by John Lutz
Paula got out her notepad and copied it.
“He’s not a suspect, is he?”
“I dunno,” Bickerstaff said. “Why do you ask?”
“I can tell you Gary’d never kill anyone. I mean, I know the guy some from seeing him around here. In my job, you can just tell about people. Guy’s probably got the balls of a field mouse.”
“We won’t tell him where we got his name and address,” Paula said, figuring Lightfinger might be afraid of Gary, whatever the size of his testicles. “While I’m writing things down, what’s your real name, Lightfinger?”
Lightfinger looked confused. “Lightfinger. Ethan Lightfinger. I’m from Canada.”
“Ah!” Paula said, and wrote.
“And I’m not worried you’ll tell Gary where you got his name. I’m just trying to help out by letting you know he’s not the kinda guy who’d kill somebody. For Chrissake, I told you the guy’s an accountant!”
“You think accountants never kill?” Bickerstaff asked.
“Can you name me one?”
Bickerstaff was stumped.
“What about bartenders?” Paula asked. “Can they be killers?”
“Never,” Lightfinger said. He swallowed hard. Had to ask. “Can they be suspects?”
“All the time,” Bickerstaff said.
They thanked Lightfinger for his cooperation and left. Paula tried hard not to glance back.
Horn read the name Sayles had given him: Goesling. No first name. Horn sighed. Maybe Goesling was one of those people like Sting or Bono who had only one name. But then, would he have chosen Goesling?
Whatever, Horn stood closer to the phone and punched out the number after the name. It had an unfamiliar area code.
Only two rings, then a man’s voice said hello.
“Er, Mr. Goesling?” Horn asked.
A pause. “Who is this?”
Horn explained who he was. Then: “Royce Sayles suggested I call you. You do know Royce Sayles.”
“Know of him.”
“He said you might be able to give me some information about a secret Special Forces unit. It’s a police matter, Mr. Goesling. Homicide. More human life might be at stake.”
“A secret Special Forces unit? Shouldn’t you be calling the military?”
“I thought maybe I was.”
“No.”
“But you do know what I’m talking about? A top secret elite combat unit that engages in black operations?”
Again a pause. Longer.
“Tell you what,” Goesling said, “I’ll call you back. Not right away, maybe.”
“Sure. Listen, I understand you have to be-”
But the connection was broken, the empty line droning in Horn’s ear.
Goesling had been cryptic, all right. And maybe not much help. His weren’t the loose lips that might sink ships.
Horn replaced the receiver harder than was necessary. Not military, my ass!
He hadn’t asked what Horn meant by black operations.
Horn had made the call from a public phone rather than his brownstone. Everyone had caller ID these days.
Caller ID probably would have designated that his call had come from a public phone. Yet, when Goesling told Horn he’d call him back at some point, he hadn’t asked for a number. He probably already knew Horn’s number.
This stirred the hair on the back of Horn’s neck.
Neva Taylor stood brushing her hair and staring out her apartment window. At last she had something she’d always wanted: a view of Central Park.
The apartment itself was smaller than she’d imagined for herself. Her promotion after landing the Massmann Container advertising account hadn’t come with a commensurate salary that allowed for the penthouse she was certain was her eventual destination. Neva, a tall redhead who’d been a cheerleader as well as president of the Women’s Political Forum in college, was long on ambition and knew how to attain her goals. It didn’t hurt that she had large green eyes, a film-star figure, and was stunningly attractive even without the minimal makeup she wore. Her 147 IQ didn’t hurt her chances, either. Add to that artistic talent and a marketing degree, and here she was, a rising star in one of the biggest advertising agencies in the country.
