowrey, and Claire Cobb had joined us at the door. We could hear the throbbing music of some inane TV commercial coming from inside the room.

  Alcott impotently rattled the door handle.

  “You’re kiddin’ me,” Polk said angrily, unholstering his service weapon. “Everybody stay the fuck back.”

  Everybody did.

  Polk cut Alcott a wry look. “Just make sure the Marriott sends you the goddam bill.”

  Then he fired, once, at the handle. Like a cannon going off. A spray of metal shards, smoke.

  The door, dotted with gunpowder residue, swayed open.

  We all ran in, Alcott and myself in the lead.

  The volume from the flat-screen was deafening. The bed was still made, though I could see the imprint on the covers where Barnes had sat. Next to it lay the TV remote. Eleanor scooped it up and hit the mute button.

  Meanwhile, Alcott, Polk, and I entered the large, strangely cold master bathroom. Frigidly cold.

  Empty, too. Except for a spray of glass fragments on the gleaming tile floor. From the bathroom window, whose jagged, gaping hole was the source of the freezing air.

  The broken window was small, but not so small a determined, agile man couldn’t get through it.

  A man like Lyle Barnes.

  Polk went to the window, carefully leaned out. Looking up at the black, cold sky. Up and to his left.

  “Son-of-a-bitch.” Shaking off the chill of night, he poked his head back in. “Service ladder bolted to the wall. Goes all the way up to the roof.”

  Alcott and I exchanged stunned looks.

  The FBI profiler was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alcott instantly clutched Polk’s arm. “Get up that ladder after him! He could still be on the roof!”

  “You shittin’ me? We’re thirty stories up!”

  The two men glared at each other.

  “Listen, Sergeant…”

  I spoke sharply. “No, Alcott, you listen!”

  He turned, obviously stunned at my tone.

  “For one thing, none of us are thin enough to get through that window. Besides, if there’s no way off the roof, Barnes isn’t going anywhere. Not without a parachute. So there’s no rush.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish. Odds are, there’s a way down from the roof, and Barnes is already using it. Emergency stairs. Service elevator. Some damned thing.”

  Polk nodded vigorously. “Which means we’re wastin’ time standin’ around here.”

  Without another word, Harry bolted out of the room, Alcott and me right on his heels. By the time we’d returned to the suite’s front room, the agent was barking orders into his two-way, while Polk explained to Eleanor and Claire what was going on.

  “Bet I can make it through that window.” Eleanor quickly peeled off her overcoat.

  “Bad idea.” I turned to Polk. “Harry, don’t let—”

  But she’d already headed for the bedroom, her partner keeping pace with her, muttering his disapproval. Trying to pull rank, without much success.

  Alcott turned and pointed a stern finger at Claire.

  “I’ve got people stationed right outside in the hall. So just stay here, okay?”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  As Alcott strode toward the suite’s door, I followed.

  “I’m going with you, Alcott. I can talk to Barnes.”

  He almost laughed. “Yeah, I can see what a great job you’ve done so far.”

  We went out to the hallway, where Agents Green and Zarnicki lounged against the far wall.

  “Green,” Alcott said, “take the elevator down to the lobby and keep your eyes peeled for Agent Barnes. The son-of-a-bitch gave us the slip. Zarnicki, stay put.”

  Zarnicki dutifully drew himself up to his full height, the picture of protective zeal, while Green repeatedly pushed the elevator button.

  I indicated the door at the other end of the hall.

  “Service door, Alcott. The stairs.”

  I ran down the carpeted hall and pushed open the door, onto a landing with stairs going in both directions. Alcott came to stand behind me.

  Above us, the stairs led to a metal door marked “Roof Access.” Below us, they angled down into pockets of darkness interlaced with pale halos of light.

  Alcott merely grunted. “Let’s go.”

  With the agent in the lead, we hurried down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Until Alcott stopped so abruptly, I nearly ran into him.

  “Listen!” he whispered.

  Now I heard it, too. Footsteps, echoing dully on the concrete steps. The sound dopplering up from below.

  “Gotta be him.”

  We quickened our pace down the stairs, landing after landing, floor after floor. But always with those other footsteps ahead of us, descending faster and faster.

  Finally, Alcott and I arrived at ground level, just in time to see the door to the lobby sighing closed.

  We pushed it open again and found ourselves facing a lobby full of people. Some lined up at reception, others clustered in small groups, or chatting on their cells. Still others following bellmen pulling luggage carts toward the main elevators.

  Suddenly, I spotted a couple of tourist types, looking angrily behind them. As though someone had brusquely pushed his way past.

  “C’mon!” I tapped Alcott’s shoulder and took off, not bothering to wait for his response.

  The tourist couple had just recovered their composure when I awkwardly side-stepped them, drawing another pair of angry stares. Up ahead, I saw a set of double doors marked “Employees Only.”

  I was about to shoulder my way through when Agent Green appeared at my side. Having probably seen the same thing I had when he’d exited the elevator.

  By now, Alcott had caught up, and all three of us barreled through the double doors. This led to a service corridor, lined with wheeled tables, boxes of supplies, stacks of serving trays. An employee time clock hung from the wall just inside the doors.

  Running now, we reached the end of the corridor, which led to another service door. I shoved it open, and suddenly we found ourselves in the hotel’s kitchen. Dozens of workers in aprons an
d chef’s hats. Room service personnel in smart-looking vests. All in a frenzy of activity, appliances buzzing and pinging, dishes clattering.

  Adding to the din was the cascade of shocked, outraged voices as Lyle Barnes, visible between racks of plates and rows of ovens, zig-zagged his way across the room.

  “There he is!” It was Agent Green, shouting and pointing, and then racing ahead of Alcott and me.

  “Agent Barnes!” Alcott cried. “Stop! That’s an order!”

  Yeah, I thought. Like that’s gonna happen.

  Meanwhile, Agent Green, pushing aside the startled kitchen staff, knocking over a stack of trays, had closed the distance between himself and Barnes.

  Suddenly, the older agent whirled, some kind of big cooking pot in hand, and threw it at Green. The younger man ducked, using his forearm to bat aside the pot. But when he stood again, Barnes had vanished. Through another door.

  Alcott and I caught up with Green, then I jostled past them and pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.

  The two other men joined me. At a nod from Alcott, we all put our shoulders to the door. Pushed as hard as we could. It gave some, but not enough.

  Green rubbed his arm. “He’s blocked it somehow.”

  “No shit,” Alcott growled.

  It took roughly three minutes to retrace our steps back to the lobby, and then through the hotel’s entrance doors out to the street. Due to the icy cold and lateness of the hour, there were few pedestrians, and only a sparse parade of cars, trucks, and taxis. But no Barnes.

  “Goddammit!” Alcott swiveled his head back and forth, fists at his hips. Breathing hard.

  “Looks like we lost him,” Green said, demonstrating once more his ability to state the obvious.

  ***

  A short time later, we were all assembled back in the hotel suite, Eleanor’s sweater still snow-damp from her brief survey of the roof. Polk stood grimly beside her.

  “Well?” Neal Alcott’s voice had lost a great deal of its officious command.

  “I made it up to the roof and saw Agent Barnes’ footprints,” said Eleanor. “Luckily, the snow’s untouched up there, like a carpet. Only one set of tracks.”