Night Victims

by John Lutz

  Lincoln turned out to be William Ambrose Lincoln, NIGHT VICTIMS

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  thirty-six, married, with two children from an earlier marriage. He’d had no previous trouble with the law. On a whim, Paula fed his name into the Internet.

  And hit big.

  This was great. The guy had his own Web site. It had to be him, even listed his phone number, and street and e-mail addresses. A business Web site; he wouldn’t want to have a potential buyer not be able to locate him.

  Interesting site. It turned out Will Lincoln was a sculptor.

  There was a photograph of him. He was balding but with lots of wavy dark hair around the ears and neck, had strong features, and looked a little like a younger Warren Beatty.

  And there were photographs of his work. Abstract creations of welded steel. One piece was barely recognizable as a horse. The rest of it was a mystery to Paula. She tried to find something in the tortured, angled metal that suggested sadism and serial murder, but if such a message was there, she couldn’t decipher it. Lincoln’s work must be good, though, because his Web site included lists and dates of exhibits he’d had around town. There was one now, at a gallery down in the West Village.

  A sculptor, Paula thought, leaning back from the computer and taking a sip of the horrible coffee Crawford had brought her. Somebody with imagination and time. And climbing experience. And trained to kill efficiently and silently.

  Paula’s senses became more alert. William Lincoln, the more I learn about you, the more intriguing you become.

  “You want some cream for that coffee, Paula?” Crawford was asking.

  “No. It might only make it worse.”

  “I am wounded,” Crawford said in a hurt tone.

  “Have some coffee. Make it fatal.” Crawford slunk away.

  Paula’s pulse quickened as she logged off the computer and left the precinct house to drive to the Village.

  20

  Neva Taylor dreamed.

  She was floating in soft liquid but could breathe freely of perfumed, intoxicating air. A lake, she guessed. A very special lake from her childhood, somewhere secret in her memory. It all seemed so normal, as if she were suspended just below the surface at a depth determined by someone nearby.

  Someone in control.

  Someone watching her.

  In her dream she turned lazily and saw through the shimmering brightness a face behind a glass pane. Was she in an aquarium like that one in Florida where tourists paid to watch shapely women costumed as mermaids swim underwater? Stroke . . . half fish . . . approach the glass . . . stroke

  . . . smile . . . stroke . . . half turn, a rhythmic exercise in youth and grace and flirtation, in voyeurism and need. To drift . . . to float . . . Everyone’s final dream . . .

  The lone face on the other side of the aquarium glass was unclear in the wavering distance, but the eyes were fixed and dark and brilliant and demonic.

  Everyone’s final dream!

  A rasp drawn sharply and roughly over steel woke her.

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  Her own shrill gasp, as her breath caught like a burr in her throat. Her eyes wide, she lay in late-morning brightness and numbing terror, the recently painted white ceiling close to her like a lid on a box.

  Trapped?

  Still gasping for breath, she became aware that her fingertips were digging painfully into the mattress. Finger by finger she willed her hands to relax.

  Gradually the sunlight blasting through the separation of the drapes overwhelmed her fear. Nothing could happen to her in such a golden wash of light.

  Her strained neck ceased to hurt. Her head sank back into her soft pillow and she made herself smile. A dream, a nightmare. That was all she’d experienced. No connection to the real world, unless one chose to believe certain suspect psychics.

  Barely moving her head, she let her gaze slide across the reassuring familiarity of her bedroom: her dresser; a glimpse of the opposite wall and plastic light switch in the mirror; her chair, over the back of which the dress she’d removed last night lay draped; the top half of the door frame, white enameled with perfectly mitered wood, form and function and reason neatly joined.

  Not a dream but the real world.

  Relieved, comforted, she turned her head slightly so she could see the clock radio. My God, almost ten o’clock!

  Overslept. Late for work. Not like me! Not at all like me!

  She swiveled her body and sat on the edge of the mattress, her toes sensitive to the coarse texture of the throw rug by the bed. She was tired, as if she’d had a shallow sleep, as if something had disturbed but not quite woken her. It was like some dark dread on the edge of her consciousness.

  Father dying; not dying while I slept, only when I woke, but dying all the time until the end.

  Stop it!

  She shook off her nameless apprehension and stood up, brushing the palm of one hand over her eyes. Floor tilting. Slightly dizzy. The bedroom was too warm, the air 140

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  stale. The acrid scent of her own perspiration was unpleasant.

  Neva walked to the window and threw open the drapes.

  The sudden assault of full sunlight made her wince. She unlocked the window and raised it about six inches to admit what she hoped would be a morning breeze, but turned out to be a sluggish shifting of warm air. Life, never quite living up to expectations.

  As she turned to trudge into the bathroom, she noticed faint, curved scratches on the outside of the upper window and stopped to look at them more closely. They were deep, more like gouges. She didn’t think they’d been there before, but she couldn’t be sure. They made her think of a giant bird attempting to get in by slashing at the glass with its beak; she couldn’t imagine what had really caused them.

  Nothing to worry about, she thought. Like the real worry of becoming unemployed if she didn’t get to the office and deal with whatever problems awaited. The scratches were on the outside of the glass and didn’t go all the way through.

