Текст книги "Chill of Night"

Автор книги: John Lutz

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

46

“Dudman was a major player in this town,” da Vinci said to Beam. They were in da Vinci’s office. The blinds were closed and a couple of lamps were on. The atmosphere was almost cozy. Da Vinci had carefully returned the chair the commissioner had sat in to its original location, matching its legs with the depressions in the carpet. Beam sat in the chair now, and in his own way he was as intimidating as the commissioner. Those damned, flat blue eyes. Da Vinci was increasingly fighting the feeling that he was losing control of the investigation. “That’s why I gave you all those uniforms to canvass the neighborhood where Dudman was shot.”

“They’re hard at work,” Beam said. “Nell and Looper are correlating the information.”

“They in charge?”

“In the case of Dudman, right now, yes.”

“You should be in charge and up front,” da Vinci said. “Instead you come here and want to talk. It better be important, because Carl Dudman sure was.”

“It’s because Dudman was important that I’m here. We both know his murder was pretty much a simple and clean operation done by a pro.”

“We thought before that the Justice Killer might be a pro,” da Vinci said. But he seemed interested now. Beam had something in mind.

“And a pro would find it easy to obtain all the information he needed on a rich and semi-famous target like Dudman,” Beam said. “Once he’d done that, all the security in the world wouldn’t have made much difference.”

“You’re saying our killer is a real pro—a hit man, or maybe ex-Special Forces or Delta Force.”

“Maybe. But it’s the victims I think we should be concentrating on now, and not the ones like Dudman. More like Manfred Byrd.”

“The decorator? There are thousands of them in this town. It’s not as if he had his own TV show or wrote a book on how to decorate on a dime. He was a nobody except for the Draco case.”

“Which occurred almost ten years ago. Even Byrd had pretty much put it out of his mind. His friends and acquaintances said he never mentioned it. He wasn’t like Dudman. To find out about Byrd, the killer had to dig deeper. Unlike with Dudman, for instance, he’d have to find Byrd. Simply locating him wouldn’t be all that simple. Then what? Is he married?”

“Hardly,” da Vinci said.

“The killer wouldn’t have known. And he wouldn’t have known what Byrd did for a living, where he did his shopping, drank, dated. Did he go to movies? What kind? Was he an early riser? Maybe a jogger? How old was he? When was his birthday? What was his credit rating? Did he have a car? Did he take cabs or subways or both? Did he drink to excess? Do drugs? Have a steady lover? Own a gun? Use the library? The Internet? Have a safety deposit box? All the kinds of things a pro would want to know in order to have a full picture.”

“All or most of it, easy enough to find out,” da Vinci said.

“Much easier with Dudman than with Byrd, because Byrd required more digging into public records. Court records, deeds, newspaper items, credit records.”

“We talked about this,” da Vinci reminded Beam. “We start digging to find out who’s seen people’s personal records, medical, the kinds of books they read, their Internet habits, employment history, what have you, and the civil libertarians are all over our asses.”

“That isn’t going to change,” Beam said. “What is legal is to set up surveillance cameras in or outside libraries, newspaper morgues, courthouses, wherever public records are stored. We might just capture an image, then be able to capture the real thing.”

Da Vinci sat back in his desk chair, thinking about it. He rubbed his chin as he’d seen the commissioner do. “It’d sure as hell save department hours. Manpower. Womanpower.”

“It’d be legal, too,” Beam said. “People can’t claim the expectation of privacy in public places. I don’t think the ACLU would object.”

“Some of those places already have taping systems. Part of Homeland Security.”

“True,” Beam said, “but I’m talking about even more cameras, more angles, more coverage. I’d rather have cops poring over those kinds of tapes, trying to spot something to grab onto, than using their time covering ground we know from experience with this killer probably isn’t going to give us anything.”