So she was only temporarily satisfied with this fortieth floor, one-bedroom co-op in the Weldon Tower, one of the most desirable addresses on the Upper East Side. She wouldn’t have been satisfied with it at all except for the Central Park view. In fact, she’d purchased it because she knew she’d have an inside track in the future when one of the penthouse apartments came on the market. She figured that in less than two years she’d be able to afford one. She already had the unit she wanted picked out. It was a spacious three-bedroom, and it had the same view as the smaller, lower unit she’d bought. Sooner or later the present owner, a man who managed a chain of exclusive jewelry stores in New York and Philadelphia, would move. And Neva was prepared to make him an irresistible offer if he wasn’t inclined to move. She’d be able to afford it. Neva planned early and with confidence.
She turned away from the sweeping green rectangular vista below and surveyed her living room, then the view over a serving counter into the modern kitchen. Neva had moved in only six busy weeks ago, but still the place had a comfortable lived-in look. The living room had a sofa and chair, dark blue to contrast with the soft gray carpeting, an asymmetrical mahogany coffee table from Bloomingdale’s, brass lamps with fluted white shades, red throw pillows, and accent pieces that included a large Bingham print mounted on the wall behind the sofa.
Near the table in the entry hall hung an unlettered rendering of the Massmann Container Industry full-page ad, a succession of foam cups, each larger than the other, about to collapse together in the manner of subsequently larger fish following and about to devour each other simultaneously. It didn’t match the rest of the expensive decor, but Neva didn’t mind. The advertising artwork did, after all, represent what was responsible for that decor and the co-op unit itself.
She leaned forward slightly so her forehead rested against the cool glass of the window. This was like a dream, the way her career had unfolded since she’d arrived in New York. Maybe it was true what the gas-bag politicians kept saying, that if you played by the rules, good things could happen. She gazed down at the street that seemed miles below. She was moving higher in the world. She felt herself ascending even as she stood there motionless.
She gave herself a mental jolt of reality. She didn’t need the penthouse. Not quite yet. This was a suitably comfortable and impressive apartment. And a safe one. The first three floors of the Weldon Tower featured elaborate stonework and curlicued iron bars over the windows. Then the building stair-stepped upward in three soaring, offset planes, with gleaming windows set like a pattern of rectangular jewels.
At least they’d seemed that way when Neva had first laid eyes on the building in the bright morning sunlight.
No need for bars on her windows to distract from the view. Here she was high above the rest of the city. Here she was secure.
The Night Spider sat on the park bench in the dusk and studied the Weldon Tower through small but high-powered Leica binoculars. What was the woman doing, standing so close to the window, leaning out as if there were no glass between her and the outside world, as if she might be about to take flight? It appeared that her forehead was actually touching the smooth glass pane. Light from a lamp somewhere behind her shone through her flaming red hair, setting it aglow like the lowering sun.
Moving the binoculars only slightly, the figure on the bench took in the buildings on each side of the Weldon Tower. They were considerably smaller, falling short of the Tower’s height by about ten stories. That was all right. The Night Spider knew that the back of the Weldon, facing the opposite block, was only thirty-five stories, and within reach from the roof of the building behind it. The lower building was snugged up to the Weldon to form a completely enclosed air shaft that was sheer brick wall above the fourth floor.
>
To reach the Weldon’s roof, the Night Spider would have to scale ten stories of that wall above the air shaft, avoiding windows overlooking the shaft. Ascent before descent and the prize-the confection to be wrapped and consumed from the inside out. He would not let this one lose consciousness except for brief periods; he would patiently, painfully, draw her out through her eyes. Until. .
He moved the binoculars back to the fortieth-floor window.
The prize was no longer visible.
The Night Spider studied the building a while longer, counting windows horizontally and vertically, occasionally making notes in a small pad on his lap.
“Wacha lookin’ at, Mister?”
A blond boy about ten, in jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, was stooped down and tying his shoe near the bench.
“You should get out of the park,” the Night Spider said. “It’s going to be dark soon. Not a safe place.”
A wide, confident grin. “It’s okay, I’m with my mom.”
