by John Lutz
He’d been shrewd, saying nothing, doing nothing, that could in any way be actionable if she were to formally complain. And of course if she did accuse him of sexual blackmail, he’d simply and successfully deny it. Even Neva had to admit it would be wrong to prosecute a man without sufficient proof of wrongdoing.
This left her helpless.
On the other hand, she hadn’t been so much as touched by the creep. And she still had the account.
That was small solace at the moment, as she strode past the Citigroup Building Barnes and Noble; across the intersection, while staring down a cabdriver about to make a right turn; and past a shop, where she might normally pause to look in the window.
She barely saw or heard the people around her as she relived in her mind the humiliating and infuriating events of an hour ago. The unctuous Handleman, with his transparent verbal fencing, trying to back her up, trying to draw blood. It was as if he knew that if she weakened, he’d have her. He understood women like her, he was implying. He knew better than she what she really wanted, and they both knew what that was. And she could have it and gain much on the side.
Neva stopped and stood still. She drew a deep breath and held it while people walking in the opposite direction stared.
Then she exhaled and made herself walk more slowly, made herself think as well as feel.
Handleman’s desk had been cluttered with framed photos of his family, an overweight wife and three or four chubby kids who looked too much like Handleman. Neva considered a counteroffensive. She might intimate to Handleman that if he persisted in his subtle but unmistakable advances, she’d take their little dance outside the business world and into his personal life, make trouble for him with his family.
Jesus! What am I thinking?
She put any idea of a counteroffensive out of her mind. If Handleman kept it up she’d tell her boss, who’d believe her but probably couldn’t do anything about the matter, either. Then, if necessary, she’d force the issue, get Handleman to discuss it. Neva knew this about herself: There was no kind of trouble she’d ever been in that she hadn’t been able to deal with and, at times, turn to her advantage.
She stopped at the next intersection to stand and wait for the traffic signal to change. Around her the city roared and played out lives. Cars and trucks on Third Avenue blasted their horns. Tires hummed on hot concrete. Sidewalks trembled with the rushing of subway trains beneath. The air was full of dozens of smells and noises and conversations and exhaust fumes, and Neva loved it.
When she’d arrived here from Cincinnati five years ago, she’d somehow known that this city was hers on a plate. The tempo and tumult of Manhattan made some people nervous, but from the very first day, Neva found it all strangely soothing.
It was working on her that way now.
Maybe she’d have a better sense tomorrow afternoon of where the Handleman dilemma was going, when she had another meeting with him scheduled.
Also attending the meeting would be his superiors at Massmann Container. They didn’t figure to be leeches like Handleman, and she could size them up, see who might help her if Handleman forged ahead despite her warning signals and tried to get physical. Probably she could figure out who at the meeting disliked Handleman.
Surely somebody else saw through him as she did. And she couldn’t be the first woman he’d tried to pressure.
When Neva reached the Weldon Tower, she was still irritated by this development in what had promised to be a smooth and profitable contract agreement with Massmann Container.
The doorman, whose name she’d found out was Bill, nodded and smiled at her automatically as he held open the door for her, then did a kind of double take. What must her face look like, she wondered, after the dark thoughts she’d been harboring. She said hello and smiled back at Bill, noticeably melting him, as she entered the lobby and made her way to the elevators.
Don’t be such a worrier, she told herself as she stepped into an elevator that had been at lobby level. She pressed the forty button harder than was necessary. You can handle a creep like Handleman. You’re a lot brighter than he is. Hell, you’re even in Mensa. Maybe if you can’t deal with a problem like this, you don’t deserve the Massmann account.
After entering her apartment she carefully locked the door, then kicked off her high-heeled Guccis and walked into the kitchen. She used the ice maker to dump some cubes into a glass, ran some tap water over them, then padded back into the living room to sit on the sofa, sip, and cool down.
She was exhausted, not only from a difficult day’s work but from her simmering anger after her meeting with Handle-man. Sometimes Neva wondered if it was all worth it, if maybe she should accept one of the almost annual proposals of marriage she received and settle down with a husband in the ‘burbs, mow the lawn, and raise some kids. Sometimes she wondered; not often.
In one way or another, every man she met turned out to be a disappointment. She was sure there was one somewhere out there who was compatible with her, who was her equal and saw life as she did, as a challenge. He didn’t have to be rich or handsome; he only had to understand her. To be able, at times, to master her? If ever she met a man like that, she might reshuffle her priorities. Such men were not like public conveyances that came along every so often and pulled to the curb for you. Neva was, in a secret, private part of her mind—sometimes secret even from herself—waiting for such a man, would know him when he arrived in her life. And then . . .
There’ll be a time for that kind of living, she told herself. Take life in sequence, that was her plan. And always she had a plan.
Tired as she was, Neva decided not to go out this evening. She’d phone down to the deli she’d discovered two blocks over and have them deliver some of their spicy chicken with rolls and slaw. She was sure she had a wine that would be good with such a meal. After a leisurely dinner alone she’d have some more wine while she watched the Yankees game on television until she was deliciously sleepy.
