Текст книги "Chill of Night"

Автор книги: John Lutz

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

He doesn’t care if they match. He wants them to match. Likes to taunt. Helen the profiler is so right about that one.

Beam’s mobile phone buzzed. He set aside the lab report and dug the phone from his pocket. Probably Nell or Loop; he’d assigned them to interview people close to the late Judge Parker. Drone work that would probably lead nowhere, but it had to be done. Every side road along the way had to be explored, because any one of them just might lead to a six-lane highway.

But it was neither Nell nor Looper on the phone.

At first Beam didn’t recognize the voice. Nola.

“Beam, I need for you to come to the shop as soon as possible.” Her voice, always so level and without emotion, had a slight quaver in it.

Fear?

“You alone, Nola?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

“No. As soon as possible.”

“I can get a radio car to you within minutes.”

“No, I want you.”

“I’m on my way.” Beam signaled for the waiter.

“The closed sign will be up,” Nola said, “but the door’s unlocked.”

She broke the connection.

On the wild drive to Things Past, Beam worked the phone’s keypad with one hand and called to talk to her again. He got only her machine with its recorded message. Nola but not Nola.

44

They were moving rapidly through the lobby. Carl Dudman couldn’t have felt better. He could see that it was a wonderful afternoon outside, with sunlight brightening his side of the street. He’d been on the phone most of the morning, and now it seemed as if his efforts were going to pay off and the agency would represent sales of a projected new West Side condominium tower.

What real estate bubble?

Dudman patted Mark the doorman on the shoulder as he passed. The considerable bulk of Chris Talbotson, his bodyguard, was in front of him. As soon as he’d cleared the door Mark was holding open, Chris’s head began to swivel. Dudman followed him outside into the clear, sun-washed air. The orange scaffolding was still up in front of the building, but new sidewalk had been poured and the fresh concrete looked pale and unspoiled.

Chris had impressed upon Dudman that timing was important. Chris would precede Dudman, open the waiting limo’s right rear door, and without hesitation Dudman would follow and duck as he approached the big car, then remain low and lean forward as he entered. Chris would quickly follow. All within seconds. All carefully choreographed.

Gripping his black leather attaché case, Dudman lowered his head and made for the inviting dark sanctuary of the limo beyond its open door. He edged past Chris, placed one foot off the curb in the street, and began to duck into the limo. The traffic signal had changed up the street; he was vaguely aware of a string of cars rushing past, the smell of exhaust fumes that would dissipate as soon as he was inside the limo.

It was the exact time that his foot touched the street and he was beginning his forward lean that he felt the sharp pain high on the right side of his chest.

What?

He was sitting awkwardly, one leg in the street extended beneath the limo, the other bent beneath his body. His attaché case had come open and papers were scattered all over the sidewalk.

Did I fall? Slip off the curb?

He knew Chris was trying to help him up, looming over and gripping him, but he couldn’t feel anything from the neck down.

My suit…Ruined…

Chris was talking, his face contorted, but Dudman heard nothing.

“Chris, my papers…”

No one reacted. He hadn’t made a sound.

Then the pain in his chest was back, blossoming, exploding!

And suddenly it wasn’t afternoon. It was dusk. Dark. Nighttime.

The pain faded with the light.

As it turned out, the shot had actually been a simple one. The street Dudman’s agency was on ran one way, so the limo had been on Justice’s left, the driver’s side of the car. The angle and opportunity were brief, but there, for just a few seconds, diagonally above the trunk of the limo, a shooting line straight to the target. Dudman. Deadman.

Justice had time to lead Dudman crossing the wide sidewalk. The target paused as the limo door was opened. Dudman actually seemed to pose as he ducked his head preparing to enter the vehicle.

Almost simultaneous to the shot, Justice managed to take his left hand from the wheel long enough to drop the plastic vial out the window into the street near the limo.

That was important.

They would know he was the one. The bullet, the letter, the hammer of fairness and fate and balance, balance…

After the shot, he’d turned the corner and was gone. He was positive no one even knew for sure the shot had come from a passing car—any passing car.

Driving legally at the speed limit, blending with the thousands, millions of vehicles in New York, he had to giggle at how easy it had been. How easy it would be to execute anyone in the city.

