by John Lutz
Lloyd sat first, in a corner of the sagging sofa. Nell and Lloyd took the green chairs, which meant that Greta and Gina sat side by side next to Lloyd. Mother and daughter looked like an aged and younger version of the same woman. In the apartment upstairs someone began playing a piano. Not loud enough to be a bother, but it was clearly audible. Nell thought she recognized the tune from her childhood’s brief run of piano lessons; something by Beethoven, Fur Elise. It was often used as a piano exercise.
“Did you two ever meet Aimes?” Nell asked Greta and Lloyd.
“Never laid eyes on him,” Lloyd said.
Gina gave a slight smile like her mother’s. “Genelle was too smart to bring him around.”
“Why do you say that?” Nell asked.
“He was older than the rest of us. Twenty-six, as we learned during the trial. But he looked younger. We thought he might be nineteen.”
“Did he act nineteen?”
“He acted even younger. For us. Our crowd was fifteen and sixteen. He seemed like an older kid to us, but not that much older. I’m twenty-one now, and I realize how he was manipulating us.”
“Did he hang with you because he didn’t have friends his own age?”
“Exactly,” Gina said. “He was too mixed up and too big a prick.”
“Gina!” A cautioning word from her mother, who laid a hand on Gina’s knee as she spoke.
“I’m only telling the truth, Mom.”
“I know, dear.”
The piano player upstairs reached the end of the piece. Something, maybe a bench leg, scraped over wood.
“Brad was useful to us,” Gina said. “He bought us liquor, using what he said was fake ID. And a couple of times he got us weed or crack.”
“Gina!”
“It was all in the trial, Mom.”
“She’s right,” Nell said. “We read the transcript.”
“Then why are you here?” Gina asked. “Do you think one of my parents is the Justice Killer?”
Nell smiled. “They have alibis. So have you, by the way.”
Gina seemed taken aback. She hadn’t considered herself a suspect in anything, much less a series of murders.
“We do preliminary work before interviews,” Looper explained.
“The night your sister was killed,” Nell said, “you were at a pajama party. How come Genelle wasn’t there.”
“She and the girl who gave the party had an argument the day before and hadn’t made up. So instead of being at the party, she wound up in the park with that scum Bradley Aimes, and she wound up dead.”
“You have a way of driving to the truth,” Looper said. “You should be a cop.”
“Never. They should have shot Bradley Aimes when they had the chance. Then they shouldn’t have let him go free after he killed my sister.”
“We’re not going to argue those points,” Nell said.
“You’d lose if you did. Genelle is dead. Bradley Aimes is still partying with his rich friends.”
“Things have a way of leveling out,” Looper said.
Gina laughed without humor. “I don’t see much that’s level in the world.”
“What are you doing now?” Nell asked.
“You mean do I have a job? No, except for part-time work as a food server. I go to school at NYU. After…what happened, I went into a kind of bad period, then I got my GED and started my life again.”
“Have any of the three of you noticed anything unusual lately in your lives?” Nell asked. “Anything worth remarking on? Don’t hesitate or dismiss anything as too trivial. We never know what’s going to be important.”
All three seemed to think about it. Greta and Lloyd shook their heads no. Gina said, “The Justice Killer. I keep hoping he’ll broaden his range of victims and get around to Bradley Aimes.”
“I wouldn’t wish that, Gina,” Lloyd said wearily.
“I don’t see why not.”
“It wouldn’t bring Genelle back.”
“But we’d all be able to sleep better, wouldn’t we?”
Lloyd sighed. “Yes, we would.”
“Lloyd!” Greta said, in the same tone she’d used to admonish Gina. “Let’s leave retribution up to God. Agreed? Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Lloyd said. “I was only spouting off, getting rid of my anger. They-these detectives-brought it all back, the night we heard about Gina.”
“I’m sorry,” Nell said.
“We both are,” Looper told the Dixons. “Sometimes our job isn’t so pleasant.”
“Thank you,” Greta said. “We understand. Gina?”
“Yeah, sure, I understand.”
“Gina?”
Gina looked at her mother. “What? I said I understood.”
“About retribution being up to God,” Greta said. “I didn’t hear you agree.”
“I agree,” Gina said. But nothing in her expression suggested that she meant it.
The piano started up again. Same tune.
When the detectives were gone, Gina returned to her room, where she’d been playing Castle Strike on her computer, a game wherein a futuristic Delta Force patrol invades a medieval castle and slays various armored knights with high-tech weapons. Glittering pieces of polished steel and various body parts flew in all directions from fiery explosions. It was a colorful game.
After only about fifteen minutes, she left the computer and stretched out on the bed with her eyes closed.
The detectives’ visit had opened wounds never fully healed, and triggered more and darker thoughts of Bradley Aimes. He was one of the evil knights-no, every knight-she’d slain in the castle. As insensitive and self-involved as a vicious animal, Aimes wouldn’t be suffering as she and the rest of her family were right now. Probably he wouldn’t be thinking of Genelle at all, since he’d been exonerated of her murder. People like Aimes lived in castles impossible to haunt.