Trudging along the path about a hundred feet away was a large, lumpish woman pushing a blue baby stroller. She was moving slowly and looked tired.
“So wacha doin’, spyin’ on people?” There seemed no hostility or disapproval in the boy’s question.
“Peregrine falcons,” said the Night Spider.
“So what’re those?”
“Birds that hunt other birds. They live in angles and on ledges of buildings high up and snatch other birds right out of the air.”
“Sounds neat.”
“It is neat. That’s why I’m a bird watcher. In case your mother asks what the stranger you were talking to was doing. Bird watching. It’s my hobby. I especially like peregrine falcons.”
The boy raised his eyebrows curiously. “So these falcons just fly over an’ grab the other birds, like pigeons or somethin’ just flyin’ along, an’ then eat them?”
“That’s pretty much it. They do it fast. Things flying along up high aren’t as safe as they think.”
“And you watch it?”
“That’s why I’m here. I watch it and write down what happens.”
The boy started to say something more, but his mother called sharply and he waved a hand and bolted away to join her. His sneakered feet made soft slapping sounds on the paved path.
The Night Spider watched the slight, receding figure for a while, then raised the binoculars back to his eyes.
Found the correct window.
. . aren’t as safe as they think.
12
“Schnick as in prick,” Bickerstaff said, as they climbed out of the unmarked.
“Try to behave,” Paula told him.
Gary Schnick’s building didn’t have a doorman, but when Paula and Bickerstaff entered the spacious, rather shabby lobby, a fat man in gray overalls watched them with a sideways gaze from where he sat on a sofa. The lobby had a cracked gray-and-white-tile floor, red concrete planters with obviously fake ferns in them next to the scattered furniture, and an odor that suggested insecticide.
Paula and Bickerstaff studied the bank of tarnished brass mailboxes.
“He’s in 106,” Paula said, spotting Schnick’s name above one of the boxes in the top row. Something white was visible through the slot; Schnick hadn’t picked up his mail today. Above the name slot was an intercom button, but Paula could tell by the many layers of paint over it that it didn’t work.
“Help you?” a smoker’s hoarse voice asked behind them. “I’m the super.”
It was the guy in the overalls, looking much bulkier now that he was standing.
“We’re looking for Gary Schnick,” Bickerstaff said, showing his badge. “So far we found his mailbox.”
The obese super’s complexion turned the drab gray of his uniform. His reaction interested Paula. Bickerstaff, too. They moved closer to the man.
“I can tell you he’s not home,” the super said. Paula noticed he smelled like stale sweat and cigars.
“What else can you tell us?” she asked.
The super’s doughy face widened, and flesh beneath one of his eyes began to tick. His mouth worked for a few seconds but no sound came out. Clearly there was an inner struggle going on here.
“Gary didn’t mention any police,” the super finally said.
“So what did he mention?” Bickerstaff used his quietly menacing voice. Watching all those Clint Eastwood movies paid off.
“Said where he was gonna be,” the super spoke up immediately. “Told me to call him if anybody came around looking for him. Didn’t mention any police, though.”
“Police you got,” Paula said. “What’s your name?”
“Ernie Pollock.”
Bickerstaff made a show of writing it down. “Okay, Ernie, what can you tell us about Schnick?”
Pollock sucked in air, expanding his already immense torso. “Nice guy, is about all. I don’t hardly know him well enough to tell you more’n that. He does some kinda accounting work in his apartment. He offered once to do my taxes. I told him, hell, they ain’t that complicated. My girlfriend Linda does ‘em for me. She says we’d get married, only it’d cost us.”
“Seems to cost everyone,” Paula said. “Ever known Schnick to have overnight female guests?”
Pollock rubbed his sleeve across his glistening forehead. He was sweating as if he were working at it. “Once in a while, is all. But, hell, he’s young and single. There was never anything like a parade up there.”
“He ever cause any kind of trouble?”
