Chill of Night n-6

by John Lutz

  Da Vinci wiped his face with an invisible rag and looked pained. “Coming undone, hooked on killing, feeling the pressure. You’ve been pretty much right all the way down the line, Helen, but that’s not the picture I’m getting of this guy. He kills only those he considers to be the bad guys, who for one reason or another beat the system, or helped someone beat it.”

  “There’s an endless supply of those,” Beam pointed out.

  “He can kill as often or seldom as he chooses,” Helen said. “And he no longer feels he’s simply meting out justice. Whether he knows it consciously or not, he kills to avenge imagined wrongs, but he also kills for pleasure.”

  “Sexual pleasure,” Looper said. “Like all the rest of his kind.”

  “Uh-huh,” Helen said. “It’s a turn on for him, and he’s reached the point where he has to admit it to himself.”

  “What we need from you,” Beam told her, “is a good guess at who might be the next victim.”

  Helen looked thoughtful, crossing her arms beneath her tiny, tall-woman’s breasts and staring at the floor. “The more unraveled our guy becomes, the more difficult it is to predict his next intended victim. Self-revelation can be an agonizing, ongoing event. He’s in the stage where his own perverted logic is seriously breaking down as he’s developing a different, undeniable concept of himself. One he doesn’t like. That’s why he might make a mistake.”

  “Do you figure him to go after a high-profile victim?” Looper asked.

  “Could be,” Helen said. “He thinks he has an adoring public to play to.”

  “He does,” da Vinci said. “Read the editorial page in this morning’s Times. Fifty-six percent of their readers view the Justice Killer as a hero. Seventy percent want Adelaide Starr released.”

  “Do they want more courts, better staffed, and with more judges?” Beam asked.

  “Wasn’t in the poll.”

  “What did they think of the NYPD?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “It’s a thankless job,” Looper said.

  Everyone stared at him.

  “I wish I had a cigarette,” he said.

  “Another thing that’s coming up empty,” da Vinci said, “is trying to trace that cop costume.”

  “It’s only been four days,” Beam said. “We’ve covered most of the costume rental shops. Now we’re checking S amp;M suppliers.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sado-masochism,” Looper explained, still playing with his pocket.

  “Cop uniforms are sometimes used in…sexual psychodramas,” Nell said.

  Da Vinci stared at her. “How would you know this shit, Nell?”

  “I read.”

  “We all read,” Looper said.

  Nell shot him a look. Thanks.

  “The other possibility,” Helen said, “is that the uniform’s genuine, and the Justice Killer is a cop.”

  “Just what every cop on the force dreads,” Beam said. He turned to Helen. “A bent cop? Does it fit your theory?”

  “It could. Lots of frustration goes with the job.”

  “Tell me about it,” Looper said.

  “The revolving door of crime and courtroom,” da Vinci said. “Sometimes it makes me wanna kill somebody myself, but I can’t see a real cop doing this.”

  “It isn’t likely,” Beam said, “but eventually we might have to focus on the possibility.”

  “Hell to pay in the department,” da Vinci said.

  “Other things might turn up in that kind of internal investigation, derail a lot of promising careers.”

  “We’ve both seen it happen,” da Vinci said. He sat forward in his chair. “But we’re not to that stage yet, and we’re gonna nail this Justice Killer prick before we start pointing fingers at each other. When that kinda thing starts happening, nobody wins.”

  “Adelaide Starr does,” Helen said.

  Da Vinci clutched his throat as if he might be having trouble breathing. “Stay on the costume thing,” he said to Beam in a choked voice. “Make it a goddamned costume and not a real police uniform.”

  “We’ve still got plenty of places to check,” Looper said.

  Da Vinci nodded. “Yeah, I know. S amp;M suppliers.”

  Nell said. “There’s another possibility.” She found herself actually feeling sorry for da Vinci, who’d staked his career on this investigation. He was looking at her like a dog that had just been whipped and then offered a treat.

  “There is?”

  “Theatrical suppliers,” Nell said.