Da Vinci was quiet, pondering, then he sat forward and grinned widely. “Okay. Makes sense. I’ll see that more cameras are installed wherever pubic records are kept. We got people who can sit and view security tapes, maybe spot somebody doing nothing suspicious, but doing it where the records of more than one victim were stored. That kinda thing.” In the still, warm office, he rubbed his hands together as if he were cold and trying to warm up. “This is the sorta suggestion I expected you to come up with, Beam. I’ll notify the chief what we have in mind; I’m sure he’ll approve it.”

“Tell him it’s your idea, if you want,” Beam said. “I’m retired anyway, or will be again soon, I hope.”

Da Vinci flashed his Tony Curtis grin. “That’s awful generous of you, Beam.”

“I don’t mind seeing you get ahead.”

Da Vinci understood. “We’re the same kind of cop. That’s why I brought you back for this investigation.”

“That’s why I came back,” Beam said. “That, and I was having trouble being someone I wasn’t.”

Da Vinci stood up behind his desk. Busy man. Lots to do. “Anything else, Beam?”

“Adelaide Starr,” Beam said.

Da Vinci made a face like a kid who’d expected chocolate and gotten broccoli. “Hey, I’m open to any ideas on that one.”

“Send her another jury summons. Make her serve. She says she wants you to change your mind, so change it.”

“We’ve been there,” da Vinci said.

“I bet she doesn’t want to go back,” Beam said.

“She won’t serve.”

“Then arrest her. Put her in custody. Make an example of her. She’s been shooting off her mouth on talk shows, asking for equal treatment. So give it to her. It’s exactly what she doesn’t want.”

Da Vinci did his chin rubbing thing again. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be fun.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about.”

“I like it, Beam. I tell you what, I’ll run it past the chief.” Or the commissioner.

“Fine,” Beam said, but didn’t leave. “That one gonna be your idea, too?”

“Depends on the reaction.”

Beam had to smile. “You’re an honest man.”

“Honest cop, anyway.”

“One more thing,” Beam said.

Da Vinci had started to sit, but straightened up. “My, my, we are fruitful.”

“I want a court order,” Beam said. “Soon as possible.”

“For what?”

“We need to exhume a body.”

Beam double-parked the Lincoln beside the unmarked, across the street from where Carl Dudman had been shot. He climbed out of the cool air from the dashboard vents into heat, humidity, exhaust fumes, and traffic noise.

A cable TV truck was parked down the block. Closer to Dudman’s building, a guy in a sharp suit was standing in front of a shoulder-held TV camera, taping a spot for one of the local news programs.

When there was a break in traffic, Beam jogged across the street. The leg that had been shot ached with every other stride, but only slightly. Old man can still run.

The area in front of Dudman’s building was guarded by a single uniform, standing with his back against the wall to one side of the entrance. He was a paunchy, graying guy, but he had the kind of heavy-lidded pale eyes that seemed to notice everything. Where Dudman had fallen, a small square of new looking sidewalk and curb was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. It looked more like a Con Ed work site than a murder scene.

Beam flashed his shield at the uniform, who nodded but didn’t move other than raising one arm a few inches to the side and rapping his nightstick on the glass door. The door immediately opened and was held for Beam by a uniformed doorman who’d been invisible behind the dark, reflecting tinting. It seemed to be a routine the cop and doorman had down pat.

Nell and Looper were waiting for Beam where they’d said they’d be, seated in a grouping of furniture near the center of the cool, spacious lobby. Light poured in from high windows and reflected off rich paneling and gray marble flooring. The marble had a brownish vein running through it that matched exactly the color of the leather chairs and a long sofa arranged around a rectangular glass coffee table. Magazines and newspapers were neatly fanned out on the table like an oversized hand of cards.

The two detectives stood up when they saw Beam. After hellos, all three sat down, Nell and Looper in chairs, Beam in a corner of the brown leather sofa. In the hushed lobby, the furniture hissed like punctured tires beneath their settling weight.

“Got anything?” Beam asked, not expecting much.

Looper gave a low chuckle. “About what you’d expect from witnesses to any drive-by shooting.”