But he’d murdered Genelle.
Like all those people who’d responded to endless media polls, Gina was positive of his guilt. Aimes had murdered her twin. Her other self.
And hadn’t paid for it.
Gina had paid and was still paying, and what a dear price it was. And Gina still hated Bradley Aimes. Not only was he the reason Genelle was dead, he was the reason for all of Gina’s nightmares. Twins were not like other people. The pain of her sister’s death was still a powerful force in Gina’s life. What Aimes had done meant to Gina a grief that became part of a soul no longer whole, difficult sessions with an analyst, medication, and nights that presented horrible dreams of a dead Genelle who lingered like a specter in the daylight.
Gina knew a sad truth she’d heard from other unfortunate twins: when one twin dies, it’s almost as if the other also dies, only without stoppage of breathing or heartbeat. Gina was left alive in the conversational sense of the word, but part of her was missing, glimpsed in agonized memory only in shadows or unexpected reflections in mirrors or shop windows.
The part of her that remained craved vengeance the way an addict craved a drug.
Her need to avenge her twin’s death might have been the reason Gina read all the true crime literature she could find, and had followed the Justice Killer investigation so carefully in the news. She knew that a copycat killer was briefly suspected in the murder of one of JK’s victims. The concept of a copycat killer more and more fascinated her. She’d researched such killers thoroughly, who they were, why they killed. It was surprising, in widely publicized cases, how often they killed. Surprising to most people, anyway, but not to the police.
Might a copycat killer murder the killer of her twin? Her other self? Fair and just. Double double.
There was no reason a copycat killer had to be motivated only by the unreasonable compulsions Gina read about in the crime literature she so tirelessly consumed. It wasn’t as if there was a law. Injured ego, feelings of inferiority, and a powerful lust for attention didn’t have to be the reasons a copycat killed.
Vengeance would do just fine.
If Gina asked, Eunie would forge her initials on some tabs, establishing Gina’s presence at work at the time of…say, a murder. Eunie would never admit she’d done such a thing, mainly because she wouldn’t believe for a moment that Gina had stalked and killed someone, even if the someone was Bradley Aimes. Not until it was too late and she couldn’t admit to a lie without implicating herself.
If it ever came to that.
The Justice Killer was widening his qualifications for victims. Bradley Aimes would seem a logical choice. Especially if an exonerated guilty defendant like him were to be killed by the real Justice Killer.
Then a copycat killer would probably get away with claiming another JK victim. If the Justice Killer were killed rather than arrested, no one would ever know or even suspect. If the police arrested him and he stood trial, who would believe anything he said?
Gina opened her eyes and saw nothing but the swirling maelstrom of her own thoughts. Her own desires.
A copycat murdering the killer of a twin. Double double. Such an intriguing idea.
Mom and Dad would approve, though they surely wouldn’t say so.
They didn’t have to know. The secret would be forever held between Gina and Bradley Aimes, and Genelle.
Well, something to think about.
Gina scooted sideways on the bed, then stood up and returned to sit at her computer, where Castle Strike waited.
The battle was rejoined.
John Lutz
Chill of Night
31
The creme brulee was delicious.
Nell wore her good navy blue dress, pleased that it still fit so well, along with a cream-colored light jacket and navy high-heeled shoes. A string of white pearls completed the simple but-she thought with some surprise when she looked in her full-length mirror-fetching outfit.
Fetching. A strange description. Yet a man like Jack Selig probably could convince some women to fetch for him. He looked like something off the cover of a romance novel, with his chiseled good looks, his flawless grooming, his casual beige sport jacket with just the right amount of gold flashing when he raised an arm to expose a cufflink or wristwatch. This guy was every mother’s dream, but not for her daughter.
“Did I mention that you look stunningly beautiful?” he asked.
“Not that I can recall,” Nell lied, spooning in the last of her dessert. Outside the dark windows, topiary pinpointed with strings of tiny white lights looked like earthbound constellations. Inside, the light was soft and flattering, the food and service excellent. Nell could almost believe there was a world where this kind of ease and quality could be a daily occurrence.
And of course there was such a world. And Jack Selig could afford it.
“Consider yourself told for the first time tonight, then,” he said.
The waiter arrived and topped off their coffee. Selig’s gaze strayed for a moment away from Nell. She needed the break. It was a relief not to be regarded as an object of worship.
“Are we going to be honest with each other?” she asked.
He looked back at her, slightly surprised. “Or course. We’ve taken the oath.”
Nell didn’t recall any oath, but then he might have slipped it in somehow. “What were you thinking just a moment ago?” she asked.
“Of how much you resemble a younger Iris.”
Jesus!
“I hope that doesn’t upset you,” he said.
“No. Well, yes…At the same time, I guess I’m flattered.”
“You see my problem,” he said.
“Yes. But I’m not sure I’m the solution.”
“Oh, I know you’re not. No one is. But believe me, I enjoy being with you not only because of your resemblance to my late wife, but because of who you are.”
“But you don’t know me that well.”