  Da Vinci had been expecting more. He slumped back in his chair, uncheered by Nell’s note of hope.

  “That it?” Beam asked da Vinci, wanting to get to work.

  “It,” da Vinci said. Under his breath, he muttered, “Theatrical suppliers…”

  As they were filing out of his office, he added, “Break a leg.”

  “Those the only cop costumes?” Nell asked.

  The man behind the counter in Ruff Play, in the East Village, said, “The ones for women come with high-heeled boots.”

  “Sure,” Nell said. “I used to wear six-inch heels when I was in uniform.”

  “Now there’s something to contemplate.” He smiled at her. He’d said his name was “Erbal,” like in the garden.

  “Spelled with an aitch?” Nell had asked.

  “Exactly, but pronounced the old-fashioned way.”

  He was in his thirties, about six feet tall but terribly thin. Even features, sharply defined cheekbones, dark chin stubble trying to be a goatee. Maybe good looking, if he filled out.

  Nell pointed to the NYPD-like uniforms displayed on wooden hangers. “The swastika, that on all the shirts and caps?”

  “We deal in fantasy here, Detective.”

  “I can see that.” Nell let her gaze roam over the leather goods, vibrators, and shrink-wrapped dildos arranged on a pegboard behind the counter.

  “If it means anything,” Herbal said, “you don’t look like a fascist to me.”

  “Nevertheless,” Nell said, “I’m going to need the names of people who bought or rented cop costumes in the past few months.”

  “You can understand, a place like this, we don’t like giving out our clientele’s names.”

  “You can understand, a place like this, we can close it down in a wink.”

  “My, you can be dominating.”

  “Even arresting.”

  “We don’t rent here, only sell. And to tell you the truth, Bad Cop has kind of gone out of style. Though you could certainly bring it off, if you’re interested in buying a uniform. I’d alter it so it was skin tight.”

  “Thanks, but I see enough rough stuff in my work.”

  “It can be more a mental thing.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Herbal excused himself and went behind a curtain that led to a space behind the pegboard. Nell tried to stop looking at some kind of electrified dildo that featured attached but independently movable rubber protrusions. The thing was seventy-five dollars. It must do something.

  Herbal was back with a slip of paper, and a yellow stub of pencil that he tucked behind his ear as if he were playing a newspaperman in an old movie.

  “Two sales of Bad Cop in the last three months,” he said. “Two customers, a man and a woman. Here are their names and addresses. As you can see, they live in the neighborhood.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Not personally. I’ve seen the woman around. And the man comes in here now and then and buys something.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “Magazines, usually. Sometimes a book.” Herbal pointed to a rack of magazines and paperbacks.

  “What’s the subject, usually?”

  “Bondage and discipline, S amp;M, that sort of thing.”

  “Male on female?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the woman?”

  “I don’t know her orientation. She bought the uniform, and that’s the only time I’ve seen he
r in here. Other’n that, just passed her on the street.” Herbal bit his lower lip. “Detective…”

  Nell waited.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell them where you got their names, or how you found out they bought the uniforms.”

  “I can try to keep that confidential, Herbal, depending on where the investigation leads.”

  He grinned, greatly relieved. “If there’s anything you might need…” He made an encompassing gesture with his right arm.

  “Maybe that electric dildo,” Nell said. “The foot-long one that looks like it’s grown warts. Is it waterproof?”

  “Detective!”

  Nell laughed, thanked Herbal for his cooperation, and headed for the door.

  “Remember,” said Herbal’s voice behind her, “confidential.”

  “If I have to name my source,” Nell said, “I’ll tell them I tortured it out of you.”

  “Detective!”

  Nell thought it was fun sometimes, being a cop in New York.

  64

  Looper figured he’d make one more call before lunch. Proper Woman was listed as a company that specialized in theatrical props and other supplies, and it was located in Tribeca, near a Greek restaurant that served great baklava, which to Looper was almost as satisfying as a cigarette after a meal.