“The killer kept it simple,” Nell said, “but I doubt if it was haphazard. More like the result of careful planning. We went over Dudman’s daily routine with his security. Those few seconds outside the building, when he was getting into his limo, represented about the only time in his busy days when he was vulnerable.”

“Witnesses giving up anything at all?” Beam asked.

“What you’d expect,” Nell said. “They saw a red car, a white van, a blue car, a cab, drive past about the time Dudman was shot by a blond man, a bald man, a dark-haired man with a Jesus cut. They heard a shot, two shots, no shots. Heard a shout, heard a laugh, heard a car backfire. The other witnesses saw and heard nothing.”

“Those are the ones telling the truth,” Nell said. “Being factual, anyway.”

“Guy was a pro,” Looper said. “He left us zilch. Dudman was alive. Killer drove past. Dudman was dead. We got a corpse, a thirty-two slug, and a slip of paper with a letter on it. That’s all, and that’s what it adds up to—nada.”

There was a tone of admiration in his voice that annoyed Beam. “You starting to see the killer as a hero, Loop?”

“You know better,” Looper said. He glanced around, licking his lips. “I wish it was legal to smoke in this expensive mausoleum.”

“You quit,” Nell reminded him..

“I wasn’t thinking just of myself, Nell.”

“What we all need to be thinking about,” Beam said, “is running this sick freak to ground and bringing him in.”

“We’ll do that,” Looper said. “It’ll be the bullet or the needle. His choice.”

Not ours, Beam thought. We don’t get to choose. Not unless it’s close.

He told them about what had happened at the antique shop with Nola, then about his meeting with da Vinci.

“So we’re soon gonna be spending our time studying security tapes?

Nell asked.

“Eventually, maybe. If we can get camcorders set up where we want them.”

She’d been studying him as he’d told them about his day so far. “Mind if I ask a question, Beam?”

“Probably.”

“This woman, Nola Lima, do you and her have a history?”

“I told you about our history, how her husband was one of my snitches and got killed.”

“Wanna tell us more?”

“No. You know enough.”

Nobody spoke for a few minutes. They all watched a woman in a fur boa, despite the heat, enter the lobby, cross to the elevators, and ascend.

“When do you think we’ll get the court order for the exhumation?” Nell asked.

“I hope tomorrow. Da Vinci’s working on rushing it through. He’s got some judges by the balls. Meantime, you keep everything going here, talking to people who don’t know anything, looking good for the media.”

“It’s bullshit,” Nell said.

“It’s part of the job.”

“Still bullshit.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“I wish to Christ I had a cigarette,” Looper said.

Nell said, “You might as well go ahead and smoke one as die sooner at my hands for continuing to harp on it.”

“The bullet, the needle, or the filter tip,” Beam said, and stood up and left them.

Outside, as the tinted glass door swung closed, he caught sight of the reflection of a man standing across the street staring at him. Beam wouldn’t have noticed him except that he jogged his memory. He was sure he’d seen the man somewhere before, and recently. Not necessarily his face, which he couldn’t make out, but his proportions and posture, the set of his head, neck, and shoulders.

When he turned around, the man wasn’t there.

No matter. Silhouette and profile registered strongly in an old cop’s mind.

Beam was sure he was being followed.

Terry Adams reached over from where he lay on his back on Nell’s bed, felt around, then found his cold can of Budweiser and took a swig. It was difficult to drink lying down, and he felt a trickle of cold beer run down his cheek and neck toward the pillow. “So they’re gonna dig up this guy’s grave and see if he’s still wearing his ring?”

“That’s the idea,” Nell said. She knew she probably shouldn’t be talking to Terry about this, but it wasn’t exactly an integral part of the Justice Killer case. That was what kind of bothered her. Beam seemed to want it to be part of the case. She wondered why. What was there between Beam and this woman, Nola?

“Sounds like something out of a play,” Terry said. “Maybe a movie. Make a great scene.”

