by John Lutz
He was hanging around just inside the entrance to the Meredith Hotel, trying to remember a joke he’d recently heard, when he recognized Quinn’s daughter. She was on the arm of a guy in a well-cut blue suit and carrying a white box that looked as if it might have flowers in it. He and the girl made a good match. She was a looker, though still young and not as filled out as Neeson liked them. The guy she was with was a nice enough looking sort, with a medium-size, athletic build and a head of full wavy blond hair worn a little too long.
Neeson figured Quinn might already know she was here. She could even be on her way upstairs to see him.
But she and her date—looked like a date, anyway—made a left turn away from the elevators and walked down the corridor leading to the hotel’s pricey restaurant, the Longitude Room.
A date, then. Neeson envied the guy. He recognized Lola, Laura—whatever her name was—from seeing her hanging around Pearl Kasner. Pearl acted like she wanted the girl to scram, but Neeson would have taken just the opposite position, even though the kid wore that glitter thing screwed in the side of her nostril. Why the hell did they do that?
There was a joke about those nose studs, but he couldn’t remember that one, either. He maintained a large repertoire of jokes because it helped to keep the memory sharp, which was useful in his work. If only he could remember the damned things…
For a few seconds Neeson thought it might be worth calling upstairs and letting Quinn know his daughter was in the building, just in case, but what was the point? The guy she was with must be okay, if Quinn’s own daughter was going out with him and could vouch for him.
Movement over by the lobby entrance caught his eye.
Here came a little guy with a carry-on slung by a strap over his shoulder, wearing baggy khaki pants and a black golf shirt, an airline ticket folder sticking up out of his breast pocket like a badge saying, “I am a rube tourist.” Yeah, sure. He fit the description and like a lot of other men resembled the old photo of the suspect, only he was probably too short. Way too short.
Still, it paid to be thorough.
Neeson knew dozens of short guy jokes. His vertically challenged partner had once filed a complaint against him. Neeson was soon transferred out of the precinct. He kept an eye on this short guy checking in, waiting until the man had shooed away the real bellhop, who wanted to carry his bag, and strode off toward the elevators.
Soon as the elevator door closed on the guy, Neeson was at the desk. Getting information fast on these mopes was major in this operation.
The guest’s name was Larry Martin. He was from Sarasota, Florida. Neeson used the phone to call in the information to Fedderman, who called back within minutes and said the name and address checked out, and reminded Neeson the suspect was medium height, an estimated five-feet-eleven inches tall. The information on Martin’s Florida driver’s license had him at five-feet-five inches.
“Didn’t look even that tall,” Neeson said. “But maybe his legs weren’t all the way out.”
“I don’t follow,” said Fedderman’s voice on the phone.
“A joke, a joke,” Neeson said. He had to struggle not to laugh.
“You’re a smart-ass for a bellhop,” Fedderman said, and hung up.
Two hours later, Neeson didn’t notice Lauri Quinn and her date emerge from the restaurant corridor and walk toward the elevator.
Lauri was tired but happy, and hanging on Joe’s arm this time for support as well as show. One of her high heels turned in slightly as she walked. Her date still carried the long white box. A gift he’d promised to show her after dinner, when they were upstairs in the room he’d reserved.
She sat on a small bench for a minute or so, while the elevator made its way down. He still held the white box beneath his arm. She thought he looked amazingly handsome, standing there. The finished product.
Neeson came in from talking to the doorman outside and observed them getting into the elevator but didn’t think much of it. They were probably on their way up to the sixth floor to see Quinn, or maybe they were going to a room and the guy was going to be doing what Neeson wouldn’t mind doing.
He told himself not to let his imagination run away with him. This was the daughter of one of the shrewdest, toughest homicide detectives the NYPD had produced. Better to get crossways with tyrannosaurus Rex. If the blond guy didn’t know that and was going to tap the kid, good luck to him.
Neeson leaned with his back against a wall, almost out of sight over by some potted palms, and paid attention to the other guests coming and going, to the real bellhops hustling to get their bags and stack them on luggage carts. It looked to him like a hard job. Those guys deserved their tips.
Not that they didn’t also have some fun. There must be a thousand jokes about bellhops.
Pearl was in 624, the room down the hall from Myrna Kraft’s, seated at the corner desk and wearing the headphones again. Not that there was much to hear other than what might be the faint sound of Myrna breathing deeply in her sleep. Myrna had gone to bed and didn’t even snore. Which kind of aggravated Pearl, who’d been told that she, Pearl, softly snored, at times.
Quinn was standing at the window again, peering out at the night and using his cell phone to check on positions since their two-ways didn’t work worth a damn in the prewar building with its thick walls. Pearl could hear him talking, but with the bulky earphones on her head had no idea what he was saying. Her back was getting sore from sitting so long, and she was getting bored.
She kept one earphone on and used her own cell phone at her other ear to check her machine at home for messages.
There were two. The first was a reminder of a standing appointment for a mammography next Monday. The second was her mother, berating her for not calling or showing up for her lunch with somebody named Milton.
Milton?…
Then Pearl remembered—she was supposed to be introduced to Mrs. Kahn’s incredibly eligible nephew at lunch at the assisted living home. Pearl had stood him up, along with her mother and Mrs. Kahn.
