Night Kills

by John Lutz

  “Quite a link, I’d say.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Renz isn’t aware of any of this?”

  “He knows about the homicide victim. Not about the broomstick.” Linda reached over for her warm can of Diet Pepsi. It was leaving a damp ring on a magazine lying on the table on her side of the bed. She took a long swig, made a face, and put the can back down. “More importantly, he doesn’t know what they found out yesterday, that the broomstick’s the same kind used in most of the Torso Murders. Nift is keeping it from his media mistress, too, but he’ll have to tell her soon or she’ll know he stalled on it. He wouldn’t want to get Cindy Sellers pissed off at him.”

  “For damned sure.” Quinn found himself again longing for a cigar. Here, in his own bedroom, smoking one wasn’t even remotely possible. Women and cigars. “No bullet wounds in this one?”

  “None,” Linda said. “And she’s still got her head and all her limbs. There’s a positive ID, too. Ruth Margaret Malpass, address on the East Side. It didn’t take long for her to be missed. She was a costume designer working on an off-Broadway play, Major Mary, scheduled to open in the fall. Two assistants from work went by to check on her when she didn’t come in to her studio. Not like her, they said. They got the building super and her neighbors in on the hunt. When they and no one else were able to locate her, they called the police. It was too early for her to be officially missing, but her description matched the woman found in the landfill. She was positively identified almost immediately through her fingerprints. She’d been in the army, and they were on file through her military records.”

  “So the sharpened broomstick is the only connection,” Quinn said.

  “It was inserted anally, like in the latest Torso Murders.”

  “Something else similar.” Quinn said.

  “And it was inserted when she was alive,” Linda said. “Continuing on the killer’s new variation on his M.O.”

  “God help us.” Quinn said.

  “He didn’t help Ruth Malpass,” Linda said. “I hope He doesn’t help Nobbler and Nift.”

  “Nobbler’s counting on all the dissimilarities to keep him out of trouble, but you’re right, he can’t play dumb much longer.”

  “He’s got a defense,” Linda said. “There are no prints on the broomstick, the victim is whole and easily identifiable, and she lived quite a while in New York, even went to art school here, and seems to have had plenty of acquaintances and connections. Something else. I used my home computer to check out E-Bliss’s database. They don’t have a Ruth Malpass as a client.”

  “How’d you get to their client list?” Quinn asked.

  “Easy,” Linda said. “I joined it.”

  Quinn didn’t wait until morning. It was eleven-fifteen. Renz might still be awake. If he wasn’t, Quinn would take care of that.

  He phoned from where he was, in bed next to Linda. Though he was seething inside, he might as well be physically comfortable.

  Renz picked up on the second ring, sounding angry.

  Quinn began relating what Linda had just told him, but Renz interrupted.

  “I already know,” he said. “It’s breaking news, all over TV, all over the damned country, but not in my office.”

  “Nobbler must have gotten nervous and released it.”

  “Or Cindy Sellers learned it somehow. I’ll bet City Beat already has a special edition all over town.”

  “Was it on TV news about the broomstick stake?”

  “Second from the lead. First thing I saw was one of Tom Coulter’s old mug shots, then a news anchor holding up a sawed-off broomstick explaining what happened to the poor Malpass woman. The news sees a tie-in because Coulter killed his victims in New Jersey. They think he might have come home.”

  “Maybe he did,” Quinn said. “This could be a copycat killing.”

  “That’s what Nobbler’s going to say, a copycat job.”

  “It’s possible, considering what wasn’t done to the victim.”

  “Don’t even go there,” Renz said. “I don’t want to think we might be responsible for Coulter figuring he was going down for the Torso Murders anyway and joining the party.”

  “I doubt it was Coulter,” Quinn said. “He’s basically a professional burglar that killed in a panic.”

  “Once they get a taste…”

  “Yeah, sometimes. But I still don’t like Coulter for it. The media’s on him because we gave him to them. If we hadn’t, they wouldn’t even be mentioning his name.”

