Night Victims (The Night Spider)

by John Lutz

  Rave Reviews for John Lutz

  “Lutz’s skill will keep you glued to this thick thriller.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch, on Night Kills

  “Superb suspense . . . The kind of book that makes you check to see if all the doors and windows are locked.”

  —Affaire de Coeur, on Night Kills

  “Brilliant . . . a very scary and suspenseful read.”

  —Booklist, on In for the Kill

  “Enthralling . . . Shamus and Edgar award-winner Lutz gives us further proof of his enormous talent.”

  —Publishers Weekly, on In for the Kill

  “Since Lutz can deliver a hard-boiled P.I. novel or a bloody thriller with equal ease, it’s not a surprise to find him applying his skills to a police procedural in Chill of Night. But the ingenuity of the plot shows that Lutz is in rare form.”

  —The New York Times Book Review, on Chill of Night

  “Lutz keeps the suspense high . . . An ideal beach read.”

  —Publishers Weekly, on Chill of Night

  “A dazzling tour de force . . . compelling, absorbing . . . Lutz ranks with such vintage masters of big-city murder as Lawrence Block and the late Ed McBain.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch, on Chill of Night

  “A great read! Lutz kept me in suspense right up to the end.”

  —Midwest Book Review, on Chill of Night

  “A tense, fast-moving novel, a plot-driven page-turner of the first order.”

  —Book Page, on Fear the Night

  “A shrewd and clever novel that delivers thrills as seen through totaly believable and convincing characters. John Lutz is one of the masters of the police novel. Highly recommended!”

  —Ridley Pearson, on Fear the Night

  “A twisted cat-and-mouse game . . . a fast-moving crime thriller . . . Lutz skillfully brings to life the sniper’s various victims.”

  —Publishers Weekly, on Fear the Night

  “Night Victims is compelling, suspenseful and—dare I say it?—creepy. John Lutz knows how to make you shiver.”

  —Harlan Coben

  “A heart-pounding roller-coaster of a tale, whose twists and turns are made all the more compelling by the complex, utterly real characters populating his world.”

  —Jeffery Deaver, on Night Victims

  “I’ve been a fan of John Lutz for years.”

  —T. Jefferson Parker

  “John Lutz is a major talent.”

  —John Lescroart

  “John Lutz knows how to ratchet up the terror with effective twists and a fast pace.”

  —Sun-Sentinel (Ft. Lauderdale), on Night Victims

  “Compelling . . . a gritty psychological thriller.”

  —Publishers Weekly, on The Night Watcher

  “John Lutz is the new Lawrence Sanders.”

  —Ed Gorman in Mystery Scene, on The Night Watcher

  “SWF Seeks Same is a complex, riveting, and chilling portrayal of urban terror, as well as a wonderful novel of New York City. Echoes of Rosemary’s Baby, but this one’s scarier because it could happen.”

  —Jonathan Kellerman

  “John Lutz just keeps getting better and better.”

  —Tony Hillerman, on SWF Seeks Same

  “For a good scare and a well-paced story, Lutz delivers.”

  —San Antonio Express News

  “Lutz is among the best.”

  —San Diego Union

  “Lutz is rapidly bleeding critics dry of superlatives.”

  —St. Louis Post Dispatch

  “It’s easy to see why he’s won an Edgar and two Shamuses.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Likable protagonists in a complex thriller . . . Lutz always delivers the goods, and this is no exception.”

  —Booklist, on Final Seconds

  “Clever cat-and-mouse game.”

  —Kirkus Reviews, on Final Seconds

  ALSO BY JOHN LUTZ

  Night Kills

  In for the Kill

  Chill of Night

  Fear the Night

  Darker Than Night

  The Night Watcher

  The Night Caller

  Final Seconds (with David August)

  The Ex

  Available from Kensington Publishing Corp. and Pinnacle Books

  For David Bauer

  And in fond memory of Ed

  and Betty Bauer

  The spider’s touch, how exquisitely fine!

  Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.

