John Lutz Bundle

by John Lutz

  Jill found that her hand was quaking as she raised it, made a fist, and knocked.

  She kept her eyes trained on the peephole, watching for movement or a change of light on the other side.

  No answer. No movement. No sound from the other side of the heavy old door.

  Jill swallowed, then knocked again, much harder.

  The door across the hall opened, startling her.

  She turned around and saw a small, Hispanic woman in her forties looking out at her. She had a shabby white robe wrapped around her and tied with a matching sash. Her graying dark hair was mussed. Jill noticed that her feet were bare and her unpainted toenails needed trimming. The woman said nothing, simply stared inquisitively at Jill.

  “I’m looking for Madeline,” Jill said.

  “You were knocking so loud, I thought it was my door,” the woman said, without a trace of accent.

  “I’m sorry. Do you know Madeline?”

  “Seen her a few times, is all. I’m not home a lot, and when I am…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. People in this building pretty much mind their own business. You woke me up. Made me drag my ass in here and see who was at the door. Who was nobody. I don’t mind telling you that pisses me off. I work nights and try to sleep during the day.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should—”

  “I said I was sorry. Twice.”

  The woman stared hard at her. “Apology accepted,” she said abruptly and moved back inside and closed her door.

  Jill was angry at first, and then she had to smile. At least the woman’s rudeness had broken the spell of anxiety that had come over her. Or was she the rude one? She’d awakened the woman.

  She shook her head and walked back toward the elevator. This little bit of detective work hadn’t yielded a bit of information, but she felt better. At least she’d done something instead of sitting around her apartment letting the questions eat her alive from the inside.

  She rode the elevator down to the lobby and waited while the old door took its time sliding open.

  And was startled to see silhouetted against the light a woman entering the lobby.

  Madeline!

  Or someone who looked remarkably like her. She was the same size and shape as Madeline, had the same walk, the same tilt of the head.

  Jill was rooted to the elevator floor. Couldn’t budge.

  The woman was walking toward the elevator. Toward her.

  Jill’s mind worked frantically. She’d been standing staring at the woman. She couldn’t leave the elevator now. She’d stay where she was, as if she’d entered the elevator just before the woman came into the lobby.

  Then the woman was ten feet away from her, no longer in silhouette.

  She barely glanced at Jill and entered the elevator to stand beside her.

  She wasn’t Madeline, yet she was. They were so similar that anyone might mistake one for the other at a glance or from a distance. And after seeing this woman a few times as Madeline, there wouldn’t be the slightest doubt as to her identity. At that point, even standing next to the real Madeline, this one would be chosen as the original.

  This woman was perhaps slightly taller, and of course she was well groomed, with her blond hair cut the same as Madeline’s, only clean and combed. Her eyes, her nose, the thrust of her chin, everything about her was like Madeline’s. What wasn’t like Madeline’s—the slope of her forehead, the curve and fullness of her upper lip, the slight cleft in her chin (or did the real Madeline have such a cleft?)—all seemed to achieve a balance so the end result was that she looked like Madeline.

  The woman pressed the button for the sixteenth floor, and Jill was afraid the woman might hear the wild hammering of her heart.

  The elevator door slid shut.

  Jill thanked God the buttons weren’t illuminated. The woman wouldn’t know that none of them had been pressed before she’d entered the elevator.

  As the elevator rose, Jill knew what she had to do. She’d come this far, and afraid though she might be, she’d not stop now. Despite her fear, and the chance she was about to take, she’d go further.

  But not farther up than the sixteenth floor.

  Trying to seem casual, she exited the elevator first and turned left, away from 16C. She walked slowly, and near the opposite end of the long hall she stood before a door and pretended to be fishing in her purse for her key.

  From the corner of her eye she watched the woman who looked like Madeline walk the opposite way down the hall, stop, and enter an apartment. She hadn’t glanced back at Jill, hadn’t seemed at all curious about her.

  Jill hurriedly walked back down the hall, extending her arm and pressing the “down” button as she passed the elevators, in case she had to get away in a hurry. She had to make sure. To be positive.

  With a glance at the numbered door to the apartment the woman had entered, she was sure.

  The woman had gone into 16C.

  Jill strode swiftly back along the hall, breaking into a jog so she’d be in time to enter the elevator that was waiting, door open, already at floor sixteen level.

  It seemed to take forever for the creaking old elevator to descend all the way to the lobby.

  Finally, back out in the sun and bright air of Seventy-second Street, Jill made herself walk at a normal pace away from the apartment building toward Columbus Circle. Her breath came fast and uneven, in tiny gusts that she couldn’t control. Her mind danced from one possibility to another, not liking any of them.

  Now that she had this information, what was she going to do with it?

  She remembered what mad Madeline had told her that day in her apartment: “They’ll learn about what’s going on and see that any investigation stops. And that I’ll be killed. And now that I’ve talked to you, that you’ll be killed.”

  “You’re halfway to nothing already.”

  28

  Palmer Stone’s desk phone played the first seven notes of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” That meant his direct line.