Pearl breathed hard through her nose. Damned complications! She didn’t need this crap. Not now. Not ever.
Screw it! Screw all of them!
Pearl refused to let her anger rise. She had her life to live. She didn’t need coercions and complications from her mother or Mrs. Kahn or her nephew Milton—from any of them, especially her mother. She didn’t deserve it and wouldn’t put up with it. She felt like spitting out her guilt.
“Something?” Quinn asked, noticing the puckered expression on her face.
“Nothing!” Pearl said.
Screw all of them! You, too!
He turned back to the window and his cell phone.
Sherman glanced at his watch and saw that it was past midnight. Time to move.
He’d used a larger ketamine dose this time, figuring it just right. Lauri had made it okay on the way up in the elevator, and into the room. She couldn’t have gone much further without her legs giving out.
She’d slept deeply at first, but now she was conscious again, if barely, seated in a wooden chair, her arms and legs taped to the chair’s arms and legs, a rectangle of tape firmly fixed across her mouth. She wasn’t going to make a sound. She wasn’t going anywhere. She and the chair were one, as if they’d been manufactured together out of a single piece. The white box was on the floor behind the chair, where she couldn’t see it.
So far, he was pleased. Everything was falling neatly into place.
Her fearful eyes followed him as he moved about the room. He thought she’d still be unconscious if she weren’t so terrified. He smiled at her. She looked back at him hazily, bewildered. Poor girl. In her mind, time had slipped a cog. Was maybe still slipping. There was so much she didn’t understand.
He slipped off his suit coat and laid it carefully folded, lining out, on the bed. Then he removed his shoes and tucked the legs of his suit pants into the tops of his black socks. Her eyes watched him, wondering.
Let her watch.<
br />
He swiveled her chair slightly so she could see in through the open bathroom door.
After winking at her, he scooted a second, smaller armchair into the bathroom, placing it just so. Then he returned and from the white box withdrew a nine-millimeter handgun, a key-chain penlight, a long screwdriver, and a large folding knife with a thin blade. He preferred to use the knife, but the gun was an added measure prompted by the fact that he knew full well he was entering a trap.
Though not the way his pursuers anticipated.
The hotel renovation plans had made it simple. Many of the building’s original air vents had been retained, and additional ductwork was installed to facilitate air-conditioning. The ceiling vent in the bathroom was twenty-eight by thirty inches, and led to a steel duct that connected to other ductwork, including that for the bathroom vent in the room one floor below and one over, room 620. The rectangular ducts were lined on the outside with insulation beneath three-quarter-inch wallboard, so not only were they spacious enough to crawl through, they would allow for fairly quiet passage.
Sherman stood up on the chair and used his screwdriver to remove the vent cover, then propped the steel enameled grate against a wall.
With knife in pocket and gun and screwdriver tucked into his belt, he took a long last look at Lauri, whose eyelids were fluttering.
She’d make the perfect hostage, if he needed one. But either way, later, at his leisure…
With the brimming confidence of the chosen, he lifted himself into the vent.
64
Lauri opened her eyes wide and watched the dark pants and socks disappear as Joe wriggled his way up into the ductwork.
She was exhausted but able to stay awake—mostly due to fear. That time she’d drunk too much with Joe and gotten sick had stayed in her memory. No way was she going to let it happen again. She’d thought they were not only going to have sex tonight but that it would be something special. He’d told her as much, took her to a swank restaurant, then a hotel room. She didn’t want to mess things up by getting so drunk she’d be sick. So before and during dinner, when he wasn’t watching, she’d transferred most of the contents of her vodka martinis into her water glass.
Most but not all.
She understood now the missing segments of her memory, her unnatural weariness, her nausea. She’d been drugged, and it wasn’t the first time. If she’d consumed all the contents of tonight’s drinks, she’d probably be unconscious now.
Lauri had no idea what Joe Hooker was up to, but she knew who he was. She’d heard Pearl and her father mention the Meredith Hotel. And of course she knew what case they were working on.
She decided not to use what energy she had blaming herself and trying to figure out how she got here, how she could have been so naïve. She’d instead use her time and energy trying to get away.
She was taped so tightly she couldn’t move her arms or legs even an inch, and there was no way she could use her tongue or jaw movement to work the tape across her mouth loose.
The Butcher was a professional. She’d heard her dad, Pearl, and Fedderman speak of him almost in admiring terms. She shuddered, cold even though he hadn’t yet undressed her. That would come later. Whatever his plans, they wouldn’t include her surviving the night.
She craned her neck and saw the phone on the nightstand by the bed. It seemed far away.
Desperately she tried to shift her weight, rocking the wooden chair back and forth. Several times she almost toppled, making her catch her breath, but eventually she captured the knack of using momentum to move the chair gradually across the carpet, toward the phone, inch by inch.
And when she got there?
She’d worry about that when—if—it happened.
He was cautious moving through the ductwork, occasionally using his penlight to see ahead of him. Progress was slow, but it wasn’t difficult for him to propel himself forward using his elbows and knees. Mainly, he didn’t want to make too much noise.