“Not in the slightest. I said he was a nice guy. I’m kinda the unofficial doorman here, and he springs for a nice gift at Christmas, which is more’n you can say for some of the other cheap bastards that live here.”
“Now the big question,” Paula said. “Where might we find Mr. Schnick?”
Pollock suddenly turned even paler, fixing his gaze beyond Paula. “There,” he said hoarsely. “Right there.”
Paula turned around to see a short, dark-haired man about forty, wearing wrinkled khaki pants and a perspiration-soaked blue shirt with a red tie plastered askew across his chest. His face was pudgier than the rest of him, which was actually kind of thin. Paula thought Lightfoot was right to wonder what Redmond had seen in Schnick.
When he saw Paula and Bickerstaff with Pollock, Schnick’s jaw dropped and he broke stride, actually did a little skip. His body language became pure babble. First, he almost whirled and bolted, but then he took a stride toward them trying to look casual. Then he shuffled his feet and veered away from them. No, he was back on course now. He knew he had to keep coming toward them, but his body wouldn’t accept the message.
“He always do the hokey-pokey when he comes in?” Bickerstaff asked.
When he drew closer, Schnick nodded at Pollock. “Ernie.” For a second he seemed to consider walking on past, toward the elevators.
Bickerstaff stopped him with one hand placed lightly on the shoulder; he flashed his shield with the other hand.
“They’re cops,” Pollock said unnecessarily.
Paula tried to catch Schnick when she saw him turn a pasty color. He was so slippery with sweat that he oozed through her arms and sank to his knees.
Ow! Jesus! She’d bent back a fingernail.
Schnick’s eyes rolled back, and she managed to hold on to a handful of damp hair and ease his descent, but with the sore finger she couldn’t stop him from going down the rest of way to lie curled and unconscious on the cracked tiles.
Horn settled into his usual booth at the Home Away. Anne had wolfed down her toast and orange juice at home, then hurried off to her job at the hospital.
It had become their weekday-morning ritual. Horn would rise first and put on the coffee, then share caffeine and conversation with Anne during her breakfast. It used to be that those times were comfortable, their conversation easy and about the trivial but necessary things a man and his wife discussed. But since the lawsuit Anne hadn’t been sleeping well and was almost always irritable in the mornings. Horn fo
und himself looking forward to her leaving, so he could finish getting dressed, and then on some mornings, walk over to the Home Away to have his own leisurely breakfast while he read the Times.
There was something about her distance and distraction, their increasingly frequent separation-both physical and mental-that bothered him, but maybe not as much as it should. In some ways it made him feel like a young cop again, on the Job, doing something worthwhile with his life.
Searching for a killer.
Though the booth Horn sat in wasn’t that near the window, morning sunlight reflected off the windshield of a parked car and angled in low to cast a rectangular pattern over the table and the newspaper spread alongside his coffee cup. The sun’s warmth felt good on his bare forearms as he read. Part of him was thinking how pleasant sitting there was, how this wasn’t a bad way to spend a morning.
The news was front page above the fold, emphatic for the Times. The caption read serial killer might be operating in new york. The text was factual and matter-of-fact, and referred to the killer as the Night Spider only once. It had always amused Horn how the Times always politely referred to male suspects as Mr., and he almost expected to come across Mr. Night Spider.
He finished reading the piece and pushed the paper aside. Then he picked up the Post he’d also bought after seeing its headline: night spider nails another. The following story contained pretty much the same general information as the one in the Times, though the prose was more sensational. In bringing to the attention of the citizens of New York that a prolific and particularly horrific serial killer was in their midst, it used the term Night Spider twenty-three times.
In both papers, the story was at the very least unsettling.
“I see we’ve got another one of those guys killing his mother over and over,” Marla said, as she topped off Horn’s coffee.
“They don’t all do that,” Horn said.
“I know. It’s a lot more complicated than that. I read in the paper you came out of retirement to handle this case. What made you do it?”