  That meant something important. Only certain people possessed that number: his most trusted employees, and a few privileged clients. The clients were supposed to use it only in the direst circumstances. At a certain point, they were to destroy the paper it was written on and then forget it.

  Stone was in his midfifties but trim and still handsome. His tailored gray suit was Armani, his tie Hermès, his shoes John Lobb. His full head of dark hair was expensively cut and salt and pepper at the temples. He had features that were craggy yet amiable rather than noble, with a smile that dazzled. If he was an actor, he could play the president of the United States. If he didn’t drool or speak like an idiot, he could become the president of the United States.

  Palmer Stone didn’t drool, and he spoke with calm reason in a moderated tone. He was as suave as he looked. But he had no interest in the presidency. It didn’t pay enough.

  He picked up his desk phone on the third ring. “Palmer Stone here.”

  “This is Maria Sanchez, Stone.”

  An angry female voice, one he’d heard only a few times before. He didn’t think he’d ever hear her or speak to Maria Sanchez again. Like his other special clients, she no longer existed except on paper and as electronic pixels.

  He didn’t get a chance to ask her why she was calling, what was wrong.

  “I thought you told me that Madeline bitch was dead,” she said.

  “Maria! It’s good to hear from you.”

  “I thought—”

  “Please don’t worry, really. Ms. Scott is no longer a problem. I can assure you of that.”

  “Funny, I don’t feel assured.”

  “There is only one genuine Madeline Scott, and you are she.”

  “Sometimes I don’t goddamned feel like it, and that’s creeping me out. I got on the elevator this morning in my building and some bitch was waiting to go up. I had the feeling she’d been standing there a long time, and she had this weird loo
k on her face. Then she got off on my floor, put on a transparent act of going to another apartment at the opposite end of the hall, and watched me enter mine.”

  “You’re saying she looked like Madeline?”

  “No, no! Listen to me, Stone. She was definitely giving me a close look, like it meant something to her, and I’m sure we never met before.”

  “Well, you’re a beautiful woman, Maria. Even more beautiful now.”

  “She wasn’t looking at me that way. She was…”

  “What?”

  “Scared of me. I’m sure of it. I’ve been around fear. I could smell it on her.”

  “Why would she be frightened of someone like you?”

  “I can think of only one reason.”

  “What you describe might have been mostly your imagination, about this woman being so interested in you. It’s natural. We’ve seen it in other clients. You couldn’t look more like…who you are now. It’s not uncommon to have doubts at this stage of the game. Things started out a little unevenly, but we soon got them under control. Believe me, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Maybe you just think they’re under control.”

  “Maria—Madeline, listen to me. When I tell you the other Madeline is gone for good, believe me. I can’t give you the details and you don’t want to know them, but you have my sincere promise.”

  There was only silence from the phone at his ear.

  “Do you feel better, Madeline? Is my promise good enough?”

  “I don’t know,” she said and broke the connection.

  Stone hung up and sat drumming his manicured fingernails on the arm of his chair. Maria Sanchez had turned out to be a skittish one, which was a surprise. E-Bliss.org had been assured she was the sort who seldom got rattled. Now here she was acting out of character.

  Of course, what he’d told her was the truth. It was natural for special clients to be nervous and suspicious immediately after the identity exchange. They soon got over their fears once they settled in as who they had become.

  The odds that the woman on the elevator actually suspected anything were long. The odds that someone in Maria Sanchez’s position might think so were short.

  There was nothing to worry about if only he could get his client to realize it and feel safe.

  While he was at it, Palmer Stone made it a point to stop thinking of her as Maria Sanchez.

  “Madeline Scott,” he actually muttered under his breath, as he pushed Maria Sanchez from his consciousness.

  Madeline Scott, the first and original, had had E-Bliss.org almost exactly right in her conversation with Jill. The legitimate matchmaking service was a protective shell for an operation that provided something similar to a witness protection program for those who could afford it. Its clients were mostly the wives or lovers of organized crime figures whose own lives and/or considerable fortunes were in danger because of competing mob elements or the law. Occasionally a client was concerned only with disappearing for his or her own sake. These clients, who would eventually take other clients’ identities, were referred to in conversation and in E-Bliss.org files as special clients, to distinguish them from the bulk of legitimate clients, who often did find love, lasting or otherwise.

  The special client would make obvious a move out of the country or into deep cover and instead take the place of another E-Bliss.org client who’d been culled with a computer program and carefully researched. Fees included teaching and coaching the special client to move smoothly into the new identity. The old identity would remain at large, while the basis for the new identity was murdered. The special client, who for safety’s sake had severed all ties with E-Bliss.org, would wait patiently in hiding to assume the life of the victim client. News of the torso (useless in identification) being found was the signal that the switch in identities was complete; it was time to move into the client’s apartment. Usually, as a precaution, the new identity would soon move out of the building, leaving a note and making sure the rent was covered. Officially, no one was missing.

  This was a business model Palmer Stone had worked on for a long time before putting it into practice. It was a business model that worked.

  That’s why the phone call from Maria—Madeline—was particularly irritating.