  —Pope

  Essay on Man

  News fitting to the night,

  Black, fearful, comfortless and horrible.

  —Shakespeare

  King John, Act V

  Part One

  1

  New York, 2003

  Sally Bridge was exhausted.

  Wisteria Chance was a premier bitch.

  Her Beetle Davis was a totally unconvincing beetle.

  Sally had cast aging Broadway star Wisteria in the planned production of the musical Bug Off. Bug had played to full houses for the past three months at smaller theaters throughout the Northeast. It was now scheduled to open at the Cort Theatre on West 48th Street in less than a month. Sally, who was Bridge’s Casting Call, had done what everyone agreed was a great job of casting some major Broadway players in the roles of various insects. This hadn’t been easy; ego sometimes stood in the way of accepting such roles. After all, no one had ever won a prestigious award for portraying an insect. This wasn’t exactly Shakespeare. Sally had often thought of suggesting they retitle the play McBug.

  Most of the cast had overcome early reservations about their roles, especially when they found how delightful the material—an insect version of classic Hollywood—actually was. But Wisteria’s reservations had grown into tentative-ness, then outright hostility. Sally cringed and laughed at the same time, remembering how the haughty Broadway doyenne had stood before the footlights during dress rehearsal, threatening to walk out on her contract and hurling insults at the director and Sally, her antennae vibrating furiously as she waved her legs and arms.

  The hell with it, Sally thought, closing and locking her apartment door behind her. She’d eat leftover Chinese takeout from last night, settle down in front of CNN with a glass of white wine, and look in on some of the world’s real problems.

  Sally was young to be so successful, only thirty-two, and attractive enough to cast herself in some of the leading roles that crossed her desk. But she’d learned early on that she wasn’t a real actress, didn’t have the fire and ruthlessness and pure commitment. This tall, blond beauty with a busty build and Helen Hunt features loved the business though. And she had a touch for casting and a line of bull for dealing with agents. She also had a genuine affection and empathy that helped persuade actors and actresses to accept the roles she offered.

  Her apartment was a junior one bedroom, which meant it was an efficiency with a dividing wall. Though small, it was well furnished, on the thirtieth floor with a great view of Central Park, and the rent was reasonable. Tables, chairs, and lamps were antique and flea market eclectic, mostly chosen by a decorator friend. The soft leather sofa was from Jennifer Convertibles and could be made into a bed for guests. The framed theater posters and playbills on the walls were supplied by Sally, over the objections of her decorator.

  The important thing was, Sally really liked the place. And she knew that was important, because she tended to get emotionally involved with where she lived the way other people did with their pets; it would be difficult for her to leave this comfortable corner of the world where she felt secure and could watch the seasons change in the park.

  The wa
rmed-up egg foo yung was still good. The muted sounds of traffic filtering up from the street were relaxing. There was nothing too disturbing on the news. The wine made her even sleepier, and she dozed off in the middle of an SUV commercial and woke up near midnight slouched in a corner of the sofa, her cheek lightly glued to the soft leather by dried saliva.

  “Yuck!” she said aloud. She forced herself up off the sofa, used the remote to switch off the TV (another SUV commercial—or the same one), and lurched zombielike toward the bathroom.

  She brushed her teeth, which woke her up somewhat, but decided to shower in the morning. It took her only a few minutes to undress, slip into her knee-length sleep shirt with the likeness of Marlene Dietrich on it, and switch off the lamp by the bed.

  Her mattress was only six months old and soft yet supportive. Pure comfort . . . At least there was some reward for exhaustion. She listened to her long sigh drift out into darkness. A brief vision of an SUV, crawling like an intrepid insect up rough and rocky terrain toward a mountain plateau, and then Sally was asleep.

  Not yet opening her eyes, she awoke slowly, becoming gradually aware that she couldn’t move. The dream she’d had was half remembered, movement soft and subtle about her body, around, beneath, so gentle . . . It was enough to disturb her sleep but not quite wake her.

  Until now.

