Night Victims (The Night Spider)

by John Lutz

  He smiled. “I’m not going to smoke this here. Just unwrapping it so I can enjoy it on the walk home.”

  She was carrying a towel, drying her hands on it though they didn’t need drying. He waited for her to warn him about the evils, perils, and addiction of smoking, but she didn’t. “How’s the Night Spider case going?” she asked.

  “You seem particularly interested in this one.”

  “Sure. I guess I’m hooked.”

  Horn found himself hoping that was a double entendre.

  “Any closer to catching the creep?” Marla asked.

  He could smell the fine Cuban cigar and felt like lighting it while he was right there in the booth. “As a psychologist, I would have thought you’d regard the killer as sick. Dangerous, but still a product of society’s ills.”

  “Creep fits all right. And I’m speaking personally, not professionally. What I am now’s a professional food server.”

  The strategy meeting had started late that morning, probably because of Paula and Bickerstaff stopping for doughnuts, so it had broken up late. The last of the breakfast crowd had left, and Horn and Marla were alone now, except for the cook and whoever else might be in back beyond the swinging doors to the kitchen.

  “You don’t trust me, Horn?”

  “You know better.”

  He filled Marla in on the case’s progress, while she stood by the booth listening. As he talked, she absently wound the dry dish towel around one of her hands, as if she’d suffered a wound.

  “Aaron Mandle,” she said, when Horn was finished. “So your suspect has a name.”

  “It might not be his real name. And if it is, he’s very successfully erased any sign of himself and gone into hiding. Knowing a name he’s used is one thing. Finding him is quite another.”

  “You’ll probably never find him.”

  Horn put the unlit cigar back in his shirt pocket. He was surprised by such a definite statement from her, and he sensed there was something more coming. “The police are better at finding people than a lot of folks think, or do you have an insight you might want to share?”

  “I do. Aside from what you’ve just told me, I’ve done a lot of reading on this case, given it a lot of thought and formed some opinions.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re involved. If something happened to you, what would we do with our year’s supply of corn muffins?”

  “Enough about me and my vices,” Horn said, hoping he wasn’t revealing how pleased he was with the reason for her interest in the case. “Why do you say the killer will be so hard to find?”

  “He’s a sadistic perfectionist,” Marla said, “who murders as an erotic art. And I don’t think that’s putting it too strongly. My assumption is he’s also that careful and detail-oriented in other matters, such as concealing his whereabouts.”

  “For a careful man, he’s found himself a pretty risky pastime.”

  “It’s not a pastime for him. I’m sure he sees it as his calling. Convincing himself that what he’s doing is his destiny helps him to rationalize it, to reconcile it with the normal side of the self he shows to the world. His facade.”

  “We talking split personality?”

  “I don’t think so. Not even bipolar. I’d say your killer’s a sadistic, capable son of a bitch all the time. Only sometimes he acts differently, charms people so he can use them. But he’s probably quite conscious of doing that. Not like . .. say, a Son of Sam type who hears voices or messages in a dog’s barking.”

  “Any thoughts about motivation?”

  She smiled sadly. “That could be a lot more complicated. Almost certainly he hates women, but that could be for a number of reasons. Possibly there was a formative traumatic event early on, something an important woman in his life did to him. A mother, sister . . . But the reasons can also be cumulative, the turning point some seemingly insignificant act whose importance the perpetrator herself is unaware of. The profundity of these things can be entirely in the mind of the afflicted.”

  Profundity. “You’re some hash slinger.”

  “You’re some cop.”

  “You’ve given me a lot to mull over. I thought you weren’t into profiling.”

  She unwound the towel from her hand and smiled at him. “Just for friends,” she said. “And because I think it might help.”

  Horn removed the cigar from his pocket again and examined it, rotating it with thumb and forefinger to check the tightness of the wrapper leaf. “It would help a lot more,” he said, “if you told me how to find him.”