Nell laughed. “You ready to play a cop again?”

“If I could get the part, sure. The real job—yours—no way. Just portraying a cop, getting inside his skin, was enough.”

“You must have done it well.”

“There was talk of a Tony.”

Nell propped her head on her elbow. “Really?”

“Well…most of the talk was by me.”

Nell laughed and let her head fall back on her wadded pillow. It was pleasant, the way the room was cooling down but still smelled like sex, the way the breeze from the ceiling fan played over her bare right leg that was extended from beneath the white sheet. Terry was an insightful and wonderful lover. He could sense when she didn’t want him to be so gentle, and he accommodated, but always she was in control. And he was tireless. His sexual drive, his energy, captivated her.

Then why was she thinking about Jack Selig? This wasn’t some sexual contest the three of them were engaged in. And if it were, the considerate and subtle Selig would finish a close second to Terry.

Nell admonished herself, feeling ashamed. These were not the sorts of comparisons that led to wise decisions.

What decisions? Hadn’t she already made up her mind?

“You’re pensive,” Terry said. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Would you believe baseball?”

“No. I don’t think you’re that big a fan.”

“The Mets are playing the Cardinals tonight on TV.”

“You’re a Mets fan?”

“Just a baseball fan. Isn’t it legal for women to be baseball fans?”

“Sure,” Terry said. “He set his beer can back on the magazine on the bedside table, then turned toward her. He kissed her on the ear, flicking with his tongue. “I’ll show you what’s illegal,” he whispered. “At least in certain states.”

Nell forgot about baseball.

She forgot about Jack Selig.

The exhumation order was in da Vinci’s hands the next day, but they waited for nightfall before executing it. That was da Vinci’s decision. It wasn’t that he wanted to heighten the mood. Harry Lima was buried toward the center of a century-old cemetery that covered acres bordering a New Jersey highway, so lights and activity wouldn’t be noticeable from outside the premises. At night, when the cemetery was closed, there would be no one unauthorized inside the fenced and gated grounds to witness or disturb the exhumation.

Nola, whose signature had helped to authorize the exhumation, had decided not to attend. Beam was there, along with da Vinci. No need for Nell or Looper.

Beam stood in the night with da Vinci and a tall African American man named Dan Jackson from the Medical Examiner’s office. Jackson stood off to the side, smoking a cigar. They were in soft light that seeped through a canvas tent that had been pitched around Harry’s grave. A small bulldozer had unearthed most of the grave before the tent was pitched. Now, inside the tent, cemetery workers, watched over by a uniformed officer, worked with shovels and an electric winch.

“They sound busy in there,” da Vinci said.

“It won’t be long now,” Jackson assured him.

“I can hardly wait,” da Vinci said under his breath. He gave Beam an annoyed look in the moonlight.

“Having second thoughts?” Beam asked.

“I’m not allowed those.” A strong smell of Jackson’s cigar smoke came their way on the breeze. “Adelaide Starr was scheduled to report for jury duty today.”

“She show up?” Beam asked.

“No.”

“Gonna issue a warning?”

“No. We’re going to bring her in tomorrow, if we can find her.”

“You’ll find her,” Beam said. “It’s what she wants. She’s probably already got her toothbrush packed.”

“If it’s what she wants, why are we doing it?”

“Not much choice. And it sends the right signal.”

“She won’t shut up in jail,” da Vinci said. “She’ll find a way to send her own signals to her adoring public.” He jumped and batted something away from his face. “Friggin’ moths!”

“I saw it,” Jackson said. “It was a bat.”

“Jesus H. Christ!”

“I’m mostly interested in signaling one member of her public,” Beam said. “The Justice Killer.”

Light spilled out of the tent as the uniform held the flap open. “We’re ready, sir,” he said to da Vinci.

Beam led the way inside. His show.

The illumination from the portable lights inside the tent was almost blinding and left no place for shadows to hide. It was hot in there. There was no strong odor, only a faint musty scent.