He missed the moment of ice, but that couldn’t be helped. And Dudman did seem to hesitate getting into the limo, as if somehow he knew. Perhaps the cold moment of knowledge had frozen him, presented him to the bullet that would deliver him. Either way, this one had been warranted.

It had been righteous. He would do it again.

He would do it again.

Brake lights flared ahead. Horns honked. His foot darted from accelerator to brake and he brought the car to a halt with a brief skid and squeal of tires. Vehicles around him also slowed and stopped. All of them lined up neatly, drivers patiently staring at the traffic signal.

Red light. Had to stop. The law.

Da Vinci was a little out of breath from hurrying when he entered his office, and what he saw actually made him gasp.

The police commissioner was seated in one of the brown upholstered chairs angled toward the desk.

Da Vinci smiled, stammered, and absently smoothed back his slightly mussed hair.

“Startle you?” the commissioner asked. He’d moved the chair slightly so he had a better view of the door. Its legs had left deep depressions in the carpet, marking its previous position.

“Well…yes, sir, you did. It’s just that I’m not used to anyone being here when I come in after lunch.”

“Natural,” said the commissioner. “It’s your office.”

Da Vinci didn’t know quite what to say to that.

“I thought we needed to talk,” the commissioner said.

That the commissioner had come to da Vinci’s office, rather than the other way around, seemed to da Vinci to be meaningful. This meeting wasn’t for public consumption.

It was also meaningful that the chief wasn’t here. Trouble at the top? The kind of pressure the press and pols were applying could cause all sorts of dissent and ruptured relationships. But da Vinci had no doubt that the chief was, or would be, fully informed at some point by the commissioner. Timing could be everything.

Heavy, brooding, and intense, the commissioner was in civilian clothes, a chalk-stripe gray suit, white shirt, and blue silk tie. In his younger days, his knowing, solemn expression had spooked many a tough suspect into deciding to cooperate with the law. Whether you were a creep or a cop, gravitas was gravitas. He sat at ease and gazed balefully as da Vinci walked around to sit behind the desk.

“Adelaide Starr,” the commissioner said. “She’s getting to be a hell of a problem, Andy.”

The commissioner was one of the few people who called Deputy Chief Andrew Da Vinci Andy. Da Vinci didn’t correct him. “I take it we both saw her performance last night on the Matt Black show, sir.”

The commissioner nodded.

Da Vinci cleared his throat. “We’re still deliberating on what to do about it,” he said.

The commissioner raised his eyebrows. “We?”

“Captain Beam and his team, and myself, sir.”

“What are the ideas offered?”

Shit! Da Vinci hadn’t yet talked to Beam about Adelaide Starr’s latest stunt. “Obviously it’s a play for publicity on her part, sir. She thinks by casting the city as elitist, even un-American, she’s placed herself in the role of hero. Or heroine.”

“I know you’re sitting down, but I hear tap dancing, Andy.”

“We’ve decided we can’t possibly declare a moratorium on jury duty, sir. It would shut down the legal system. The problems it would cause are—”

“Unacceptable,” the commissioner finished for da Vinci. “So what’s your plan?”

“Still formative, sir.”

“You don’t have a plan?”

“Yet.”

“You’ve been outwitted by a clever young woman.”

“So far.” Da Vinci felt himself beginning to perspire.

The commissioner looked cool as ice cream. “Here’s what I want you to do, Andy. Issue a statement for the media, saying you’re aware of Adelaide Starr’s position and you’re taking it under advisement. But make it clear that as of now there are no plans to declare a moratorium on juries and, subsequently, trials by jury. That, you will point out, would be disastrous for the city, and a boon for criminals. It would be unfair to the very people Adelaide Starr is trying to protect. Lean on that final point: it would be unfair to all the honest New York citizens who would be the victims of emboldened criminals.”

Da Vinci smiled. “That makes good sense, sir.” And takes the load off me. “And it buys us time.”

The commissioner returned the smile and rose from his chair. “Tap dance, Andy. You’re good at it, and I mean that as a compliment.”

“Yes, sir. Er, thank you.”

“You need to dance more in public, Andy, if you get my meaning. This killer’s becoming too much of a hero. Or an anti-hero. You ever go to movies, Andy?”

“Sometimes. I’m awfully busy these days.”

