Текст книги "Chill of Night"

Автор книги: John Lutz

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

48

“It’s a mob,” Nola said.

Beam said, “Not quite yet.”

He estimated there were about a hundred people. They streamed silently into the park from Central Park West. They were flanked and followed by news vans and media types on foot, some of them lugging cameras. Many in the crowd were carrying signs, but from this distance, and in the failing light, Beam couldn’t make out what the lettering said. A few had flashlights, even what looked like lighted candles, which they waved around or held high.

The crowd was led by a man and a woman who strode out about twenty feet ahead of everyone, maintaining their distance. There was a businesslike eagerness about these people. Beam thought that if everyone had rifles and uniforms, they would have looked like those Civil War reenactors who replicate famous battles—the advance and silence before the shouting and shooting. They seemed to know exactly where they were going.

Their destination was the wide area of windblown grass Beam had been admiring. In the approximate center of the field, the two leaders stopped and waved their arms, gathering people closer together, bringing in stragglers. The media vans and personnel took up position, quickly set up equipment, and suddenly the area was brighter than noon. So much for flashlights and candles.

The crowd began to chant. Beam and Nola couldn’t make out what they were saying, so they moved in closer.

Beam wasn’t surprised that the chant repeated what most of the signs said: “Free Adelaide!” Other signs declared that the city didn’t care about its citizens, and that cops were the tools of fascists. The lettering was neat and all of the same type; obviously the placards had been turned out by a sign shop or similar printing facility. Of course, computers these days…

“Are you really a tool of fascists?” Nola asked.

“Have been for years,” Beam said.

The chants were getting louder, the crowd more raucous. Television cameras did that to people.

Someone had clued in the police. Two radio cars arrived, their flashing roof-bar lights creating red and blue ghosts everywhere. Beam heard sirens in the distance, getting closer.

“Time for us to leave,” Beam said. “I don’t want any media to recognize me.”

They wandered into the gathering dusk, an anonymous couple in the most anonymous of cities. The chanting had grown in volume and intensity: “Free Adelaide! Free Adelaide!” Beam tried to block it out as he and Nola angled toward the low stone wall running along Central Park West.

He climbed over the wide stones, then helped Nola.

They were out of the park now, suddenly among tall buildings, and bright, heavy traffic flowing along a busy avenue. Most of the vehicles had their lights on. The scent of leaves and grass had given way to that of exhaust fumes.

A bus rumbled past, accelerating to beat the traffic signal. When the sound of its engine had faded, Beam and Nola could still hear the chanting wafting from the park.

“A hundred or so people,” Beam said, “but on cable news tonight they’ll look like a thousand.”

“That young woman’s got this city under her thumb,” Nola said. She sounded secretly pleased.

Maybe not so secretly.

They crossed the street, moving away from the park, and strolled toward the corner. A man and woman holding hands walked toward them. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt; she had on red shorts, a white blouse, and sandals. They walked as if they were in no kind of hurry. The woman smiled and nodded as they passed. Beam thought the man looked a little like Harry Lima, but he didn’t mention it.

Without breaking stride, Nola moved closer to Beam.

“I think it’s time,” she said.

Her tone was matter of fact, but that was Nola.

He knew what she meant and didn’t ask if she was sure.

They made love in Nola’s apartment, in Nola’s bed beneath a cracked ceiling and the creaking sounds of the upstairs tenant pacing. Nola was tentative at first, but when he entered her she moaned and bucked upward and upward beneath him. Then she met his gaze and very calmly dug her nails into his back, marking him, making him hers alone. And she gave herself back to him in ways that made it clear she was his.

They lay quietly together afterward, each aware that the world had changed. Both hoped the change was for the better. Both knew that now what they thought made little difference; there was no going back for either of them.

A powerful current held them and would keep them. The fascist tool and his lover.

49

“Did you anticipate this?” da Vinci asked.

“Not so soon,” Beam admitted, “and not so many.”