Harry’s casket was made out of some kind of smooth, light colored metal that looked as if it might have been buried yesterday. It sat on a couple of four-by-fours that had been laid across the open grave. It was open. The cemetery workers, the uniform, Jackson, all stood back away from the casket. Beam and da Vinci edged forward to look.

Harry hadn’t held up as well as the casket. One glance at what was left of his face, and Beam looked away. It wasn’t Harry’s face he was interested in, anyway.

There was Harry’s reattached right hand, awkwardly extending from his faded blue suit coat sleeve.

The gaudy ring was still there—much too large for Harry now—on the withered, leathery hand. Hand that had touched Nola. Beam swallowed and turned away.

“That it?” da Vinci asked.

“It,” Beam said.

Jackson moved in with a camera and began photographing. With any luck, Harry could now rest beneath the earth forever.

“So the ring in the shop is a duplicate,” da Vinci said. “But why is it there?”

“Not for Nola,” Beam said. “For me. To taunt me. To let me know he’s aware of my relationship with Nola and can do something about it any time he chooses.”

Da Vinci squinted at him in the blinding light. “You got a relationship with Nola Lima?”

“Something like,” Beam said.

“I don’t care for this, Beam.”

“It’s what moved our freak friend to go to a lot of trouble.”

“And expense.”

Da Vinci went back out into the night, and Beam followed.

“Helen was right about him wanting to taunt you,” da Vinci said, standing with his hands in his pockets. “One for the profiler.”

“The ring borders on a threat,” Beam said. “To me and to Nola. And there’s something else in it for JK—misdirection. We’re doing this instead of breathing down his neck.”

“He had to have the duplicate ring made somewhere,” da Vinci said. “The jeweler will remember working off the photographs and ring descriptions that were in the news. We can find him.”

Beam stood gazing around the cemetery, at the silent, leafy trees black against the dark sky, at the tombstones and statuary pale in the moonlight. It didn’t seem peaceful to him. He had the eerie feeling that everyone buried there was aware of what had been done tonight to one of their own, and was dismayed by it. Blamed Beam for it.

He shuddered and began walking toward where the cars were parked near a stone angel on a narrow, winding road. “I’m getting out of here,” he said over his shoulder. “You gonna hang around a while?”

“Not friggin’ likely,” da Vinci said, and hurried to catch up with him.

Maybe he felt what Beam did.

Rest in peace, Harry. It’s easier down there than up here.

47

“I didn’t know you were a lawyer,” Adelaide said.

“In a previous life,” Barry told her, “and not actually a criminal lawyer, but I’m still a member of the bar. They had no choice but to let me in to see you.”

They were talking on phones, separated by a thick sheet of Plexiglas. Three chairs down, another detainee was talking to his lawyer. With the phones, it was impossible to eavesdrop.

“So you’re my lawyer as well as my agent.”

“I’m your agent, Ad. We’ll get you the real thing when it comes to trial attorneys. Are they treating you okay?”

“I don’t like it in here, Barry. It smells like that pine stuff they use to clean restrooms. Smells that way all the time.”

“Other than that.”

“Nobody’s hit me with a rubber hose.”

“They better not. Half the people in this city would run over this place.” Barry leaned closer, as if it made a difference over the phone. “We’re going to get you out of here, Ad, but not too soon. The media are all over this now, but wait till they see some Free Adelaide demonstrations. I’ve got three spontaneous ones all planned. Big one in Central Park.”

“Wow! I wish I could be there, Barry.”

“For a while, it’s better that you’re not.” He looked closely at her through the clear divider, as if assessing damage. “If they mistreated you in some way…” He was looking expectantly at her now.

“I’ll tell you one thing, Barry, all the jump suits aren’t this bright orange.”

“Yeah?” He sat back.

“I’ve seen prisoners in some darker colored ones. More neutrals.”

“I guess they have more than one color, Ad.”