“Anti-heroes are very popular. People transfer that to real life. Count the newspaper and TV features favorable to the police, and those favorable to the Justice Killer, and I don’t have to tell you who wins.”

“No, sir.”

The commissioner shook his head. “They don’t see the blood.”

The phone on da Vinci’s desk began to buzz.

“Go ahead and answer,” the commissioner said. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about before I go, regarding the progress of the investigation.”

“Yes, sir.” Da Vinci picked up the phone.

The commissioner seemed to sense bad news on the line. Bad news da Vinci would have no choice but to relate to him immediately, without having time to figure out how best to present it. Why did this call have to come in now and not five minutes later? Da Vinci silently asked himself that question over and over as he listened to one of his trusted lieutenants on the other end of the connection.

When he’d thanked the lieutenant and hung up, the commissioner said, “Trouble, Andy?”

“Carl Dudman was killed while getting into his limo in front of his apartment building. Apparently someone shot him from a passing car, using a silencer.”

The commissioner was very still, thinking. “Dudman…The real estate Dudman?”

“Yes, sir. He was also jury foreman in the Genelle Dixon Central Park slaying trial six years ago.”

“The defendant walked,” the commissioner said, rubbing his clean-shaven chin and recollecting. “Guilty bastard, too. We messed up with the evidence. Unlawful search, as I recall.”

“Yes, sir. Dudman’s security guard was nearby at the time of the shooting. He didn’t have time to react to the gunman, didn’t even see him, but when he realized Dudman was shot he helped him all the way into the limo then got in and instructed the driver to go like hell to the nearest hospital. Dudman was dead by the time they arrived.”

Da Vinci was getting more and more uneasy, with the commissioner standing there staring down at him.

“Something else, Andy?”

“Yes, sir. After the limo pulled away, we found a brown-tinted plastic pharmaceutical vial, the kind prescription medicine comes in. We think it was tossed from the car as it drove past and the shot was fired.”

“Tell me it has the names of the killer and his doctor on it,” the commissioner said.

“It was unlabeled, sir. And empty except for a rolled up slip of paper with a red letter J printed on it in felt tip pen.”

The commissioner stood quietly, and when he spoke it was calmly and softly. “The Justice Killer, Adelaide Starr, the media wolves, they’re all making goddamned fools of us, Andy.”

Without bothering to look at da Vinci or say goodbye, he turned slowly and left the office.

Da Vinci thought it had been nice of the commissioner to say us.

Beam double parked his Lincoln in front of Things Past, not bothering to put up the NYPD placard. He ignored the closed sign hanging in the shop window and pushed in through the door. Lucky it was unlocked, as Nola had said, or he might have punched out the glass with his shoulder, so eager was he to get inside the shop.

He didn’t know what to expect, but he saw that there was no one behind the counter. The shop was empty.

Damn it!

He was headed toward the back room when he noticed Nola. She was standing to his left and slightly behind him, staring at him with wide dark eyes.

“What is it?” Beam asked, moving toward her sideways so he wouldn’t knock anything breakable off the shelves. “What’s wrong?”

“That.” Nola’s gaze lowered to fix on something on one of the shelves, and she pointed.

Beam sidestepped around a mannequin wearing a fake fur jacket and twenties feathered hat, and saw where Nola was pointing.

On the shelf before her was a man’s ring. It drew Beam’s attention, as it had drawn Nola’s, because the shop’s jewelry, the good stuff, was all displayed in a glass case near the register to prevent shoplifting. A key, held by Nola, was needed to get into the case.

At first Beam didn’t understand the significance of the ring. Then, when he did, his blood went cold.

It was Harry Lima’s trademark ring. No mistaking it. Large, gold, gaudy, a dusting of diamonds in the shape of a dollar sign, flanked by rubies and Harry’s initials.

The ring Harry was wearing when he was buried.

45

The air was warm and reeked of fried onions. Seated in the diner down the street from Things Past, Beam said nothing until Nola had a cup of coffee and a glass of ice water in front of her. They were in a back booth near a door to the kitchen. They wouldn’t be overheard here by the dozen other customers at tables or seated at the counter.

Nola took a sip of water, then looked at Beam as she never had before—as if she trusted him—or had to trust him because they were in something together. Something that scared the hell out of her.

