Night Kills

by John Lutz

  While he was at it, Palmer Stone made it a point to stop thinking of her as Maria Sanchez.

  “Madeline Scott,” he actually muttered under his breath, as he pushed Maria Sanchez from his consciousness.

  Madeline Scott, the first and original, had had E-Bliss.org almost exactly right in her conversation with Jill. The legitimate matchmaking service was a protective shell for an operation that provided something similar to a witness protection program for those who could afford it. Its clients were mostly the wives or lovers of organized crime figures whose own lives and/or considerable fortunes were in danger because of competing mob elements or the law. Occasionally a client was concerned only with disappearing for his or her own sake. These clients, who would eventually take other clients’ identities, were referred to in conversation and in E-Bliss.org files as special clients, to distinguish them from the bulk of legitimate clients, who often did find love, lasting or otherwise.

  The special client would make obvious a move out of the country or into deep cover and instead take the place of another E-Bliss.org client who’d been culled with a computer program and carefully researched. Fees included teaching and coaching the special client to move smoothly into the new identity. The old identity would remain at large, while the basis for the new identity was murdered. The special client, who for safety’s sake had severed all ties with E-Bliss.org, would wait patiently in hiding to assume the life of the victim client. News of the torso (useless in identification) being found was the signal that the switch in identities was complete; it was time to move into the client’s apartment. Usually, as a precaution, the new identity would soon move out of the building, leaving a note and making sure the rent was covered. Officially, no one was missing.

  This was a business model Palmer Stone had worked on for a long time before putting it into practice. It was a business model that worked.

  That’s why the phone call from Maria—Madeline—was particularly irritating.

  It had been a mistake jumping the gun and letting a special client take over an identity before it was actually available. E-Bliss.org had made the exception in Maria Sanchez’s case because she was an especially important, and demanding, client. And there had been a great deal of money involved. Who could have guessed the client to be deleted would somehow escape?

  Well, nothing to be done about it now.

  Stone didn’t exactly forget about the new Madeline’s nervousness, but he put it aside in a separate compartment of his mind. He’d always regarded compartmentalization as one of the most valuable business skills. He had other things to think about right now. Like printouts of the latest client profiles on the corner of his desk, awaiting his attention.

  He stopped drumming his fingers. He’d probably never hear from the new Madeline again.

  That, after all, was the whole idea.

  He smiled and set to work, determined not to worry about what he couldn’t change. He regarded that as another valuable component of his business skill set.

  Victor and Gloria entered Victor’s Sutton Place apartment at three A.M. They both looked tired and their clothes were rumpled.

  As soon as they closed the door, Victor walked to the other side of the tastefully furnished living room and got a bottle of twenty-year-aged scotch from an antique mahogany credenza. He poured about two fingers of the scotch in crystal on-the-rocks glasses, straight up. Gloria had followed him halfway to the credenza. He handed her one of the glasses, and they both raised them in brief and silent toast, then sipped.

  Gloria yawned.

  Victor felt like yawning but didn’t. “Want to sleep over?”

  She shook her head no. “Things to do tomorrow morning.” She looked down at her gray blouse and black skirt. Then she gave Victor a head-to-toe glance. “Not a drop of anything on us.”

  “Because we’re professionals.”

  “Thank the good Lord for plastic,” she said, smiling.

  Earlier that evening they’d disposed of a male E-Bliss.org client. One of the same-sex clients who comprised a minority but growing part of the company’s business.

  Because the client was gay, they hadn’t followed their usual procedure of luring the man into Gloria’s car. Nevertheless, Gloria had been in a position to effect the man’s death, and then drive him to the East Side garage where she and Victor did the dissection.

  Victor’s smile turned nasty, and curious. “I was surprised when we opened the car’s trunk and I saw a broomstick.”

  Gloria shrugged. “We need to stay consistent.”

  “I just couldn’t see you doing it,” Victor said. “And to a man. And of course, you didn’t wait for me.”

  “Since I handled the other preliminaries, I thought I’d handle that one.”