  Not even worth a mention to the super.

  By the time she was standing with her head back and her eyes closed beneath warm needles of water in the shower stall, she forgot all about her indefinable dread and the scratches on her window. Her lithe body swayed; soon she was fully awake. The music of her morning was the soft hiss of the shower and gurgle and trickle of water swirling and racing down the drain.

  Her mind played over her ambitions and more practical dreams. She was young, healthy, and beautiful, and, as an old boyfriend used to say of her, “had her shit together.” She’d have put it a different way, but it was true.

  Paula parked her unmarked across the street from the New Genesis Gallery in the Village. The gallery didn’t look promising from the outside. It was on the ground floor of a crumbling brick building with green double doors that NIGHT VICTIMS

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  needed paint badly. A sign on one of the doors instructed her to use the other. Near the corner of the building was a show window in which were displayed several paintings and other works, but Paula couldn’t see clearly beyond the glass because of the sun glinting off it.

  As she watched, a short woman in a dark raincoat emerged from the gallery clutching a brown package. She walked slightly hunched and seemed furtive as she hurried toward the corner.

  Paula opened the car door, got out into the heat, and crossed the street. Her feet were hurting today, as if her shoes were too tight. Probably swollen.

  The interior of the gallery was a surprise. The walls and ceiling were cream colored, and the floor was a subtle design of dark and worn but clean tiles. Oil paintings, with a few watercolors, hung on the walls. All were renderings of bridges . . . the Brooklyn, the 59th Street (the one Cajun Paula still called the Queensboro), the Golden Gate . . . several Paula didn’t recognize, including a couple of covered bridges.

  Placed around the gallery were steel sculptures. She recognized some of them from Lincoln’s Web site.
One she hadn’t seen on the Web seemed to represent a woman being crucified. Abstract. Interesting. The figure definitely had breasts.

  A door located next to a tall painting of a bridge that disappeared in mist opened and a woman stepped into the gallery. She was dressed in black—surprise. She moved gracefully inside flowing slacks and a sleeveless black blouse. Paula noticed she had nice arms—no cottage cheese—so she must be younger than she appeared. She was a dark-haired woman, attractive, but with seamed, tanned features, as if she’d spent too much time outdoors in a land of blistering sun.

  She smiled inquisitively at Paula in the manner of someone about to ask if she can be of help.

  Paula started to flash her shield but the woman’s hand 142

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  darted out and closed on her wrist, freezing her outstretched arm while she studied the badge in its leather folder.

  “It’s genuine,” Paula said.

  “I see it is.”

  “So am I.”

  “Then you’d be the only one I know.” The woman released her grip on Paula’s wrist. “I hope you’re here about the asshole who keeps spray-painting obscene graffiti on the building.”

  “No, I’m here about a different asshole.”

  “Okay,” the woman said. “I know plenty of them. I’m Careen Carstair.”

  “You own the gallery?”

  “Part owner. And manager. And buyer. And sometimes seller.”

  “Everything in here by Lincoln?”

  “Just the sculptures.”

  “How much would this stuff be worth?” Paula motioned with her hand to take in the entire gallery.

  “It’s worth what it brings on the market. The paintings go from anywhere between a thousand and twenty thousand; the sculptures less because the artist isn’t as established.

  Will Lincoln’s still building an audience. That’s an interesting accent.”

  “Cajun. He live in the Village?”

  “No. Over in Queens. Will’s a straight-arrow family man.

  Got the wife and kids and house in the ’burbs. I can’t believe he’s the asshole you’re looking for.”

  “No,” Paula said. “But tell me about him. I like his work.

  Might buy something if it’s on a cop’s salary.”

  “Which one do you like?”

  “Lady Christ on the cross.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “My palms bleeding?”

  Careen smiled. “A cop could afford that piece only if he or she were the wrong kind of cop.”

  “Known Will long?”

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  “About three years. This isn’t his first exhibit here.”

  “Can you tell me anything interesting about him?”

  “He’s self-taught. Been sculpting since he got out of the service, he said.”

  “Service?”

  “Military. I don’t know what branch. Works out of a garage studio next to his house. If you’re looking for dirt on him, you’ll be disappointed. He’s about the most normal guy I know in this business of bullshit and ego and, sometimes, talent.”

  “You think Will has talent?”

  “I wouldn’t display his work if I didn’t.”

  “That him over there?” Paula pointed to the photo from the Web site. It was framed and mounted on the wall near the door, along with information about the artist.

  “That’s him. He’s better looking in person.”

  “Really? Does he fool around on that wife of his, trapped in Queens with the little ones?”

  “Why? You interested?”

  “Maybe,” Paula said. “It’s that crucifixion piece.”

  “I wouldn’t say Will’s kinky,” Careen said. She winked.

  “Or that he isn’t.”

  Paula cocked her head and gave Careen a woman-to-woman look, then lowered her voice. “You know something juicy?”

  “Nothing I’d tell a cop.”

  Paula decided not to push. “Enough about handsome Will and back to business. Have you seen a man around here, might be homeless, the way he’s dressed? About sixty, red hair and beard?”