  The entrance to Proper Woman wasn’t impressive. Nor was the building itself, an old brick and stone five-story structure a block off Broadway. The inside of the building was warmer than outside. In fact, the damned thing was a kiln. Looper wiped sweat from his face with a wadded handkerchief.

  He had to trudge up a narrow flight of stairs to a converted freight elevator, which he rode to the top floor.

  What he saw when he stepped out of the elevator was a vast, sunlit array of…everything. And it was cooler here. There was a system of shafts and vents suspended from the ceiling. Looper gazed out over sets of furniture, a suit of armor, long rows of ornate chandeliers, cases of paste jewelry, racks of firearms, medieval weapons, a rowboat, an antique car, staircases leading nowhere, a section of white picket fence, and racks of clothing. Including various uniforms.

  Looper had phoned ahead, but saw no one. Then a slim, gray-haired woman appeared from behind some artificial shrubbery and smiled, holding out her hand. “Detective Looper?”

  Looper shook her hand, careful not to squeeze. She was in her seventies and obviously had once been beautiful. “I’m Laverne Blisner.”

  “Let me guess,” Looper said, “you used to be an actress.”

  The smile brightened. “Close enough. I was a dancer. Now I do this.” She waved an arm gracefully-like a dance movement. “My husband and I went into the theatrical supply business twenty years ago. Now I and my daughters own and manage the company. We furnish play productions with just about anything, and if we don’t have it, we find it.”

  “I can’t imagine you not having it,” Looper said.

  “Have you seen Fiddler on the Roof?”

  “Several times,” Looper lied.

  “Our roof.”

  “Amazing.”

  “You mentioned uniforms when you called.”

  “Yes. New York Police uniforms.”

  “What period?”

  “Present, or at least recent.”

  “Got ’em.”

  “No surprise, Laverne.” Such an innately lovely woman, he found himself wondering what her daughters looked like.

  Laverne danced-or so Looper thought-over to a rack of clothes that weren’t uniforms, but Southern belle dresses with lace-laden hoop skirts. “Let me explain that most of our clothing is used. Those in charge of dressing a major play have their designs, their costumes, tailor-made. We get them after the plays close. Then, of course, smaller productions come to us to rent in order to economize.” Laverne obviously enjoyed explaining things, and might do so in detail for a long time.

  “If you’d show me the NYPD costumes.”

  She smiled and led the way through more racks of clothing, past a genuine stuffed grizzly bear that gave Looper the creeps, then to more clothing, including a rack of blue uniforms. Looper saw what looked like nineteenth-century police uniforms, then later, nineteen-twenties stuff, with less defined shoulders and the standard eight-point caps that were still worn. Other time periods were covered. The uniforms seemed to be arranged in chronological order. The last two on the rack looked modern enough to pass.

  Looper held them out separately from the other uniforms. “Have you rented either of these lately?”

  “Not for months. Those are from an Off-Broadway production, Rug Rats.”

  “Never heard of it,” Looper said honestly.

  “Well, it didn’t last very long. But there was a bit part in it for a policeman who patrols a lovers’ lane.”

  “A policeman? There are two uniforms.”

  “Everyone but the critics and the public expected the play to have a longer run,” Laverne said. “And costumes have to be rotated so they can be cleaned, or the first several rows of the theater would notice. That distinctive dress you see in a play is actually at least two dresses.”

  “I get your drift,” Looper said. He glanced around. “But lots of these clothes, you only have one of.”

  “Oh, maybe some are rented out, or maybe we only received one costume because its mate was damaged. And it isn’t unusual for one or more of the actors to like an article of stage clothing and, after the play closes, keep it for personal use, or maybe as a souvenir. But if you’re looking for a recent police uniform rental, I can’t help you. I’m afraid cops aren’t in great demand on Broadway.”

  “Except outside the theater, to control traffic when the shows let out.”

  Laverne smiled. “I get your drift.”

  They began walking idly back toward the freight elevator.

  “We have all the decorations, patches, and badges to go with the uniforms,” Laverne said. “I’m sure we have a badge exactly like yours.”

  “You’re starting to make me uneasy, Laverne.”