  Sally was lying on her back in the dim bedroom, her arms at her sides. One palm was pressed flat to her hip, the other turned outward so that her arm was twisted and ached at the shoulder. She tried to move the arm that hurt, and it didn’t budge. What the hell? How did I get so twisted up in the sheet? The night was warm and there was no blanket or bedspread over the sheet. She should be able to at least goddamn move!

  Her eyes were open to slits now, and she could barely lift her head from the pillow to squint and try to see her feet, which were pressed so tightly together that it hurt her ankles. Her calves, thighs, and knees were pressed just as firmly to each other. The area of taut white sheet she could see was wound about her so tightly that her breasts were compressed.

  Still, half awake, she was more puzzled than afraid.

  Then her heart leaped and began to pound. Movement! Off to the left! Something large and quick! Had she imagined it? She swiveled her head this way and that on the perspiration-soaked pillow, craning her neck so it ached.

  But she saw nothing alarming other than the window next to the one that held the humming air conditioner. It was open!

  I locked it! I know I locked it!

  She wasn’t alone!

  Then the mattress creaked and sagged and the form she’d glimpsed was looming above her, straddling her, lithe and angular, large and powerful and dim as the dusk. She tried to scream but her throat was paralyzed. Something was jammed in her mouth, then slapped across her lips, binding them shut. Pain flared in her right side, a deep stinging sensation almost like an insect bite. Bug off! she thought inanely, her mind jumping to the play and casting problems even as she tried to scream against the pressure in and against her mouth, even as she tried to move her arms, her fingers, anything!

  Another stinging sensation in her side. Another. Each more painful than the last, and she could only lie mutely and endure, her eyes bulging, her entire body vibrating in agony inside its shroud. Sally knew she was going to die.

  End this! she screamed silently. End it, please!

  But she was helpless, staring up at the angular dark form above her, into unblinking black eyes that gazed into hers and searched patiently inside her for her pain, for her death. Not to find her death but to avoid it. For a while. Forever.

  End it! Please!

  2

  NYPD Homicide Detective Paula Ramboquette pulled the unmarked car to the curb in front of the Layton Arms apartments on East 56th Street. She’d been in New York almost a year now, and this was the first case where she, and not her partner Roy Bickerstaff, was lead detective. This was because Bickerstaff was retiring and would be gone by the end of the month.

  A large, potbellied man who favored cut-rate woolly suits and ineffective cheap deodorant even in summer, Bickerstaff sat still in his seat and waited for Paula before raising his bulk out of the car. He did have a certain sensibility she hadn’t noticed at first, and he was a good detective. And God knew Paula had seen worse.

  The uniformed doorman had emerged from the lobby and was walking toward them, not realizing the unmarked was a police car like the rest of the cruisers angled in at the curb. He was a short, dark-haired man with an aggressive curved nose that reminded Paula of a beak, and he was waving them away. “This space is for police,” Paula heard him say through the glass. “We have an emergency here today.”

  “Straighten this bird out, Roy,” Paula said, thinking Bicker-staff, in his rumpled brown suit, would be quite a contrast with the hawklike doorman in his royal blue outfit with gold epaulets. While the wheezing Bickerstaff opened the car door and squeezed out, she glanced over her shoulder for oncoming traffic, then climbed out on the driver’s side.

  Despite being sartorially outranked, Bickerstaff had been persuasive. By the time Paula had gotten around the car, the doorman was holding one of the glass front doors open for them. “Ms. Bridge is on thirty,” he said politely, as if she were expecting them. Which Paula knew was impossible because Ms. Bridge was dead.

  Paula and Bickerstaff crossed a tile lobby with a square blue area rug and gray leather furniture. Everything looked new and unsat on or unwalked on. Back In New Orleans, Paula had worked the Garden District and was more used to decaying elegance than this kind of contemporary tidiness.

  They zipped up to thirty in a polished steel, hexagonal elevator that reflected them so many times it made Paula feel as if she were standing in a crowd. Not much high-speed elevatoring in the Garden District, either.