Bedtime then, probably about the seventh inning. This had been a stressful, tiring day. If necessary, she’d go in to work late tomorrow morning in order to get a good night’s sleep.
Neva wanted to be at her best tomorrow.
That was, after all, what she was about—her tomorrows.
In the darkness, Horn lay silently in bed beside Anne and listened to her breathing, knowing she was awake. He’d met with Rollie Larkin that evening to brief him on the status of the Night Spider case. Rollie had been polite and understanding, but they both knew that, so far, Horn had failed.
The Night Spider was still operating, victims were stacking up, the media were turning up the heat, and the pols were increasing pressure from above. “Dealing with the pressure’s my job,” Rollie’d told Horn, “but you could make it a hell of a lot easier by getting a solid lead on this bastard.” Rollie’s unsubtle way of urging Horn to do his job. At the same time he was reminding Horn the pressure didn’t stop with Assistant Chief of Police Roland Larkin.
“You checked out Luke Altman?” Horn asked.
“Yeah. It was pretty much like checking out Casper the Ghost. The Luke Altmans in our computer banks, as well as the Fed’s, didn’t pan out to be anyone who could be your spook.”
“He didn’t say he was CIA,” Horn reminded Larkin.
“If he had, he wouldn’t be CIA, we can assume.”
“More assumption,” Horn said. “There’s too much of it in this case. I’ll be glad when we get beyond the point of assumptions.”
“To when a jury assumes the bastard’s guilty.”
Horn smiled. “For now, I guess we have to figure Altman is CIA, and his purpose was to assure me the agency had or was investigating any such secret Special Forces unit and would deal with the killer if they found him there.”
“If the Night Spider is a member of the military,” Rollie said, “my guess is he’ll meet with an accident. Maybe die a hero.”
“And if he’s a former member?”
Rollie gave
the cold grin Horn recalled from their earlier days in the department, when they were street cops. “Then he’s ours.”
The meeting had run long, and by the time Horn arrived home, Anne was already in bed. He’d undressed quietly, crawled into bed beside her, and listened to her shallow, irregular breathing. Not the deep, rhythmic breathing of sleep. Yet she’d said nothing to him.
“You awake?” he asked softly. Seeing if she’d pretend sleep.
“Yes.” She didn’t move, lying curled on her side facing away from him.
“Something’s wrong.”
“Yes. I’m in bed, it’s nighttime, and I’m not asleep.”
“Something more?”
She sighed and turned over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling in the dim light. “The Vine family’s filed suit against the hospital, naming almost everyone involved in their son’s operation, including me.”
Horn had expected this and been afraid of it. “How’d you learn?”
“Finlay told me.”
“He named in the suit?”
“No. And I think the hospital’s plan is to contain the damage to Radiology, which means I could be the scapegoat.”
“Sounds that way.” Being honest. “What do the hospital’s attorneys think?”
“They’re still studying the charges. The family’s already turned down a proposed settlement, and a reasonable one— if there can be such a thing if your four-year-old son’s been placed in a vegetative state.”
“So the hospital will probably fight it out in court.”
“They’d like not to. The publicity would be brutal. And the family’s never going to accept. They don’t really want money. They want revenge.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s what I’d want.” The sheets rustled as she half turned on her pillow to face him. “Thomas, I can’t help feeling guilty about what happened to that child.”
“Sure. But you’re not guilty of anything.”
“I’m in charge of Radiology. It happened on my watch, as the politicians say.”
“But what happened to the boy wasn’t radiological. The hospital should be able to establish that in court.”
“Like you often point out, Thomas, there are no guarantees in court. Anyway, it isn’t that I’m afraid of punishment. It might even make me feel better.”
“But it wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be justice.”
He could barely see her smile in the dimness. “You’ve been a cop too long to expect justice. And I’ve been a cop’s wife too long. There’s a shelf life to these things.”
“Expecting justice, you mean?”
“I mean there’s a shelf life. A time comes when hope finally surrenders to apprehension and loneliness.”
Horn gave a noncommittal grunt in reply and rolled onto his stomach. Now he was the one afraid of where words might lead, who wanted to feign sleep. Talk was to be feared. It could be a downhill road to catastrophe, where speed increased and there was no turning around.
The silence in the bedroom roared, allowing only troubled dreams.
Neither Joe nor Cindy Vine had slept much last night. Cindy had been crying again, off and on, waking Joe the few times he’d made it to sound sleep. They sat at the tiny gray Formica table in their Lower West Side apartment. Cindy’s breakfast was orange juice and black coffee. Joe’s was a Bloody Mary. They often argued about which was healthiest. They often argued about everything.
“I’m scared, Joe.” Cindy used the back of her hand to wipe orange juice from where it had dribbled on her chin. The hand dropped down to grip the empty glass and hold it tight to the table. He knew it was to keep him from seeing the trembling in her fingers. She would have been an attractive woman if it weren’t for the worry on her face, the bags beneath her large brown eyes that were always bruised-looking. And her hair. She did little with her hair these days, the thick and soft brown hair that used to bounce when she walked.