They were in da Vinci’s stifling office, looking at tapes of the Free Adelaide demonstrations that had occurred throughout the city last night. The overhead fixture was off, as was da Vinci’s desk lamp. The office door was closed, and the blinds were adjusted tight to admit as little light as possible. It was as if da Vinci had prepared the office for a movie screening. Beam noticed that the small TV that usually sat on top of the DVD player on one of the file cabinets had been replaced by a much larger one; which came in handy, because several demonstrations were being shown simultaneously in split screen shots. As it turned out, the demonstration in Central Park had been the smallest.

“So what’s your advice now?” da Vinci asked, using the remote to switch off the TV just as a camera zoomed in on a demonstrator frantically waving a FREE ADELAIDE! sign.

“Sit tight,” Beam said.

“Where I’m sitting,” da Vinci said, “it’s getting tighter and tighter.” As if moved by his words, he stood up and opened the blinds. Light reclaimed the office, accompanied by harsh reality.

“The Adelaide fuss might blow over.”

“Yeah. Like a tornado.”

Beam took another tack. “We’re canvassing all the jewelry stores and custom manufacturers. The Justice Killer might have made a mistake with that ring.”

“I suspect it’s pretty much a waste of time,” da Vinci said, sitting back down behind his desk. “I think this business with the ring is just another diversion. Our killer’s too smart to have dropped such a big shiny clue into your lap unless he thought it might send you off in the wrong direction.”

“He did it because he hates me,” Beam said. “We’re getting close to him, and he knows it. It’s tight where he’s sitting, too.”

Da Vinci gave a humorless chuckle. “I talked to Helen the profiler about that. She doesn’t think he hates you. Says he hates himself, knows he’s sabotaging himself because subconsciously he yearns to be caught. It’s like a disease that grows in most serial killers, she says. The killing he’s done is beginning to haunt him.”

“What do you think?” Beam asked.

“I think she doesn’t know diddly.”

A uniformed assistant knocked, then entered the office with a tray on which was a glass coffeepot, two mugs, and a folded newspaper. A stolid, attractive woman devoid of makeup, she placed the tray near the motorcycle sculpture on the desk. Her unblinking eyes, the stiffness of her cheeks, suggested she wasn’t crazy about this part of her job.

Da Vinci absently thanked her as she left and closed the door behind her. The inner sanctum was sealed and inviolate again.

Da Vinci laid the folded Post on his desk where Beam could reach it, then began pouring coffee into the mugs. Both men were prepared to drink their coffee black, which was fortunate, because there was no cream or sugar on the tray. Was their absence an expression of disdain from the annoyed assistant? Another rebellious woman in da Vinci’s world?

“You seen the papers yet this morning?” da Vinci asked, as he poured.

Beam said he hadn’t, then reached for the folded paper, as he was sure da Vinci intended.

“Page five,” da Vinci said.

“I know,” Beam said. “I see the teaser on the front page.” He drew his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on.

On page five of the paper there was a transcript of an exclusive interview with Melanie Taylor.

As Beam scanned it, da Vinci said, “She’s changed her mind. Now she thinks Cold Cat killed his wife.”

“I can believe it,” Beam said, “but why was she dumb enough to say it?”

“You read between the lines, you can tell some asshole journalist conned her. She probably thought she was talking off the record, maybe not to a journalist at all.”

“Still, she said it. She must not have realized what it meant. Maybe she doesn’t yet. Though when she sees this she’s gonna be mad as hell.”

Da Vinci handed Beam his coffee. Beam accepted it with one hand, tossing the Post back on the desk with the other.

“Somebody else who’s gonna be mad is the Justice Killer,” da Vinci said. “He figures to go after her. Helen says its almost a cinch Melanie will be next. I have to concur.”

“We’ve got to give Melanie protection.”

“She’s already got it, even though she might not have read the paper yet and know she needs it.” Da Vinci sipped his coffee and made a face, as if he’d encountered something unexpectedly distasteful.

It made Beam hesitant to try his coffee.