  “Does he spray-paint?”

  For the next fifteen minutes Paula made a show of asking questions and making notes about her fictitious redheaded man. She wasn’t sure if Careen was fooled, but maybe it didn’t matter. If Will Lincoln was the Night Spider, maybe a little pressure the other way wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it was about time he started worrying about being stepped on.

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  So nice-guy family-man Will might have a kinky extra-marital sex life. Having done duty in the Quarter in New Orleans, Paula could envision it. Maybe he was into S&M, water sports, or bondage. Or worse.

  Much worse.

  21

  It hadn’t taken long for Horn to find out about Rett Jackson, the suspect in Philadelphia.

  Horn’s source with the Philadelphia police called him back within an hour and told him Jackson had finally fallen victim to an old war wound. The previous year he’d had a steel rod inserted in his spine, as well as a complete knee replacement. All were delayed problems resulting from injuries sustained when the man in front of him stepped on a mine, blowing shrapnel and bone fragments into Jackson’s lower body. Horn was informed that Jackson had walked with the aid of a cane since his hospitalization.

  Not a climber. Not nimble enough to dangle on a line and use tape and a glass cutter, then silently raise a window and steal into a victim’s bedroom without waking her.

  So there were only two suspects left on the list Altman gave Horn. It seemed the CIA agent’s assurances that the Night Spider was unconnected to the secret Special Forces unit were correct.

  Horn was sitting in the leather armchair in his living room contemplating this when the jangle of the phone broke into his thoughts. Not the cell phone, but the landline phone 146

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  he’d used to talk to his source in Philadelphia. As he lifted the receiver, he wondered how long phones would still have cords in this rapidly changing world.

  “This is Nina Count,” the caller said, after Horn had identified himself. “Do you remember me, Captain Horn?”

  “I wouldn’t forget you, Nina. And I see you often on cable news.”

  “Which is why I’m calling. To ask for confirmation, as you’ve been good enough to come out of retirement to ramrod the investigation into the Night Spider murders.”

  “I’m not so sure ‘ramrod’ is the word.” But close. “I’m acting in more of an advisory capacity.”

  “Ah, the official line. You’re being modest, Captain Horn.” And you’re fishing. “What is it you want confirmed, Nina?”

  “That you’ve consulted with the famous alpinist Royce Sayles.”

  “Is ‘Alpinist’ a real word?”

  “I don’t know. That’s not what I need confirmed.” So full of drive and duplicity, these media types. Nina Count among the worst of them. “I didn’t think you’d drop the subject.” And you know the answer or you wouldn’t be asking the question. “Yes, I did consult with Sayles about the Night Spider case. You can say he was helpful.”

  “Are you making any real progress on the case?” she asked in a confidential tone that meant nothing. “I mean, will you confide in me instead of handing out the usual media bullshit you give the other news hounds?”

  “Why would I treat you differently?”

  “You like me.”

  That was true, Horn had to admit to himself. Nina had more daring and imagination than any of her competitors.

  She’d once crashed one of the mayor’s private dinner parties and sent back the wine. Horn thought she would have made a great cop. “I think you’re full of more piss and vinegar than the rest of them, Nina. Like a crazy aunt I was fond of as a kid. But you didn’t answer my question, and I’m going to be as persistent in asking it as you would.” NIGHT VICTIMS

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; She laughed. “Okay, nephew. You should treat me differently and confide in me because I’ll confide in you. We should work together.”

  “If you have something to confide and don’t, Nina, you might be guilty of concealing evidence of a crime. I wouldn’t want to see you get in trouble with the law.”

  “I don’t have anything to confide yet, but I might. And you know us members of the news media, how we don’t have to divulge our sources or tip our hands.” Horn thought about this. “Nina, are you planning on being up to something?”

  “I am, Captain Horn. And when you see what it is, you’ll want to talk with me in the worst way.”

  “To read you your rights?”

  Again the laugh. “I know my rights. Watch my news reports. Tell your friends and relatives. I can always use the ratings.”

  “Nina, ratings aren’t worth your life. This Night Spider psycho is more dangerous than you know.”

  “You’re worried about my safety?”

  “You bet I am.”

  “When you’re ready,” she said in an amused voice, “let me know and we’ll cooperate and nail this sick fuck.”

  “Nina—”

  “Loved talking to you, Captain.”

  And she hung up and left him with a buzz in his ear.

  And a new worry on his mind.

  “That was the lawyers,” Joe Vine said, hanging up the phone. “The subpoenas have been served.” His wife, Cindy, was wearing her faded red bathrobe and sitting with her knees drawn up in a corner of the sofa.

  They’d had hamburgers for lunch, and the scent of the fried beef and onions still permeated the apartment. “I wish Alan would get well and come home so none of this was necessary.”

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  “We all wish that,” Vine said, irritated. He’d hoped she’d cheer up when she learned the lawsuit was going forward.

  “Don’t you think I wish that?”

  “Of course I do. I know you’re suffering just like me. But I also think you want revenge.”

  “Sure, I want them to pay for what they did to Alan.

  Especially that bitch in charge of the radiology department.”

  “That’s what I mean, Joe. With you it’s personal.”