  Victor waited for her to say something more, but she didn’t.

  Instead she tilted back her head and swallowed the rest of her scotch, then began to move idly about, looking at the furniture, the art mounted on the walls.

  This wasn’t the apartment her brother actually lived in. That apartment, the one the clients saw, was owned by E-Bliss.org. and wasn’t nearly so sumptuous—which was why Victor had taken to spending most of his time here, moving in most of his clothes and even his modest library.

  Gloria paused near a bookshelf. Something new had been added to Victor’s collection of nineteenth-century novels and contemporary mystery fiction and biographies. Two glossy hardcovers. She pulled one out and looked at the cover. “‘Vlad the Impaler’?” The other book also appeared to be about the famous fifteenth-century Transylvanian despot who was the inspiration for the book and movie Dracula. Despite myth and movie, there was no proof that he’d actually drunk blood, though, at least not straight from the vein. His twisted pleasure was impaling enemies and sometimes friends on tall stakes. Sometimes by the hundreds or thousands. When one of his minions complained about the stench, the man was himself impaled on a taller than usual stake so he’d be up high where the air was better. Vlad had a sense of humor.

  “Most of your biographies are of statesmen, military or literary giants,” Gloria said.

  Victor sipped his scotch. He was always a slower drinker than Gloria. “Vlad’s not exactly my hero,” Victor said, “but he was an interesting man. The more you learn about him, the more impressed you become.”

  “If you say so.” Gloria returned the book to the shelf.

  “Since we’ve decided to do this, we might as well learn technique. And we should do it together.”

  Gloria stared at him, then walked over and placed her glass on the slate inlay of the credenza. “We’ve had a long night. I’m going home, say my prayers, and go to bed.”

  “I got a call from Palmer Stone,” Victor said. “He told me Maria Sanchez called him.”

  “Called Palmer?” Gloria looked irritated. “What the hell for?”

  Victor recounted the phone conversation as Palmer Stone had told it to him.

  “She should have known better,” Gloria said.

  “I wouldn’t get too worked up yet. She’s probably just nervous. That’s what Palmer told her, and my guess is he’s right.”

  “It didn’t sound as if she thought so. Off-the-wall bitch!”

  “She’ll calm down. We’ll probably never hear from her again. She got what she paid for, so she has no complaint.”

  “She sure won’t have any trouble with Madeline Scott.”

  “Since she is Madeline Scott,” Victor said. He finished his scotch, walked across the room, and placed his empty glass on the credenza next to Gloria’s. He gave her a nervous grin. “This really is something, what we’ve gotten ourselves involved in, sis.”

  “Something extremely profitable.” She waved a languid hand. “Here you are on Sutton Place. La-di-da.”

  “You’re not living so bad yourself.”

  “Let’s do what we must to keep it that way.”

  “Another scotch?”

  Gloria yawned. “No thanks. I’m tired enough alrea
dy.” She moved again toward the door, this time with more resolution.

  “The broomstick, Gloria.”

  She paused with her hand on the knob, posing, he thought. “What about it?”

  “When you inserted it, was he alive?”

  “Go to bed, Victor. Read yourself to sleep.”

  She slid out the door into the plushly carpeted hall that absorbed the sound of her leaving.

  Victor poured another two fingers of scotch into his glass, wondering if he knew Gloria as well as he thought he did.

  Or knew himself.

  29

  “A man,” Quinn said, staring down at the bare torso wedged in with a cluster of black plastic trash bags and cardboard boxes of refuse.

  “Obviously,” Pearl said.

  It was a warm night, and the cloying stench of corruption hung in the still air. It might simply have been from the garbage, but there was more than garbage before them.

  They watched the CSU techs working around the torso inside a taped-off area alongside a pizza joint on the Lower West Side. The partial corpse had been discovered earlier that evening when one of the cooks carried out some garbage from the kitchen. A nearby neon sign advertising the best pizza in New York cast a greenish glare over the scene, making the torso seem more like a stage prop than what was left of a real human being.