“We’ve got Melanie’s apartment staked out and there’ll be a tail on her,” da Vinci continued. “We don’t have unlimited resources, so it takes some police presence away from Cold Cat. Seems the move to make, though, since Melanie all but painted a target on her ass. But I’ve gotta tell you, if the Justice Killer could get to Dudman, with all his high-priced professional security, I’ve gotta bet on him to nail this airhead Melanie.”

“Helen the profiler quote you any odds on that?” Beam asked, thinking da Vinci and Helen seemed to have been discussing things together a lot lately.

Da Vinci nodded. “She said it was about ninety percent he’d make the kill.”

“You, I, and the profiler agree,” Beam said. “What’s the world coming to?”

“You don’t want me to answer that,” da Vinci said.

Beam forgot and sampled his coffee. It was bitter.

Melanie wasn’t going in to work this morning. She simply couldn’t. It was as if the throngs of people on the streets, the commuters packed into the subway, and her colleagues at work would all know, would somehow be able to see it on her like a telltale external bruise. The callousness of Richard’s—Cold Cat’s—continued refusal even to speak to her was like a slap in the face that wouldn’t stop stinging.

Her bedroom smelled stale, and the sheet and pillow beneath her were damp with perspiration. Sleep had been impossible except in short stretches. She kept coming awake with her mind awhirl in a tempest of worries. Concerns that didn’t seem so important in the morning light, but in her dark bedroom had seemed of crisis proportions. It was her loneliness turning mean on her, as it sometimes did in unguarded moments. Or possibly the sugar in that milkshake last night before bedtime had given her an energy surge that prevented sleep. And of course there was caffeine in chocolate.

She raised her head, prompting a stab of pain behind her eyes—the sugar again. The red numerals on her bedside clock read 8:02.

After finally dozing off around 6 a.m., she’d overslept and would have been late for work even if she were planning on going in.

It wasn’t too late to call in sick, though.

She rolled onto her side and reached for the phone, then pecked out the familiar number of Regal Trucking. Waited while the phone rang on the other end of the connection.

A recording. Voice mail. Past eight o’clock and no one was in the office yet, readying the trucks for the day’s run. Melanie was annoyed, then she almost smiled. They could hardly criticize her for being sick.

She left a brief message, unconsciously making her voice husky, as if her throat were sore, then hung up.

She replaced the receiver, then lay back and closed her eyes.

Opened them.

Now she was wide awake. She reached over for the remote, then plumped up her pillow and switched on the TV near the foot of the bed.

She was astounded to see herself exiting the diner on First Avenue where she’d had dinner last night.

She sat straight up in bed. The volume was set on mute, and she was too stunned to change it.

Print began to scroll over the frozen image on the screen. Print within quotation marks. Familiar words.

Her words.

Her eye blurred with tears so she could no longer read them. Didn’t want to read them.

Who…? How…?

That bastard!

He must have been wired, recording our conversation I assumed was casual and private. A journalist! Goddamned sneaky, lying journalist, taking advantage of my distress. Another man deceiving me, using me.

Melanie hurled the remote at the TV and missed, but the impact when it bounced off the wall caused the volume to come on full blast. The bedroom vibrated under high-decibel assault.

Melanie placed her palms over her ears, as if to warm them, pressing hard enough that her head felt squeezed in a vise. She scrunched her eyes shut against the pain.

She felt like screaming.

She thought she might actually scream.

50

St. Louis, 1993

The roaring grew louder, time rushing past like wind.

Justice stood staring at the headstone, thinking it must be somebody else’s name carved there, somebody with the same name as his wife’s.

But he knew it wasn’t. April was down there, in the grave, in the dark.

She needed him!

He rose from sleep, hearing his harsh, agonized gasp, as if from somewhere outside himself.

The bedroom was silent. His pillow was soaked with sweat. More awake now, more aware than he’d ever been, he felt his mind whirling out of control. He tried to steady it, tried to slow and organize his thoughts so they made sense. There was a bitterness at the back of his throat. He swallowed.

Didn’t feel it.

Didn’t hear it.

His heart was a stone in his chest.

He made himself open his eyes and turn his head on the pillow so he was looking at April.