  “That’s true,” Renz said, after a pause. “Meat to the wolves. Tell me something else reassuring, Quinn. Like what we do next.”

  “You have a press conference as soon as possible,” Quinn said. “Emphasize the differences between the Malpass murder and the Torso Murders. Hint that we have good reason to believe Malpass wasn’t murdered by the same person, that we know something the public and the killer don’t know. Say we have no reason to believe there’s any connection.”

  “Play dumber than Nobbler?”

  “Dumber faster. You can do it. I know you can.”

  “Hmm.”

  “It takes a fox to play a rabbit,” Quinn said.

  “Have I told you lately that I like your style?”

  “It’s why you hired me.”

  When Quinn clicked off his cell phone and laid it back on the nightstand, Linda sat up straighter in bed, drawing up her knees and hugging them. She’d been listening to Quinn’s end of the conversation.

  “Do you think it’s possible this one is Coulter’s?” she asked.

  “No. The balls to commit burglary and the balls to commit murder are two different things.”

  “Four,” she said.

  Quinn did half a sit-up and kissed one of her knees, then settled back down.

  “Do you think Ruth Malpass’s death is connected to E-Bliss?” she asked.

  “I don’t think there’s a chance in hell it isn’t the same killer,” he said.

  Linda frowned, puzzled. “If Malpass wasn’t an E-Bliss client, why would the Torso Killer murder her? I don’t see anything to gain. She was outside the circle. Where’s the motive?”

  “Think about it.”

  Linda did, for about five seconds.

  “My God!” she said.

  “It started out strictly business,” Quinn said. “Now he enjoys it.”

  47

  Palmer Stone had the morning Post lying open on his desk. He’d invited Gloria to read it, but she told him she already had.

  Stone had called her in for a morning confab. Gloria, alone, not with Victor. So here she was, wearing a white tunic, black slacks, and black boots, with her red silk scarf knotted loosely at her neck.

  Stone was in his big swivel chair behind his desk, his head not moving as he stared at Gloria, but his body inching this way and that in the chair. Nervous.

  “If you already read the paper,” he said in his usual modulated voice, “you know this dead woman they found in New Jersey was impaled with a sharpened broomstick.”

  “Kinda shit happens,” Gloria said.

  “I don’t like it happening right in our backyard. It makes me wonder.”

  “The cops’ll probably wrap it up soon. The guy they suspect’s photo’s right there on the front page.” Gloria motioned with her head toward the newspaper on the desk. “They even have his name. Tom whatever.”

  “Tom Coulter. He’s a house burglar who had a job go bad and killed some people.”

  “In New Jersey. Where this woman’s body was found.”

  “Awful close to New York.”

  Gloria tilted her head and stared at Stone with an expression of disbelief.

  “Jesus, Palmer! This New Jersey thing has nothing to do with us. They didn’t find just her torso. And they identified her immediately. If the press is tying it in with the Torso Murders, they’re wrong.”

  “I’d like to agree with you, but I’m having a tough time.” Stone puffed up his cheeks, blew out some
air. “The three of us have worked together for a lot of years.”

  “So let’s stop gassing to each other about what we both already know. I’d ask what’s bothering you, Palmer, because you’re obviously bothered, but I can guess what it is. I know why you wanted to see me this morning.”

  “Don’t bother to guess,” Stone said. “I’ve got an inkling of a suspicion your brother killed this woman.”

  “Victor? Don’t believe it, Palmer.”

  “I didn’t say I believed it.”

  “But you’re tilting in that direction.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? He’s been acting strange lately, and the way the woman—Ruth somebody—died, it sure put me in mind of Victor.”

  “Was Ruth a client, Palmer?”

  “You know she wasn’t.”

  “Then what would be Victor’s motivation? Why would he do one off the books?”

  “I can’t answer that for sure, Gloria. But speaking of books, I’ve been to Victor’s apartment and seen his. I noticed some new additions. Brand-new-looking books on Vlad the Impaler. You know who he was?”