“I’m a natural redhead, Barry. Do you know what this goddamned color does to my complexion?”

“Ad—”

“I know how it must make me look—just hideous!”

“It’s okay, Ad, you look your beautiful self. Cute, the way the suit’s too big for you. The cuddly look.”

“If looking flushed all the time is cuddly.”

“On you it’s cuddly, Ad.” Barry stood up. “I’ve gotta go now. I’ll think of something.”

“I know you will, Barry.”

He smiled at her, and when he left, Adelaide began to cry.

Really.

Three of them. It would take a while, but they could cover most of the places in New York to see if anyone sold the duplicate ring lately, or created it using old newspaper photographs. They divided the list of shops and wholesalers, then split up. Sometimes Beam carried the duplicate ring to show jewelers, sometimes Nell or Looper had the ring.

By the end of the second day, no one had recognized the ring, or the hallmarks or characteristics of whoever had created it. Beam did learn, on his first stop at a small shop in the diamond district, that Nola had it wrong—the ring was worth about two thousand dollars. It was fourteen-karat gold, and the rubies were glass. The diamonds were real, but of low quality. All as Nola had said. Still, two thousand dollars. Because of the gold and the workmanship. That would be wholesale, the jeweler had said. Insure it for three thousand.

So they did learn one thing: The Justice Killer probably wasn’t poor, though maybe not particularly rich.

Another odd thing: Harry’s unearthing seemed to draw Beam and Nola closer together. There the past had been, lying in a casket, and they’d survived the encounter and reburied it. It no longer conveyed ambiguous obligation, and it wasn’t nearly as threatening as the present.

No longer were they haunted.

Later that evening, but well before dusk, Beam was walking with Nola in Central Park. The heat had let up, and there was a nice breeze rattling the leaves overhead. Nola had briefly held hands with Beam, then gently withdrew her hand. They were strolling side by side, but close together. Beam was coming to realize that trust and forgiveness didn’t come overnight.

Nola said, “Some cop’s been hanging around the neighborhood near the antique shop.”

“I know,” Beam said. “I arranged for you to have protection.”

“I don’t think I need it. There’s no reason the Justice Killer would be interested in me.”

“He left that ring in your shop. And he knows how I’d feel if anything happened to you.”

“He’s also scaring away some of my customers.”

“They’re not selling you hot Chippendale and Limoges, are they?”

“I don’t know, Beam. And I don’t ask.” She glanced over at him and smiled. “I’m glad to know you’re learning something about the merchandise.”

“Learning about you,” he said.

They slowed, then stopped, in the shadow of a large elm. No one else seemed to be around. The wind kicked up, bending the tall grass in a field that stretched away toward a low stone wall and Central Park West, stirring the leaves over their heads so they alternated dappled light and darkness like a dancehall’s reflecting mirrored ball. Beam leaned down and kissed Nola on the lips, and she kissed him back, slowly, letting it linger. Thinking about it.

No words afterward. Beam thought, Lani. Almost, I’m sorry.

Almost.

They continued walking along the path. Nola had his arm now, leaning her head lightly against his shoulder. Beam wondered what she was thinking. Was it about Harry? He hoped it wasn’t about the past. They should be thinking about the present and future. They could do that now.

“What’s that?” Nola asked, pointing ahead and off to the left.

Beam looked, squinting into the lowering sun. There were trees there. Movement that suggested people. A park entrance.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Looks like some kind of demonstration.

Even as he said it, he understood what he had loosed.

Melanie settled in before a large tuna melt with fries and a chocolate milkshake. Food comforted her, especially here, in her favorite diner on First Avenue. There was always a pleasant scent of simmering spices here. The help was friendly. There were signed and framed black-and-white photographs of celebrities hanging on the wall behind the counter. Real celebrities. Frank Sinatra, Lani Kazan, Miles Davis. People who created real music.