Of course she wasn’t there. She was still in his dream, in her grave.

She’s succeeded.

Finally, she’s ended it.

He began to breathe hard through his nose, and he lay listening to the relentless, labored hissing.

Air in, air out. Life.

She ended it. She was gone.

Nothing was the same. It would never be the same. Nothing.

His thoughts that had scattered like startled crows now settled down to roost in the familiar bleak landscape. The sadness that weighed like iron encompassed him.

And with the sadness came the rage. He blamed Davison, their son Will’s rapist and killer, for what had dealt the crushing blow to their lives. But he blamed the justice system for April’s depression and death, and for his own fury and misery.

The justice system had let their son’s killer walk free. It had made it impossible for the bereaved parents to feel the finality of the book of justice closing, ending a sad chapter. They could never even begin the gradual ascent from a dark pit of grief and anger. The justice system had done nothing to keep them from sinking deeper and deeper into the pit, and finally April had reached the bottom, where the snakes waited.

He held the justice system responsible.

Feeling his head begin to pound, as if usually did when he awoke like this at—he looked at the clock—3 a.m., he sat up in bed.

For a while he sat motionless, listening to the mournful sounds of the house at night, of the night outside. Nothing around him but night.

He held the justice system responsible.

51

New York, the present

The Justice Killer sat at a table in the nave of a church of capitalism, the Citigroup Building, and sipped an egg cream as he watched people scurry past with their packages. Though he was indoors, the space was so vast it felt like outdoors.

Some of the other tables outside the shops were occupied. A tourist couple sat at one nearby, ignoring the doughnuts they’d bought and amusing themselves studying photographs stored on a digital camera. They laughed and chattered, their heads close together. At another table, two old men played chess and ate sandwiches they’d brought from home, or at least from somewhere else, because the sandwiches had been contained in clear plastic bags that were now tucked beneath a corner of the chessboard. The stratospheric ceilings and hard marble provided a spacious, brittle chamber of sharp but subtle noises—sounds of bustle, commerce, action, hope, and desperation—the background music of New York.

The Justice Killer sipped his egg cream through a straw and was amused. The news about Adelaide Starr was excellent, providing a young Joan of Arc to unknowingly champion his cause. And he was sure he’d tipped the odds more in his favor by increasingly observing his pursuers in their attempts to trace him. Always a good idea to keep close tabs on the enemy. It had even enabled him to go on the offensive.

He knew about the growing relationship between his nemesis Beam and the woman in the antique shop, Nola Lima. A lovely, strangely restful woman was Nola, with her natural stillness, prominent cheekbones, and dark, knowing eyes. So graceful, with a purpose and economy to her movements that fascinated. If ever he did decide to kill purely for pleasure…

Which of course he would not do.

His research had given him the idea for the ring. Harry Lima’s gaudy, tasteless ring. He was sure the small, independent jeweler who made the duplicate ring in Canada wouldn’t be discovered by the police. The jeweler was, in fact, a former fence and wanted nothing to do with the law in any capacity. He’d found anonymity and refuge in the arms of our neighbor to the north. Real names hadn’t been exchanged. Even if the police did happen to locate the jeweler, he wouldn’t be able to recall exactly what his customer looked like. And it had been a cash deal—no paper trail.

Beam was becoming even more involved with the woman, which was fine with the Justice Killer. Perhaps, at some point, he would teach Beam a lesson. But as of right now, things were going well. The idiot police profiler thought he was becoming unraveled, that the executions had taken their toll on him, but in truth he was in firmer control of himself and the situation than ever. He’d become a folk hero in New York, meting out justice to the system that denied it to the masses. The city was a safer place because of the Justice Killer. Adelaide Starr’s followers were telling anyone who’d listen.

The police, Beam and his detectives, he’d sent on fools’ errands, such as the diversion of the ring. They were still wasting their valuable time with that. And they’d stepped up protection of Melanie Taylor. They’d be observing her constantly, waiting for an attempt on her life. She was, after all, the logical next victim.