“You’re scared of something new every day,” Joe said. He was in his early forties, medium height and build but muscular in the white T-shirt he’d slept in. He had on brown slacks and was barefoot. His own hair was short but ragged. It looked as if it needed to be shaped by a barber. “I’m scared, too. For Alan.”
“You think I don’t care about our son?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You meant it.”
“Bullshit,” Vine said sullenly, staring down at his tomato-juice-stained glass. There was a limp stalk of celery in it that he hadn’t touched.
Cindy was too tired this morning to muster a continued offense. “We’re taking on one of the biggest hospitals in the city. We maybe shoulda accepted their offer. We’re gonna get them pissed off, Joe.”
He stared at her and something in his eyes withered her.
“I’m pissed off at them! They’re gonna find out I’m not the kinda guy they want pissed off!”
So much goddamned pride! “We don’t have a million dollars to fight a court battle, Joe.”
“Our attorney says he’ll take payment on a contingency basis. Didn’t you hear him?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t hear him tell us that if we lose, the court won’t say we have to pay the hospital’s legal costs. It happens that way sometimes in these lawsuits, Joe. Read the papers. It’s on page one when somebody sues a big institution and wins a million dollars. But it’s on page nine if they lose and have to pay a quarter of a million in court costs.”
“Sigfried says it’s okay, we can’t get burned.” Sigfried was Larry Sigfried, their attorney who’d been recommended by a patients’ advocacy group. “Besides, they might come up with a better offer than the first one.”
Cindy didn’t reply. Joe saw that she had her head bowed and was crying. Christ! At breakfast!
He didn’t like the feelings of guilt she stirred up in him. She was hurting, as he was, and he was the stronger. He knew he should take care of her, not be furious with her. And that was how it had been in the beginning, when Alan was first diagnosed. They’d shared their trouble, mistakenly thinking it would draw them closer instead of wearing them down. She needed him now more than ever, and he knew it. But Joe Vine was so full of rage! So fucking full of rage!
He stood up suddenly, knocking his chair backward onto the floor, and stalked from the kitchen. Wondering where this train was taking them. To what wilderness? Life was so full of disillusion and sadness and anger, of pain that persisted and hope that dissolved.
He paced to the window and looked out at the sun casting angled patterns on the buildings across the street.
Another goddamn morning. He hated mornings.
They meant he had to bear another day.
16
When Horn walked into the Home Away that morning, Paula and Bickerstaff were already there, occupying the booth where they’d sat before, where private conversations wouldn’t be overheard. He wondered how many trysts, confessions, and conspiracies had taken place in the booth over the years.
Horn said good morning then slid into the booth, taking the smooth wooden seat across from the two detectives. Marla came over and placed a cup of coffee before him. Paula and Bickerstaff already had coffee. There was a scattering of crumbs on the table. A plate with a fork on it smeared with egg yellow was in front of Bickerstaff, a smaller plate with half a slice of buttered toast in front of Paula. Marla topped off the coffee then began picking up plates and clearing the table of silverware except for spoons, stacking everything on a tray she’d placed on an adjacent table.
“Toasted corn muffin,” Horn told her.
“I know. It’s on the grill.”
After Marla brought Horn’s breakfast, along with a napkin and flatware for him, she considerately went back behind the counter to read a newspaper and wait for another customer. She would pump Horn for information later. He wondered again what her background was, and what had brought her here to the kind of job that sometimes provided escape and anonymity. Hell of a city, Horn thou
ght. Half the people waiting tables were also waiting for a break so they could rise to success as actors, writers, dancers. The other half, if they weren’t simply working a job to pay the bills, had never gotten their break, or had been broken themselves.
Horn slathered butter on a muffin half, watching it melt almost immediately and penetrate the toasted surface. “I was paid a visit by a guy named Luke Altman.” He glanced up from the muffin at his two companions, who made faces and shrugged to indicate Altman’s name hadn’t struck a chord.
Between bites, Horn described his meeting with Altman.
“Guy has to be CIA,” Bickerstaff said, when Horn was finished talking.
“As much as said so,” Paula agreed. “That’s as much as you get from them, because a spook never says anything right out. Sounds like your phone call to the number Sayles gave you stirred up something.”
“The question is,” Horn said, “did what it stir have anything to do with the Night Spider murders?”
“You’ll never get the answer from Altman,” Paula said. “You’ll probably never see him again. CIA spooks are like that. We had one in New Orleans turned out to be watching a potential terrorist. He set up the guy for us, then totally disappeared. We had his man on narcotics possession. Third time. He’ll be in jail another twenty years. End of terrorist threat. The CIA let us and the local courts do their work for them.”
“Tom Sawyer,” Bickerstaff said.
Paula stared at him. Was something going around that kept people from saying things directly?
“You painted the CIA’s fence.”
“I get it. Twain.”
“It happened more than once?”
Horn interrupted before Paula and Bickerstaff got into what he’d come to recognize as another of their frequent dustups that were mostly, but not all, good-natured ribbing. “The CIA and FBI catch a lotta crap from people who don’t know what they’re talking about. They have their screwups, but they’re a helluva lot more effective than some people seem to think. Point being, if Altman is CIA, the possibility the Night Spider’s in the military could be bad news for Night Spider.”