  It had been a mistake jumping the gun and letting a special client take over an identity before it was actually available. E-Bliss.org had made the exception in Maria Sanchez’s case because she was an especially important, and demanding, client. And there had been a great deal of money involved. Who could have guessed the client to be deleted would somehow escape?

  Well, nothing to be done about it now.

  Stone didn’t exactly forget about the new Madeline’s nervousness, but he put it aside in a separate compartment of his mind. He’d always regarded compartmentalization as one of the most valuable business skills. He had other things to think about right now. Like printouts of the latest client profiles on the corner of his desk, awaiting his attention.

  He stopped drumming his fingers. He’d probably never hear from the new Madeline again.

  That, after all, was the whole idea.

  He smiled and set to work, determined not to worry about what he couldn’t change. He regarded that as another valuable component of his business skill set.

  Victor and Gloria entered Victor’s Sutton Place apartment at three A.M. They both looked tired and their clothes were rumpled.

  As soon as they closed the door, Victor walked to the other side of the tastefully furnished living room and got a bottle of twenty-year-aged scotch from an antique mahogany credenza. He poured about two fingers of the scotch in crystal on-the-rocks glasses, straight up. Gloria had followed him halfway to the credenza. He handed her one of the glasses, and they both raised them in brief and silent toast, then sipped.

  Gloria yawned.

  Victor felt like yawning but didn’t. “Want to sleep over?”

  She shook her head no. “Things to do tomorrow morning.” She looked down at her gray blouse and black skirt. Then she gave Victor a head-to-toe glance. “Not a drop of anything on us.”

  “Because we’re professionals.”

  “Thank the good Lord for plastic,” she said, smiling.

  Earlier that evening they’d disposed of a male E-Bliss.org client. One of the same-sex clients who comprised a minority but growing part of the company’s business.

  Because the client was gay, they hadn’t followed their usual procedure of luring the man into Gloria’s car. Nevertheless, Gloria had been in a position to effect the man’s death, and then drive him to the East Side garage where she and Victor did the dissection.

  Victor’s smile turned nasty, and curious. “I was surprised when we opened the car’s trunk and I saw a broomstick.”

  Gloria shrugged. “We need to stay consistent.”

  “I just couldn’t see you doing it,” Victor said. “And to a man. And of course, you didn’t wait for me.”

  “Since I handled the other preliminaries, I thought I’d handle that one.”

  Victor waited for her to say something more, but she didn’t.

  Instead she tilted back her head and swallowed the rest of her scotch, then began to move idly about, looking at the furniture, the art mounted on the walls.

  This wasn’t the apartment her brother actually lived in. That apartment, the one the clients saw, was owned by E-Bliss.org. and wasn’t nearly so sumptuous—which was why Victor had taken to spending most of his time here, moving in most of his clothes and even his modest library.

  Gloria paused near a bookshelf. Something new had been added to Victor’s collection of nineteenth-century novels and contemporary mystery fiction and biographies. Two glossy hardcovers. She pulled one out and looked at the cover. “‘Vlad the Impaler’?” The other book also appeared to be about the famous fifteenth-century Transylvanian despot who was the inspiration for the book and movie Dracula. Despite myth and movie, there was no proof that he’d actually drunk blood,
though, at least not straight from the vein. His twisted pleasure was impaling enemies and sometimes friends on tall stakes. Sometimes by the hundreds or thousands. When one of his minions complained about the stench, the man was himself impaled on a taller than usual stake so he’d be up high where the air was better. Vlad had a sense of humor.

  “Most of your biographies are of statesmen, military or literary giants,” Gloria said.

  Victor sipped his scotch. He was always a slower drinker than Gloria. “Vlad’s not exactly my hero,” Victor said, “but he was an interesting man. The more you learn about him, the more impressed you become.”

  “If you say so.” Gloria returned the book to the shelf.

  “Since we’ve decided to do this, we might as well learn technique. And we should do it together.”

  Gloria stared at him, then walked over and placed her glass on the slate inlay of the credenza. “We’ve had a long night. I’m going home, say my prayers, and go to bed.”

  “I got a call from Palmer Stone,” Victor said. “He told me Maria Sanchez called him.”

  “Called Palmer?” Gloria looked irritated. “What the hell for?”

  Victor recounted the phone conversation as Palmer Stone had told it to him.

  “She should have known better,” Gloria said.

  “I wouldn’t get too worked up yet. She’s probably just nervous. That’s what Palmer told her, and my guess is he’s right.”

  “It didn’t sound as if she thought so. Off-the-wall bitch!”

  “She’ll calm down. We’ll probably never hear from her again. She got what she paid for, so she has no complaint.”

  “She sure won’t have any trouble with Madeline Scott.”

  “Since she is Madeline Scott,” Victor said. He finished his scotch, walked across the room, and placed his empty glass on the credenza next to Gloria’s. He gave her a nervous grin. “This really is something, what we’ve gotten ourselves involved in, sis.”

  “Something extremely profitable.” She waved a languid hand. “Here you are on Sutton Place. La-di-da.”

  “You’re not living so bad yourself.”