And he didn’t. He soon developed the knack of not lifting his elbows and knees, only sliding them and then increasing and decreasing pressure, as he used them to gain traction. Once he heard voices from below, a man and woman arguing, like a distant radio or TV playing too loud. Another time he heard a phone faintly ring, once, twice, then silence. He reasoned that if he could barely hear these sounds, anyone near them wouldn’t be able to hear the slightest of sounds he might make in the ductwork.
While the duct provided enough space for movement, it was still cramped. Confining. No place for someone claustrophobic. Or less determined.
There was some difficulty in quietly dropping to the ductwork for the floor below, but he was careful, bracing with his arms against the sides of the duct so he didn’t lower himself too quickly, breaking his fall with his hands. There was no way to change position; everything had to be done headfirst. He began lowering his weight.
Quiet! Knees or toes mustn’t bounce…
There! Perfect! Hardly any noise at all.
He was just above the sixth floor now, and could see yellow light where bathroom fixtures glowed up through the ceiling grates. His mother’s room should be the first haze of light, about twenty feet away. It was late and she should be sleeping. Was she awake, with the light on, afraid of the dark? Of monsters from the past?
Sherman had been holding his breath. He let it out now and began breathing evenly. He wasn’t afraid. He was part of the dark. He was the monster.
She had created him.
He tucked the penlight into his pocket and worked the screwdriver from beneath his belt, holding it before him as he began squirming again toward destiny and toward the light.
Twenty feet.
Ten.
Blood calling to blood.
He was almost there.
Down in the lobby, Neeson was saying to the real bellhop, “Did you hear the one about the bellhop who…”
It was late, and the bellhop, a middle-aged Asian man named Vam, was the only one on duty. Not that he had anything to do except listen to this red-faced cop tell bad jokes, after each of which Vam would laugh politely.
“…tip? I thought you said ‘trip,’” Neeson said, and grinned hugely.
Vam laughed. “Good. Very funny!”
He was a part-time student at NYU, going for a psychology degree. Neeson interested him in a way the blustery cop wouldn’t have liked.
Across the street, in the dark doorway of a luggage shop, undercover officer Frank Weathers, part of the NYPD’s Fugitive Apprehension Team, sat on a blanket in his ragged mismatched suit and raised a brown paper bag to his lips. The bag didn’t contain a bottle, though; it concealed his two-way, which he could slip up an inch or so out of the bag. The reception wasn’t good enough to carry on a real conversation, but he could report in to Quinn and let him know everything outside the front of the hotel looked okay. It was late enough that most of the activity in and out of the lobby had slacked off.
Weathers was tired. He’d been at his observation post for hours and wasn’t due for replacement until 3:00 A.M. He bowed his head so his ear was near the mouth of the bag and he could hear Quinn’s static-marred reply: “…’Kay.’”
He heard a car engine and glanced to his right. There’d been no need to contact Quinn. Fedderman was approaching in his unmarked.
The car barely slowed as it passed Weathers’ OP, and the two men exchanged looks and slight nods. Myrna Kraft was still safe in her bed.
In her bed, anyway.
Staying in character, just in case he might be under observation himself, Weathers pretended to take a long pull from the imaginary bottle in the bag.
The night was warm, there were roaches on the sidewalk, and Weathers was sweating profusely and itched under the ragged clothes.
He wished he could have a real drink.
65
“Maybe he isn’t going to show,” Pearl said. She slid one of the earphones back a few inches so she could hear Quinn’s reply. He was still
at the window, where he spent almost all his time except for when he was pacing restlessly or using the bathroom. Pearl thought he must be feeling the same doubts that had crept into her mind.
Quinn turned away from the view outside to look at her. His face, never a thing of beauty in the conventional sense, was a series of rugged, worn planes that would have put Lincoln to shame on Mt. Rushmore. “You think all of us are wrong?”
“All of us being us two, Feds, and Renz? That’s not so many.”
“You forgot Helen,” Quinn said.
“Yeah. The profiler. I thought you distrusted those people.”
“She’s got a pretty good track record,” Quinn said. He turned back to the windowsill and picked up the cup of coffee he’d made with the brewer that came with the room. He took a sip, regarding Pearl over the rim of the paper cup. When he lowered the cup and swallowed, it made a noise suggesting that his throat was dry. “Remember Haychek?”
Pearl remembered, though it hadn’t been her case. Three years ago, Brian Haychek had killed six women in New York and New Jersey. He also turned out to live in the same building as Helen Iman, had even served with her briefly on the co-op board. “Helen had him wrong,” Pearl said.
“She had him right, far as the profile went. She just didn’t know it was Haychek.”
“Her neighbor,” Pearl said. “They knew each other. Helen should have figured it out.”
“That’s why she didn’t figure it,” Quinn said. “You can be so close to somebody you don’t see them.”
“That’s awful metaphysical for”—Pearl glanced at the bedside clock—“well past midnight.”
“Not at all. It’s like you’re sitting alongside somebody and observing them from only a few inches away, then trying to identify them from a distance. From so close up, you haven’t really seen the symmetry of them, and it can blind you as to who they really are.”