  “You probably won’t find him.”

  “Oh?”

  “But even though my opinions are based on estimation, I think I can tell you his vulnerability. He has a sick mind, but one you can get inside of. To a certain extent, you can know how he thinks.”

  “That’s his vulnerability?”

  “Not entirely. Everything in his actions suggests he’s built for risk. He can’t ignore a dare. You might be able to make him come to you.”

  The bell above the door tinkled. A woman and three preschool children entered the diner in a rush of noise and motion.

  Marla excused herself. She glanced back at Horn as she hurried around behind the counter. The woman and her charges were climbing onto stools. First up was the largest kid, a grinning blond girl about four who began to revolve.

  Horn laid some bills on the table, then slid out of the booth and walked from the diner, the unlit cigar in his hand. As he left, Marla gave him a smile he’d never seen before.

  One he didn’t understand.

  Outside the diner, Horn stood near a doorway and fired up his cigar. He was strolling along the sidewalk, smoking and enjoying the fact that the sun was paying a visit this morning, when his cell phone chirped.

  He dug the phone out of his jacket pocket, then removed the cigar from his mouth and watched the morning breeze claim the smoke he’d exhaled. With his free hand, the unimpaired left one, he held the small plastic phone to his ear. “Horn.”

  “Captain Horn, this is Nina. Nina Count.”

  “Am I going to be glad it is?”

  “I didn’t call to give you any bullshit, Horn. I’m scared.”

  She seemed to mean it. Her voice was different from any other time he’d heard it, a slight quaver making her sound as if she were cold.

  Horn stepped aside, letting a knot of pedestrians who were going in the opposite direction pass by. Then he moved into the display-window-corridor entrance to a menswear store so he could hear better. “I didn’t think scared was a word you knew, Nina.”

  “I got up this morning, dressed, and was about to leave for work, when I checked my bedroom window to make sure it was locked.”

  Horn felt his hand tighten on the phone.

  “It was locked,” Nina went on, “but I noticed something in the upper right-hand corner. Someone had scratched— etched is more the word—a design there. A spiderweb.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “No mistake about it. It’s rather artistic.”

  “But it’s on the outside of the glass?”

  “If it weren’t, I wouldn’t still be in my apartment talking to you.”

  You might still be in your apartment. Dead. He found his gaze fixed on a pair of two-tone loafers with oversized tassels in the show window and knew he’d remember them the way he’d always remember this phone call. The human mind was something, with its overlapping layers of thought. Why would anyone wear a pair of shoes like that?

  “What’s this mean, Horn?”

  “You know what it means. You got the desired result through your newscast. Attracted the killer’s attention. Now he’s playing with you. Trying to frighten you.”

  “He succeeded more than I thought possible.” The chill in her voice again.

  “You want police protection?”

  “Yes.”

  No hesitation. Horn knew she realized the Night Spider didn’t have to spend his time etching windowpanes. He c
ould have used his glass cutter and masking tape to unlock the window, then entered her bedroom while she slept and taken her as one of his victims. Spent his idea of quality time with her.

  “Should I stay here, Horn?”

  “For the time being. You’re probably safe enough. He obviously wants you alive for now so he can continue his terror campaign.”

  Silence. Then, “Yeah, I guess that’s true. How long do you think that part of it will go on? I could make a story out of it.” Her fear was slackening somewhat. Thinking ratings again. She wasn’t short on guts. “The police protection might make a good angle for my newscast. Or maybe I shouldn’t mention it. Do you think I should mention what he did to my bedroom window?”

  “You can mention the window, but not the protection. That’d only make your guardian angels’ job more difficult.”

  “Do you really think he’d try for me if he knew I was under police protection?”

  “I’m sure of it. In fact, I think it would make an attempt more likely.”

  “Jesus, Horn!”

  He can’t ignore a dare . . .

  “Nina, there’s something we need to talk about.”