“How could it get there?” Nola asked

Beam didn’t have to ask her what it was. Ten years ago, the ring had been found six blocks away from where the rest of Harry’s dead body lay wrapped in black plastic in a dumpster. It was on the ring finger of Harry’s severed right hand. The dead hand was clutching a dollar bill, a clear message as to why Harry was killed: he’d talked for money. To stay out of prison, too, but mainly for money. Harry had always done everything mainly for money. The news photos served as a ghoulish and striking warning to others in his business who might inform.

The warning had worked. Information on the streets in that part of the city became almost nonexistent. No new snitches could be cultivated, and regular snitches disappeared. Either they left town voluntarily, or they had help along the way and would never return.

“I was about to ask you how it could have found its way into your shop,” Beam said. “It was buried with Harry.”

“Of course it was.”

“The mortuary,” Beam suggested. “Robbing the dead.”

Nola was shaking her head. “It was on Harry’s finger when the coffin lid was closed, then the coffin was transported directly to the cemetery. I rode in the hearse with it. The coffin never left my sight until it was in the grave.”

“You saw it lowered into the grave?”

“No, they never do that. They wait until the funeral service is over and the mourners have left. To spare everyone the pain.”

“Maybe—”

“Are you telling me Harry’s coffin was opened?” Nola asked.

“I’m telling you I don’t know. When did you first notice the ring?”

“Right before I phoned you. I even checked to make sure it wasn’t listed as part of the shop’s inventory. Someone must have planted it there within the past week. I don’t think it could have been there more than a day or two, though, or I would have noticed it.” Tears welled in her dark eyes. “Looking at the damned thing nearly stopped my heart.”

“Someone must have put the ring there. One of your customers. Do you remember anyone suspicious?”

“No. Customers come and go. They browse, sometimes buy something. Most of the time they leave empty-handed.”

“This time one of them left something behind,” Beam said.

Nola was staring hard at him. “Beam, do you know anything about this you’re not telling me?”

“For God’s sake, no, Nola!”

The horrified tone of his voice must have impressed her. She nodded and sat back, sipping hot coffee. Maybe burning her tongue and not noticing.

“Why would anyone plant Harry’s ring in the shop?” she asked, lowering her cup.

A part of Beam’s mind had been sorting through the possibilities.

“After all these years…” Nola said. “Why now? What’s different?”

“It might be my fault,” Beam said. “What’s different is I’m back in your life, and I’m hunting a killer. He might have followed me to the shop, figured out how I felt about you. Then he could have done some research, read old news accounts and learned about the past, with Harry, with you and me, what happened. It was all in the news, complete with names and photographs.”

“Years ago.”

“It wasn’t years ago I started visiting Things Past.”

“You think the killer you’re stalking has begun stalking you?”

“It wouldn’t be unusual. Serial killers are often interested in the person assigned to catch them. They see what they’re doing as a game. This one certainly does, with his signature.”

“Signature…? Oh, the letter J, in red.”

“Mean anything to you?” Beam asked.

“I only know what I read in the papers, Beam.”

“TV news?”

“I don’t watch television.”

“This wouldn’t be inconsistent with the Justice Killer’s actions. He’d do this to taunt me. He enjoys taunting people.”

The two guys sitting nearest them at the counter had gotten into an argument and were talking louder, yelling at each other with their mouths full of sandwich, something about Italian women. They were young, and both had on Yankees caps, and the caps’ bills started bumping as the discussion became more heated. One of the caps was knocked crooked. Beam wished they’d shut up.

Nola didn’t seem to hear them. “Your killer’s taunting the entire city.”

“I think he’s our best bet as to how the ring got there,” Beam said.

“But how would he get the ring?”

“It has to be a duplicate. He saw the photos in old papers or news magazines. The media made a big deal out of the ring, especially where it was found. As I recall, there were some pretty detailed descriptions and photographs. It was probably in the news somewhere that the ring was buried with Harry. Maybe that’s what gave the Justice Killer his idea—he knew the ring would spook you, and of course he’s throwing in my face the fact that I’m helpless to protect you or anyone else. He can do whatever he pleases, including having a duplicate ring made using a newspaper photograph and descriptions as a model.”

“It doesn’t look like a duplicate ring.”

“Were the stones real?”

“Not as real as they looked. The diamonds were industrial grade, the rubies glass. The gold was fourteen-karat. This ring has the same makeup.”