  “Of course. I’m not ignorant, Palmer. He lived during the Middle Ages, I think. Bad guy. Terrorized his enemies by impaling people and hoisting them up on poles driven into the ground. Weird guy. Sick.”

  “Your brother seems awfully interested in him.”

  “Victor’s always been into history and biography. What’s that got to do with motive?”

  “I’m wondering,” Stone said, “if maybe Victor’s come to enjoy that aspect of his work so much that he’s moonlighting—not for pay, just for pleasure.”

  “You’re suggesting my brother’s some kind of sick sadist.” Gloria fixed her onyx eyes on him. He couldn’t look away. “Listen to me close, Palmer. Victor didn’t kill that woman.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Tom Coulter.”

  “I kind of doubt it.”

  “Then maybe it was someone who’s read about the Torso Murders or followed them on TV. Some guy who leaned toward sadism to begin with and decided to get in on the act. Only for him, there was no reason to sever the head and limbs. He didn’t care if the body was identified.”

  “He didn’t expect the body to be found,” Stone pointed out.

  Gloria didn’t change expression. It was true that she and Victor hadn’t expected the body to be found. Acres and acres of trash, every kind of refuse, and Ruth Malpass had been five feet down in it, waiting to be shoved into a vast pit of trash. It was a fluke that she was found.

  Gloria crossed her arms and spread her feet wide, becoming angry, and glared at Stone. “If you really suspect Victor of killing this woman, I can put your mind at ease. During the time the police say she was killed, he was with me. We were in his apartment. We take turns preparing each other a gourmet dinner once a week. Last time, it was Victor’s turn. We were enjoying lobster lasagna and a good wine when that woman was killed.”

  “Victor never left your sight?”

  “Not for more than five minutes, if that long. And I stayed until almost midnight.”

  “Why so late?”

  “We got to talking about business and lost track of time. I know it was close to midnight because I looked at my watch and told him how late it was.”

  Stone sighed, making Gloria wonder if he might be feigning relief. You could never tell for sure with Palmer. The discovery of Ruth’s body had complicated things.

  “Do me a favor,” Stone said. “Even if you don’t take what I’m saying seriously, keep an eye on your brother. We don’t really know people, even the ones closest to us.”

  “I know Victor,” Gloria said. “He’s like me. We’re businesspeople first and foremost. As you are, Palmer. We’re not sadists or devil worshipers. We pray to profit and to the good Lord.”

  “In that order?”

  She flashed a crooked grin. “’Fraid so.”

  “People can change, even the best people. I don’t want Victor doing anything dangerous, either for him or for the company.”

  “He isn’t, I’m sure.”

  “Still, will you watch him? If there are any changes, you might be the first to notice.”

  Gloria uncrossed her arms and loosened her stance. She was no longer intractable. Her expression suggested that, however unlikely, Stone might have a point. She had to concede him that. “I’ll watch him, Palmer. If he starts behaving strangely, I’ll let you know.”

  Stone stood up behind his desk wearing the smile she knew so well, the inclusive, reassuring one that lulled the marks.

  “I’m counting on you, Gloria.”

  “You’ve always been able to do that, Palmer. Nothing’s changed.”

  As she left the office she was smiling, too. Her smile was nothing like Palmer Stone’s.

  She was thinking about Ruth Malpass.

  48

  Tom Coulter sat straight up in bed.

  Even though it was three a.m. he’d been sleeping lightly in his room at the Tumble Onn Inn Motel. Maybe he’d been dreaming, or maybe he’d been waking up and his imagination had gone on a romp. Either way, he was scared. He made an effort to control his breathing. He’d been waking up like this lately, feeling all tight inside, out of breath.

  He tried his version of mental discipline to ease his tension, getting tough with himself.

  What the hell are you afraid of, you big pussy, except every cop in the country wants to kill you?

  Didn’t work.

  He fell back on the bed, his eyes wide open.