“Maybe better than you think. I have connections, Nell, and I confess I used them to gather some information about you. I know that you’re spirited, generous, smart, and ambitious.”
And that I’m divorced and assumed by some to be a killer cop.
Nell wasn’t sure just what to make of this. “That’s all not very specific.”
“I’m not that interested in specifics, more in who you are. I know you’ve had marital problems in the past, and some scraps. Some run-ins with superior officers. I don’t care.”
“Mr. Selig-”
“Jack.”
“Jack, I’m not Iris.”
“I don’t expect you to be, wouldn’t want you to be. Would never ask that you be.” He sipped his coffee and smiled at her. “You look confused.”
“Is it companionship you want, Jack?”
“More than that, Nell. But we pledged honesty-”
Did we?
“-and the pathetic truth is that I’ll take what I can get.”
“Don’t expect-”
“-I would never expect. Anything.”
Nell looked across the candle-lit table at him. “I don’t think you could ever seem pathetic, Jack.”
He was obviously greatly pleased. “Ah, what you can do for me. Do I sound selfish?”
“Sure. We’re all selfish.”
When they were finished with coffee, Selig paid the check, leaving an outsized tip, probably to show off.
Outside the restaurant, the evening had cooled and a breeze carried the fragrance of nearby flowerbeds. There was a bright half moon, with only a few clouds scudding across the night sky. It wasn’t far to the edge of the park and the brighter lights of the city.
“I can dismiss the driver and we can walk,” Selig suggested.
“Fine,” Nell said. Though her feet might start to ache in the high heels, she was tired of sitting down.
She watched as Selig walked over and talked briefly with the driver behind the wheel of their waiting white stretch limo, paid him, no doubt with a generous tip, and returned to her. Two women entering the restaurant gave him more than a passing glance. He was trim and moved like a much younger man. Nell could believe he was interested in more than companionship.
“Sure you’re not afraid strolling in the park at night?” he asked, taking her arm.
“It’s not that far,” she said, as they began to walk, “and usually there’s a cop nearby.”
32
It was too warm in the jury assembly room. Melanie thought that might be on purpose, so juries would come in sooner with their verdict. One of the jurors asked the bailiff, who was standing just outside the door, to kick up the air conditioning. He smiled and complied. It made no difference.
Light spilled in through grilled windows that didn’t allow for much of a view. Heat seemed to rise from the humidity-damp wood table and chairs, along with a subtle scent of furniture polish and painful deliberations past. No one on the jury thought this was going to be brief.
Melanie was the foreperson, primarily because no one else wanted the job.
The eleven other jurors stared at her for guidance. Each had a legal-size pad in front of them on the table, on which to make notes, but after only a preliminary discussion, Melanie suggested they take an anonymous vote and find out where everyone stood. So pieces were torn from the top sheets of legal pads and used simply to write “guilty” or “not guilty” on, then folded and passed to Melanie.
She unfolded and tallied them on what was left of her top yellow sheet. Three abstentions. Two not guilties. Seven for conviction.
“I’m a ‘not guilty,’” she said.
“What’s your reasoning?” asked Juror Number Three, a greengrocer from the Bronx named Delahey. With his rimless glasses, refined air
, and conservative suit, he looked more like a college professor than anyone in the room.
His question was a good one, because Melanie simply knew that Richard Simms-Cold Cat-wasn’t a killer. “The time element,” she said. “If Simms was seen outside Knee High’s apartment around the time Knee High said he was there, he wouldn’t have had time to cross town on foot, or even by cab or subway, to his own apartment and murder his wife.”
“Barely time enough,” said Juror Number One, Mimi, a dance instructor who looked like, and in fact was, an aging ballerina and was always dressed in black.
“And for time to be a factor in the defendant’s favor,” said Number Eight, a portly, sweaty gentleman who was a financial analyst, “we would have to believe Merv Clark. And, frankly, I didn’t find him credible. Nor did I find his wife credible when she testified as to what a sterling husband he was.”
“She almost made you think her broken teeth were her fault,” said the ballerina.
“Clark might be a wife beater, but he was slightly more credible than Knee High,” said Number Two, a freelance writer named Wilma King who lived in the Village. “Why should anyone believe anything said by someone who’s legally changed his name to Knee High?”
“Because he was under oath,” said Melanie.
Several of the jurors laughed. Others looked at her as if they were having second thoughts about her being foreperson.
“If you believed Clark, you don’t have to believe Knee High,” Melanie pointed out to Wilma.
“I know. And I believed Clark’s testimony.”
“There’s also the fact that Edie Piaf was shot,” Melanie said, “and Simms didn’t have any powder burns on his hands.”
“He could have worn gloves, like the prosecution said.” Delahey the greengrocer added.
“Knee High and Clark were both lying,” Mimi said. “This seems to me like a slam dunk.”
“I thought you were a dancer, not a basketball player,” said a gray-haired man at the far end of the table. Number Twelve, Walter Smithers. No one laughed. A few of the jurors groaned.
“My preliminary vote was guilty,” said Delahey, “but I’m not firm on it. I’m willing to listen to reason.”