So let them utilize their resources to protect her. Let her live through her nights and be afraid during her days, even though protectors were massed around her. In the case of Cold Cat, JK would for the first time execute the acquitted but guilty defendant himself. Then, later, he might focus his attention on Melanie.

It was a move Beam wouldn’t expect. That was the idea. It was Beam and the idiot profiler who thought there were overarching rules to be followed, a cosmic design they could discern and predict. Though he altered victims and methods, they thought the killer’s compulsion drove him to repeat, repeat, repeat, even if he couldn’t see the pattern.

Not so!

It would be the defendant, the murderer himself, the dangerous detritus of the system, who would die this time.

The Justice Killer raised his cup of egg cream a few inches off the table and silently toasted himself.

He and not Beam or the NYPD controlled the game.

It wasn’t only a matter of strategy, or of pride.

A free Cold Cat he could not abide.

Or neglect.

It was a matter of respect.

It wouldn’t make a bad rap song.

As he coaxed the big Lincoln through noisy and maddening Manhattan traffic, Beam wished the car were equipped with an emergency light and siren. Maybe he should put in a request to da Vinci, really get him ticked off.

Instead of double-parking near the antique shop, he saw a space about a block away from Things Past and impulsively swung the big car into it. He locked the car, then began walking along the rain-puddled sidewalk toward the shop.

Beam didn’t have a jacket or umbrella. After an initial downpour, the rain had decreased to a soft drizzle and mere inconvenience. Everything smelled fresh. Even the trash at the curb, with rainwater pooled in the creases and folds of black plastic bags, smelled okay. Or maybe it was all due to Nola’s increasing presence in Beam’s life.

He glanced at his watch. Almost six o’clock. She’d be closing the shop now, checking the bolt on the back door, getting the Closed sign to hang on the front. Or maybe an uncertain customer would be delaying her, pondering whether to buy some treasure that might be underpriced, or some overpriced junk that evoked some memory of childhood.

Beam was half a block from the shop when he noticed the man in a gray slouch hat and long, pale green raincoat standing in the doorway of the locksmith’s shop across the street. The man seemed to notice him at the same time, then turned and moved to enter the shop. Beam knew the locksmith closed at five.

As he got closer, he gained the angle to see that the man had simply retreated deeper into the doorway and was standing motionless. Though he couldn’t make out his face, Beam was sure he’d seen him before in the area of Things Past. And seen him somewhere else recently. An old cop’s mind shuffles through memory, makes connections. It might have been in the subway, or on a crowded sidewalk, or in some restaurant, but the way the guy stood, maybe the ankle-length raincoat…something, the total package, struck a chord.

There was one way to find out if he’d been following Beam: ask him.

Beam began crossing the street at an angle, obviously moving toward the man in the doorway.

That’s when the man surprised him. Emerged from the doorway then bolted and ran without a backward glance. Shot away like a scalded animal and gained ground before Beam could grasp the fact he was fleeing.

Has reason to run.

Beam took up the chase, doing a neat half turn and barely avoiding a car that slid on wet pavement. Up on the sidewalk, he hit his stride. He bumped people, sploshed through puddles, and felt his right sock become saturated, but he kept the man in the long coat in sight.

Feeling it. Getting rough now. Beam’s breath was becoming ragged, but his bad leg felt okay. He was keeping pace with the man. The Justice Killer.

Must be. Who else?

The man ahead raised an arm bent at the elbow and held his gray slouch cap on so it wouldn’t fly off as he rounded the corner onto Sixth Avenue. Busier there. He was out of sight.

Beam lengthened his stride and ran for the corner, ignoring the swish of tires on wet pavement and the horn blasts he left in his wake. His right leg was beginning to ache now. Serious pain.

Hell with it!

He almost fell as he slid and stumbled around the corner. Lots of people on the sidewalk, but the man in the long coat had disa–

No! There, crossing against the light at the next corner!

Beam gathered his strength and began running again. He was sure he’d gained some ground. If he could keep him in sight, he’d catch this bastard. He knew it!