The tuna was warm, and the milkshake was almost cold enough to give Melanie a headache. She felt better. Some of her anger at again trying futilely to see Richard Simms fell away. At least now, and for the next fifteen minutes, she’d have exactly what she wanted.

The door opened and a man wearing badly wrinkled khakis, a T-shirt lettered FREE ADELAIDE, and worn jogging shoes entered and sat at the table directly across from hers. Melanie’s annoyance meter climbed. There were plenty of other places in the diner to sit, so why did he have to crowd her? She doubted it was her looks—not right now, anyway. Her hair was mussed, she’d been perspiring heavily, and irritation must show on her face.

She glanced again at the lettering on his T-shirt.

“Adelaide Starr,” he explained.

“Ah, the woman who refuses to serve as a juror.”

“She’s my hero,” the man said. He was in his mid-thirties, well proportioned if slightly pudgy, and had his own hair and regular features. Worth talking to, Melanie decided, then reminded herself she’d sworn a private oath to hate all men.

Of course all men weren’t like Cold Cat. They couldn’t be. “She’s my hero, too,” Melanie said. “I don’t think anybody should have to serve on any jury. I think we should just electrocute people like Richard Simms.”

“Forgive my asking,” said the man across the aisle, “but who’s Richard Simms?”

“Cold Cat, the rap art-singer.”

“That guy who killed his wife and walked. Yeah. I don’t dig his music. Sounds like somebody banging his head and scraping his nails on a blackboard at the same time.” The man ordered, only coffee, then turned his attention again to Melanie. “So what do you care about Cold Cat? You glad he’s free to make more noise?”

“Hardly. I think he killed his wife.”

“You and lots of other people. I followed the trial in the papers. Witnesses had him someplace else when she was killed. That didn’t leave the jury much choice but to acquit. Personally, I think if he didn’t do it himself, he hired it done.”

Talking about the trial was bringing back Melanie’s anger. She’d saved Cold Cat’s life, and now he refused even to be in her company. “One witness was currying favor from the police,” Melanie said. “The other hero-worshipped Cold Cat.”

“You think they were lying?”

“Of course they were lying.”

“So how come the jury didn’t see it that way?”

“Why do sheep cross the road?”

“Maybe they wanted to show they weren’t afraid of the Justice Killer,” the man suggested. He accepted a mug of coffee from the waiter, sipped it, then decided it needed cream and poured some in from the small white pitcher on the table. He stirred noisily with his spoon. “Human nature.”

“That kind of false bravado might have helped to get him off,” Melanie agreed. She finished half her tuna melt and sipped at her milkshake. The ice cream in the shake made the roof of her mouth ache so the pain spread higher in her head, behind her eyes. Does everything good in the world have to bring pain?

“I personally think all that legal stuff comes down to who has the best lawyer,” the man said. “That’s the way this country works.”

“Oh, Simms had a good lawyer. He could afford the best.”

“You seem to know a lot about the trial. You manage to get into the courtroom and actually see any of it?”

“No,” Melanie said, “just followed it in the papers and on TV. I don’t think you had to be there to know Cold Cat killed his wife.”

Suddenly her appetite left her. She managed to finish her milkshake, then she asked for a take-out box for the other half of her tuna melt and most of her fries. Tomorrow’s lunch.

“When I finish this coffee,” the man said, “I’m gonna take a cab over to the park. There’s gonna be a Free Adelaide demonstration. The bastards threw the poor little thing in jail.”

“I didn’t know that.” Too wrapped up in my own problems.

“You wanna join me?”

“Thanks, but I’m too tired. Way too tired.”

The waiter came with the take-out box, and Melanie carefully transferred her half sandwich and fries.

“Nice talking to you, Melanie,” the man said, as she headed toward the cash register near the door.

“Same here.”

“Have a nice evening.”

It wasn’t until she’d walked several blocks and was descending the steps to a subway stop that she realized something was bothering her.

“Nice talking to you, Melanie.”

Try as she might to reconstruct their conversation, she couldn’t remember telling the man in the diner her name.