  “Our guy swings both ways,” Fedderman said, pointing with a long finger protruding from his oversized sleeve. “Notice the broomstick?”

  “Hard not to notice,” Quinn said. “There’s also a lot of blood on the stick. Not like the others.”

  Pearl understood at once what he meant. “Sweet Jesus! He was alive when it went in.”

  “Looks that way.”

  Fedderman moved in to take a closer look. “Not much doubt about it. And it wasn’t gentle.” He straightened up and moved away, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. “I hope to hell we don’t have a copycat.”

  “Hard to imagine,” Pearl said.

  “This whole goddamned thing is hard to imagine.”

  “Whole world,” Pearl said.

  Quinn looked at her. Philosophizing at crime scenes wasn’t like Pearl. The Milton Kahn effect, maybe.

  “It makes my hypothesis more likely,” she said. “About a compulsive, psychosexual serial killer not being what we’ve been chasing. That could all be a diversion.”

  “Profiler says no,” Fedderman said.

  “He’s got her fooled,” Pearl said.

  “More likely a copycat,” Fedderman said.

  Quinn shot a glance at the ghastly green torso. At the two neatly placed small-caliber bullet holes in the chest, among hairs that were just beginning to gray. The victim might have been around fifty, but it would take the medical examiner to know for sure. Almost certainly the bullets were still in him. “We’ll know about the copycat theory as soon as we get postmortem and the ballistics test results on the bullets.”

  Motion caught his eye and he looked toward the front of the building, where more cars were arriving. Not all of them were NYPD. The media had caught the scent and were on the scene. Quinn knew more were on the way.

  “Wolves,” Pearl said.

  “Useful ones sometimes, though,” Quinn said.

  “That’ll be a tough sell with me.”

  “I’m going back to the office,” Quinn said. His Lincoln was parked out front, half a block down so it might not attract media attention. There were more black Lincoln Town Cars in New York than any vehicle other than cabs, but the media knew his car’s license number, so he had to be careful. “You and Feds talk to the people in the restaurant, especially the guy who found the body, then drive the unmarked back to the office. Meanwhile, I’ll be in touch with Renz and find out as soon as possible what comes out of the morgue and lab.”

  As Quinn was walking toward the street, he saw Nift approaching confidently from the opposite direction. He was wearing a well-cut black suit and lugging his black medical case, bouncing jauntily, as he always did, with each step.

  He smiled when he saw Quinn. “Leaving so soon?”

  “Miles to go before I sleep,” Quinn said.

  “Poetry, no less. And I thought you were the victim, you being so green and all.”

  “He’s back there waiting for you,” Quinn said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the torso.

  Nift raised his eyebrows in surprise. “He?”

  “I know it’s a disappointment for you, but this time the victim’s a man.”

  “The Torso Killer offed a man? What’s that mean?”

  “Means he’s dead,” Quinn said and walked on.

  As soon as he turned the building’s corner and started for his car, he heard shoe leather scuffing on concrete, a voice: “Captain Quinn, can we have a statement?”

  “Sorry,” Quinn said, “but no comment.”

  “But you will say we can assume this is another Torso Murder?” another voice, a woman’s, asked.

  “Assume away.”

  More shoe leather noise, even though Quinn was walking faster. He sensed numbers behind him, but he didn’t want to turn around and count. It sounded as if they were about to close in on him. He could imagine the headline: MOBBED BY THE MEDIA. The Lincoln was still a hundred feet away.

  “Anything different about this one?” the same woman asked.

  Quinn put on some speed. “You might ask the M.E., Dr. Nift. He’s back there now with him.”

  Several voices in unison: “Him?”

  At first Quinn thought they were talking about Nift. Then he realized otherwise.

  Shit! Quinn regretted his slip immediately. Not that it mattered; they’d learn it soon enough. Still, he didn’t like goofing up that way. A victim of another sex was just the sort of information the police should have kept away from the press. Something cops could know and all those nutcases making false confessions wouldn’t imagine.

  Too late now.