It began raining harder again, a steady drizzle. Umbrellas blossomed, obstructing Beam’s view up the block. An umbrella spoke jabbed his cheek beneath his right eye as he veered around a woman who herself was striding fast in the opposite direction.

The eye began to tear up, causing everything to blur, but there was the man in the long coat, farther away.

Beam sucked in more breath, wincing at the sharp tightness in his chest, and ran harder. The leg was hurting badly now, beginning to pulse with pain. Ahead of him, the long pale coat moved like a graceful ghost along the crowded sidewalk, seeming to pick up speed as it passed people.

Damn, he can run!

So can this old bastard!

Beam stretched out his stride, feeling it in his groin as his muscles strained for distance. He was picking up speed. He was goddamned flying. Whatever he chased, he’d catch.

The clunky soles of his black regulation shoes beat a regular, sloshy rhythm on the wet pavement. He was running like a machine.

Then the machine began to malfunction. The rhythm of his footfalls broke, and one of his leather soles dragged on the sidewalk.

Beam was wobbling now, unable to suck in enough oxygen. His chest hurt and felt constricted. He couldn’t control his aching leg. His right knee went rubbery, and he almost fell.

He staggered to a stop, then leaned his back against the side of a parked car, knowing one foot was in the gutter and getting wet.

A fat man carrying an umbrella at a low angle stopped and stared at him. “You okay?”

“I’ll live,” Beam gasped.

“You sure?”

“Who the hell is?”

The man walked on. But several more people had stopped now and were staring at Beam. An old woman with scraggly gray hair sticking out from beneath a plastic rain cap was studying him with an expression of infinite pity.

Beam placed his palms against the cool wet steel of the car and pushed away.

There. He was standing up straight, his foot out of the gutter.

“Somebody chasing you, buddy?” a man in a hooded sweatshirt asked. He was jogging in place as he spoke, as if one word from Beam and he’d take off after whoever was bothering him.

“You want a cop?” the gray-haired woman asked.

Beam made a conscious effort to even out his breathing. “It’s okay,” he said, “I’m a cop.”

No one seemed to believe him. He thought about flashing his shield, then decided what the hell? He fastened the buttons of his suit coat, turned up its collar to keep the rain from trickling down his neck, and started walking. He was limping, but the leg felt better.

He made his way to the next intersection and looked both ways. There was plenty of pedestrian traffic, but no long green raincoat among it. And people on the sidewalks gave no indication that someone had just rushed through them, rudely and roughly elbowing them aside. At the end of the block to Beam’s right, a cop was calmly directing traffic in the middle of the intersection.

Beam turned around and walked back the way he’d come, but hadn’t gone far when he noticed that, as when he’d passed, there were no empty parking spaces on the street—except for one. And the pavement beneath the car that had obviously parked there for some time was barely marked by the steady drizzle. It must have driven away recently, minutes, even seconds ago.

The rain had started before Beam parked, spotted the Justice Killer, and began the chase. Then it had become a bare drizzle, almost a mist. It became a steadier, more persistent drizzle about ten minutes ago.

Beam stood staring at the speckled pavement. For the Justice Killer, the chase might have ended right here, where he’d scrambled into his car, hunkered down and waited for Beam to pass, then driven away.

Of course, this was busy Manhattan; somebody else—anybody—might have gotten into a car here and driven off just after Beam limped past.

But something inside Beam believed otherwise. It was the man he’d been chasing.

As he watched, the dry rectangle of pavement turned as wet and dark as the concrete around it. A dented Pontiac with a NO RADIO sign in its side window braked to a halt in the street and backed into the parking space, the driver no doubt thankful for his luck.

Beam stood and stared. This wasn’t a section of street that would be covered by security cameras. All the more reason JK might park here. There was nothing he could do now. He jammed his fists in his suit coat pockets and continued walking.

He was breathing regularly, and he noticed that the pain in his chest was gone. Actually, he felt as if he could start running again. He berated himself for giving up the chase.

Twenty years ago…

Even ten…

But not today.