“How much would it cost to duplicate it?”

“Around a thousand dollars, maybe less. It was more flashy than expensive.” She gazed down at the table, frowning.

“Okay, It might not be a duplicate.” Beam rested his fingertips on the back of Nola’s cool wrist. “There’s a way to find out.”

She didn’t understand at first, then it hit her like a hammer.

“Oh, Jesus, Beam! We can’t do that!”

“We have to if we’re going to know for sure,” Beam said. Probably just what the Justice Killer asshole wants. “We have to exhume the body.”

Nola sat staring into her coffee cup. More than a minute passed before she nodded. “You’re right. It’s ghastly, but you’re right. “

“I’ll arrange for a court order.”

“The past never goes away, does it?”

“Never entirely,” Beam said.

Nola sat forward and hunched her shoulders, as if whatever had been holding her erect had suddenly given. She began to sob. The two guys with baseball caps at the counter heard, fell silent, and looked at Nola and Beam, then in the other direction. The one with the crooked cap hadn’t straightened it, and the bill was cocked crazily at an upward angle.

The sobs kept coming.

The past had suddenly and horribly caught up with Nola, and she allowed Beam to comfort her.

The mobile phone in his pocket began to vibrate. He waited for whoever was calling to give up, but they didn’t. He finally removed his right hand from Nola’s quaking shoulder, shifted his weight to the side, and worked the phone out of his pocket. Though it wasn’t logical, he was a little angry, wondering who might be calling him at a time like this.

Da Vinci.

Gina was reading Kafka for pleasure. She had become hooked on the writer during sophomore year Russian Literature. When she glanced up, she saw on TV that Carl Dudman had been shot. Her mother was in the kitchen. Gina tried to call her but found that her voice wouldn’t comply. Her throat was constricted.

Dudman dead. Incredible! Someone had figured out a way before Gina. The real Justice Killer.

Dudman dead.

It was real. It was true. It was on TV.

Gina stood up from the sofa and was about to go into the kitchen when a newscaster, standing in front of Dudman’s apartment building, began explaining what the police theorized about the murder after piecing together accounts from witnesses.

It had been simple and effective, catching the overmuscled bodyguard flatfooted. The one with the buzz cut with the little tuft of gray hair in front?

The newsman held up a plastic vial like the one that had contained a rolled slip of paper with the Justice Killer’s signature red J on it that was tossed from the shooter’s car.

Dudman had dropped instantly. The bodyguard said he at first thought his boss had simply tripped. He’d hurried to help him up, but Dudman didn’t respond. By the time the bodyguard noticed the blood on his hand, and on Dudman, the traffic had moved on. The bodyguard pushed the unconscious Dudman into the limo and instructed the driver to speed to the nearest hospital. Dudman was dead on arrival. None of the stunned witnesses could offer any description of any particular vehicle that was passing at the time of the shot.

The building’s uniformed doorman was being interviewed now by another newscaster, a blond woman who seemed overly concerned with what the breeze was doing with her hair.

Gina continued her route to the kitchen and stood in the doorway until her mother, salting something in a large skillet, noticed her.

“Mom…”

In the living room, both of them stood staring at the TV, crying silently as the story continued to unfold on the screen.

Gina wasn’t sure what exactly was going on in her mother’s mind, but she knew what she was thinking. She was glad Dudman was dead—satisfied, actually—but it was Bradley Aimes who’d killed Genelle. Bradley Aimes who, even more than Dudman, deserved death.

As these thoughts took form in her mind, Gina was somewhat disturbed by the fact that Dudman’s death seemed to have whetted her appetite. For death? For vengeance?

For justice!

That the notion had come unbidden made it seem all the more natural, all the more logical. Yes, Aimes deserved to die for what he did to Genelle. His death would be justice. It would be right.

What didn’t seem right was that someone else, not Gina, had killed Dudman and at least partially avenged Genelle’s death. Executing Dudman had been Gina’s responsibility, but she’d let Genelle down. Failed her. What didn’t seem right was that her gun was in her bedroom, in her purse, in a bureau drawer, unfired except for target practice. It lay unused, cold, heavy, forged for a destiny not yet fulfilled. Her gun.

“Gina,” her mother said beside her, “I’m going to phone your father.”

Her gun…