  It was easy enough to find Sally Bridge’s apartment on the thirtieth floor. Hers was the one with the door open and the blue uniforms lounging nearby in the hall.

  “Ms. Bridge still at home?” Bickerstaff asked, still caught in the doorman’s mood of civility.

  “You mean have they removed the body?” one of the uniforms asked. Then answered his own question. “No, she’s still at your disposal.”

  Bickerstaff gave the man a glance and waited like a gentleman for Paula to enter before him. Old school.

  And it was Paula who led the way past the techs dusting for prints and into the bedroom where the body lay. As they entered the room, she noticed that the door frame near the latch was splintered. The door had been forced.

  The assistant ME was still there, a seedy little guy even more rumpled than Bickerstaff. Paula had seen him around and remembered him because his name was actually Harry Potter. And he looked like Harry Potter, grown up and gone to . . . well, pot. Put on a little weight, lost most of his hair, wore a different style of glasses. Still had the calm, intelligent look, though.

  Paula had pinned her shield on her lapel in the lobby, and now identified herself and Bickerstaff.

  Potter straightened up from the body on the bed and stared at her. “What kinda accent is that?”

  “Cajun,” Paula said. “Is this Ms. Bridge?”

  Potter nodded. “The late. She departed this world sometime last night, past midnight.”

  “We all want to die in bed,” Bickerstaff said.

  “Not like that.”

  “Sex crime,” Bickerstaff said, as they all stared at the dead woman on the bed. She still had on a short nightgown, though it had worked up over her breasts, and the bed was stripped down to the mattress pad. Bloodied white sheets were in a pile at the foot of the bed. Bickerstaff bent over the stained linen. “The sheets were stabbed lots of times like she was.”

  “Over three dozen times, actually,” Potter said. “At least that’s what we’ve found so far. And she doesn’t appear to have been sexually violated. Though we’ll have to check more closely for semen.”

  “There’s different kinds of sex,” Bickerstaff said.r />
  Paula took a closer look at Sally Bridge. She’d been an attractive blond woman in her thirties. This was evident even though there was a rectangle of silver duct tape over her mouth and her features were contorted in horror. A well-built woman. Probably men had thought her sexy in a blowzy way. Her almost nude body was smeared with crusting blood, but something other than the obvious didn’t look right.

  “Stabbed all those times,” Paula said, “there should be even more blood.”

  Potter nodded approvingly at her. “There was plenty of blood. Most of it was stemmed by and then absorbed by the sheets. I had to unwind them to get to the body.”

  “Unwind?”

  “Yeah. She was wrapped tight like she was in some kind of shroud. Sheets are full of holes, too, like your partner says. She was wrapped alive, tape put over her mouth, then she was stabbed repeatedly with a narrow, sharp instrument. Few of the wounds are fatal. I’d say she bled to death, and it took her a long time.”

  “Different kinds of sex,” Bickerstaff repeated.

  “The killer wrapped her up alive?” Paula asked.

  “Wrapped her tight as a tick.”

  “Was she drugged?”

  “We’ll find that out later.”

  Paula moved closer to the body and took it all in: the blood smears, the pale flesh, the narrow slits made by knife thrusts, the eyes like dull marbles that barely reflected light, that seemed to draw light in and make it darkness. Sally Bridge’s arms were still at her sides, her legs pressed tightly together. The way Potter had unrolled her. Never in her life had she dreamed strangers would look at her this way.

  “So what are those angular marks on her flesh?” Paula asked.

  “Creases. That’s how tightly she was wrapped.”

  Bickerstaff said nothing, standing and watching with his arms crossed while Paula studied the bloodied mattress pad, still neatly held at the corners by elastic. If there’d been much of a struggle on the bed, the pad would have been pulled loose.

  “Odd she didn’t put up a fight,” Bickerstaff said. “Looks like the killer kicked open the bedroom door or slammed his shoulder against it. You’d think the noise would have woke her up and—” He was staring at something on the floor.