  The Tumble Onn Inn was just outside of Burback, Louisiana. It was where Coulter’s flight from the law had left him, this ramshackle clapboard building constructed in a U around a swimming pool full of algae. The outside walls had once been white but were now a dull gray mottled with mold. There were rust-colored vertical stains where the gutters leaked.

  At least it wasn’t the kind of place where the staff was curious about the guests. The old guy at the desk wore rimless glasses held together by black electricians’ tape and looked as if he’d been hired especially for the motel to give it local color. He hadn’t raised an eyebrow when Coulter paid cash. He was used to guests who didn’t qualify for credit cards. Coulter didn’t worry much about him.

  On the other hand, the old bastard probably watched TV, and Coulter’s name and image were all over the damned news channels. They kept using the photo he hated, the one with his hair all messed up and with his bad teeth showing. Damned thing made him look ignorant. Made him look like a criminal.

  The rattling old air conditioner had stopped working since Coulter had gone to bed and fallen into an uneasy sleep hastened by cheap vodka. Either that or the power was off again. It was close and hot in the cruddy little room. There was no sound except for the insects buzzing outside in the darkness.

  Coulter was breathing okay now. He tried to relax, even though he was sure something had awoken him. He told himself it might have been anything. A cat, or maybe even some kind of wild animal, making a noise. A possum. There had to be plenty of them around. There seemed to be a dead one every two or three miles of road.

  He was wearing only his jockey shorts, trying to keep as cool as possible, but his body was coated with oily perspiration. Too close to the damned swamp. Something soft, probably a moth, brushed his forehead, and he swiped at it with his right hand, not really expecting to make contact.

  This wasn’t how he’d foreseen things. His notoriety had overwhelmed him. Not that he didn’t still enjoy being a genuine celebrity. But no matter where he went he could be sure people had heard or read about him and probably seen his photo. It was always a worry. That kind of thing could be damned wearying if the law was itching to hang a string of murder raps around your neck. The irony was, he’d never set out to kill anyone. He wasn’t that sort of guy. This had all been done to him, a series of bad breaks, most of them brought on by mistakes made by other people. All he’d done was react to a shitload of bad luck. Another example of how unf
air life was to him.

  Nothing had changed from the time he’d jolted awake and sat up on the sagging mattress. No sound. No movement of light or shadow. No stirring of air. Beads of sweat continued to form and trickle down his bare neck and arms.

  He made himself relax and let the weariness close in on him again.

  Everything’s gonna be okay, at least for a while. Go back to sleep….

  His eyes flew open.

  No doubt about it this time. Very faintly in the night, the unmistakable crunching sound of tires rolling slowly over packed gravel.

  Something had driven into the parking area outside the rooms.

  Coulter slid out of bed and went to the window. He crouched down and parted the blinds and peered out into almost total blackness. A sliver of moon provided the only light. He gave his eyes a minute or so to adjust, and then figured, hell, they didn’t need it, since he’d been sitting like a mushroom in a dark room.

  He saw nothing out there but the same six cars that had been parked in front of rooms when he’d pulled in earlier that evening. They were all older models, one of them a vintage ’98 Olds with a flat front tire. Coulter liked and knew about cars. He’d stolen a lot of them in his younger days and figured the Olds would have been a collector’s item if it weren’t such a rust bucket.

  Staying in a low crouch, he shifted his weight and glanced in the other direction over the sill. Parked two spaces down from his room was the late-model black Ford F-100 pickup he’d stolen two days ago. Faint moonlight glimmered off its fender. It looked like a gigantic toy on drastically oversized tires. Which was maybe what it was.

  Another sound!

  It might have been a car door shutting as quietly as possible, pulled closed, and latched.

  Something’s going on out there, all right.

  Coulter backpedaled away from the window to where his Levi’s were wadded on a chair. He hurriedly slipped into them, then yanked a T-shirt over his head. He thought about going barefoot, then changed his mind and took the time to work his feet, sockless, into his boots. Sweat was pouring off him, stinging the corners of his eyes.