  “Is this victim a man?” several voices asked, almost in unison.

  “Captain Quinn?” The woman’s voice. Grating and insistent. “Is this victim—”

  “I think that’s what Dr. Nift said,” Quinn told them, as he finally reached the car and pressed the fob to unlock the doors. “Dr. Nift knows more than anybody about this one.” He got the door open and managed to ease his way inside the car as the media wolves crowded around him. “He’s the little guy poking around the body who looks like Napoleon dressed like a banker.”

  Quinn removed some fingers wrapped around the edge of the door and got it closed, then hit the universal lock button, started the car, and got out of there.

  In the rearview mirror he saw at least half a dozen shadowy figures hurrying back toward where the ghastly green torso lay, toward Nift and his black bag of tricks.

  Quinn, sitting at his desk in the office, looked up when the door opened and Pearl and Fedderman came in. They looked tired. They should—it was almost midnight. It must have been a late night for some of the pizza people, too.

  Pearl went over and slumped in her desk chair. Fedderman trudged to a brass hook on the wall and hung up his wrinkled suit coat, then rolled his chair out toward the middle of the room and sat down wearily.

  “Anything?” Quinn asked, knowing the answer.

  “Nothing,” Pearl said. “Nobody saw, heard, or smelled a thing other than pizza. The guy who discovered the torso, kid named Enrico, was still shook up, but his story’s simple enough. The head cook sent him out with the garbage to add to the pile of sealed plastic bags, and there was the victim. Kid thought it was a fake at first, some kind of prop. Then it dawned on him what he was looking at and he went back into the kitchen shaking and told the head cook. The head cook came out and verified his story, then went back into the kitchen and called the police.”

  “We talked to people in the neighboring buildings, too,” Fedderman said. “Same no story there.”

  “Our guy’s nothing if not careful,” Quinn said.

  “According to the
pizza employees,” Pearl said, “no one had gone out the restaurant’s back door since about eleven this morning. The torso could have been there quite a while. It was half buried in all the trash, so the eleven o’clock employee might not have noticed it. Busy as the street is, our guess is that it was put there the night before, when hardly anybody was around. It’s a block of businesses, so it’s a good place to ditch a body after dark.”

  “Like the other places where we’ve found the torsos,” Quinn said.

  “Our guy,” Pearl said.

  Fedderman ignored her. It was clear they’d reached the point where they were getting on each other’s nerves. Quinn understood.

  “What’s next, boss?” Fedderman asked. “More coffee, or bed?”

  “Information, then bed,” Quinn said. “Ballistics did a rush job, and the bullets in and near the heart were twenty-twos, fired by the same gun that killed the other victims.”

  “There goes the copycat theory,” Pearl said.

  Fedderman made an obviously Herculean effort not to reply to her taunt.

  “We’ll know more about the postmortem tomorrow,” Quinn said. “Something different about the broomstick stake, though. The others were cedar; this one’s made of poplar. And the cuts that sharpened it are more visible and were made by shorter, shallower strokes, and from a sharper blade. And it wasn’t sanded as fine. Also, no traces of furniture oil.”

  “Ouch!” Fedderman said.

  “Believe it,” Quinn told him. “Nift did confirm the broomstick was inserted via the rectum when the victim was alive.”

  “After he was shot, though?” Fedderman asked.

  “Nift couldn’t be sure. The bullets might not have killed him right away. Nift said he might have lived another few minutes.”

  “Hard minutes,” Fedderman said.

  “All that blood,” Pearl said. “Any prints on the broomstick?”

  “Of course not,” Quinn said. “And what you were looking at wasn’t all blood.”

  “I guess not,” Pearl said, remembering the foul odor in the vicinity of the torso.

  Everyone sat silently for a long while. Quinn wondered what the other two were thinking. He wasn’t even sure what he thought about this departure, undoubtedly made by the same killer they’d been stalking. There were variations, sure, most notably the gender of the victim, but they were still looking at the same gun, same grisly M.O., same killer. Had to be.