  “I mention it because I’m assuming you suspect someone is impersonating a policeman and committing crimes.”

  “It’s a theory,” Looper said.

  “The Justice Killer?”

  Looper only smiled.

  “He’s the one on everybody’s mind,” Laverne said.

  “Certainly our celebrity killer of the moment.”

  “I don’t like what he’s doing. I don’t see him as a hero. And I think that Adelaide Starr bitch needs a good spanking.”

  Looper’s smile turned to one of gratitude. “That’s pretty much the way we see him. And her.”

  “I’m also letting you know it’s possible he could be passing for a real policeman, right down to the details and identification. That kind of merchandise is available in this city.”

  Looper already knew that, but he said, “You’re not making me feel any better.”

  “Well, that isn’t why you came here.”

  She smiled at him and pushed the button that opened the elevator door.

  Uptown, Bradley Aimes returned from a lunch with his accountant and jogged up the steps to the entrance to his apartment building. He was plenty worried. The IRS, those were people you didn’t mess with. Harv, his accountant, kept telling him not to fret so much about the audit, or he’d get sick. But Harv didn’t know that some of the receipts for business and travel expenses were copies of previous years’ receipts, with the dates artfully altered. Harv was a stickler and would have been shocked to know. But hell, everybody did that kind of thing. It was a guy on a golf course in New Jersey who’d first given Aimes the idea, said he’d been doing it for years. You just had to be careful to use receipts that were more than three years old.

  Well, the IRS agent hadn’t figured that one out yet, and Aimes sure wasn’t going to clue old Harv in. Harv was the kind of guy who spilled his guts about everything. Some of the things he’d said about his wife…

  Ah! There was something s
howing through the vertical slots in Aimes’s mailbox. Probably ads, or maybe something else from the Internal Revenue. Well, better check. Might be a check. Aimes had a fifty-dollar rebate check coming from when he’d bought some computer equipment last month.

  He crossed the hexagonal-tiled lobby floor and fit his key in the brass mailbox with his name over it.

  That’s when the headache struck.

  An explosion of pain.

  A dizzy sensation. Everything moving, moving.

  What? Stroke or something…?

  Too much strain because of the audit. Harv had warned him about worrying too much. He tried to take a step, but his foot moved through air. Odd. Harv had…

  That’s the ceiling, stairs leading up and up and up. How’d I get on the floor?

  The wind…It’s so cold…How’d I get in a boat?

  I’m only five. I shouldn’t be alone in a boat.

  In the dark.

  Looper had finished his Greek salad and was about to bite into his baklava, when his mobile phone buzzed.

  He’d removed his suit coat and had the phone out of its pocket, lying next to the condiments on the table where he could get to it, so he answered after only two buzzes.

  “Looper,” he said simply, knowing from caller ID that it was Beam.

  “It’s Beam, Loop. We’ve got another Justice killing.” He gave Looper a West Side address, while Looper used sticky fingers to grip a pencil and write on a napkin. “Victim’s name is Bradley Aimes.” He spelled it out for Looper.

  “Isn’t that-”

  “Yeah,” Beam said. “The asshole who killed Genelle Dixon.”

  “Allegedly.” Looper licked his fingers.

  “I’ll meet you there,” Beam said. “Nell’s on the way.”

  Looper was already signaling for a take-out box for his baklava.

  65

  Murder was popular. The narrow vestibule of the brownstone apartment building was so crowded that half a dozen cops and CSU personnel were standing outside. Tenants were directed to a basement entrance usually accessible only to the super. Several windows were open above, and people leaned out of them, silently watching what was going on below.

  Beam flashed his shield but didn’t go all the way into the vestibule, simply leaned in and saw Bradley Aimes’s body on the bloody tile floor. Aimes was lying on his back, his eyes open and gazing up the stairwell but seeing nothing. Techs were tending to business with their tweezers and brushes and plastic bags. A photographer was sending brilliant flashes over the scene every ten or twelve seconds. The little mustachioed ME, Minskoff, was stooped next to the body. He glanced over and saw Beam.