  The Night Spider sat on a bench just inside the entrance to Central Park and watched children using the playground equipment. And watched their mothers and nannies.

  Nina Count is afraid. Right now. This second.

  He played with that fact in his mind and was aware of warm sunlight on the part of his face that was exposed. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, but with the collar turned up, a Mets baseball cap, and oversized orange-tinted glasses that made the park’s foliage a more vivid green, and the flesh of the women and children all the more vital and sumptuous.

  Nina Count is afraid. She knows it’s begun.

  He could have taken her last night, as he dangled like death outside her window, watching her sleep through the web he etched in the glass. He’d used soap on his diamond glass cutter so it was silent. Nina Count hadn’t stirred. She lay on her side, partly covered with a white sheet that might become her shroud. One languid bare leg was extended, pale even against the sheet. He guessed she’d be a natural blonde, though these days, with all the improved dyes and techniques, it was difficult to know. He’d find out for sure soon enough.

  When he was almost finished with the web, he had to fight the desire to tap on the glass and wake her, give her a glimpse of him outside her high window, so close to her. Only a thin pane of glass between Nina and everything she’d ever feared.

  But he’d resisted and quietly ascended to the roof. He used his line, slender but strong, and, from the ground, invisible as a spiderweb, to traverse dark space to the adjacent roof.

  He left behind a sleeping Nina Count, who would look out her window in the morning and know he’d been there, so very near her. Terror would leap through the glass to her and cling to her and bore into her like a parasitic insect that would be her companion for the brief duration of her life.

  Something to think about.

  She’s thinking about it now. She must be because she isn’t able to think about anything else. Not completely. She’s thinking about me at this precise instant.

  Because she knows I’m thinking about her.

  Through the light and shadow and angles of the narrow streets, the greater and lesser terrors of swarming humanity, the raucous, hard-shelled traffic with cars like intrepid beetles dusty or glistening in the sunlight, her fear wended its way to him.

  He closed his eyes behind the bulging, tinted lenses and fed on it.

  30

  Paula knew deep down it wasn’t really necessary to question Harry Linnert again, at this point. But then she knew a lot of things deep down, and there was nothing wrong with a cop playing a hunch.

  She was parked across the street from his apartment building, and occasionally glanced at his windows, which were still dark. It was almost eleven o’clock and she’d checked the apartment twice since eight o’clock. So maybe he was out to dinner with friends, fellow architects or Rugby players.

  She was about to give up and drive away when Linnert rounded the corner up the block and walked toward his building. He was wearing a tan waist-length jacket to protect from the mist and carrying a small bag of some sort by its handle.

  Paula forgot to slump down; he caught sight of her, did a double take, then stepped off the curb and began crossing the street toward her.

  Great! Terrific! Better think of some questions.

  He leaned down and peered in through the window, which she lowered.

  “Paula?” he said. “Officer Paula?”

  “Detective Ramboquette,” she corrected.

  He grinned. “Detective Ramboquette, I’m getting wet.” Bearing down on the et syllables and making it sound like a poem.

  “Get in the car,” she said, making it sound damned official.

  He settled in beside her and the windows immediately started to steam up. Two people in the car now, double the body heat, but still, Paula had to be impressed.

  “More questions?” he asked.

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Am I still under suspicion?”

  There was a hot, musky scent coming off him, one she thought she recognized. “Everybody’s under suspicion,” she told him. “Where are you coming from?”

  “My gym. I’ve been working out. Trying to get the leg in shape.”

  “You’ve been with a woman,” Paula said. “I can smell it on you.”

  His jaw dropped with surprise, then he laughed. “I’ve been with a Nautilus machine. What you smell’s probably the old socks and jogging shoes in my bag.” He leaned toward her. “I can open the bag and prove it.”

  “That’s not the way to respond to questions from the law,” she said.

  “You want to come up to my apartment again and we’ll talk?”

  “No.” Not again. Not yet, not yet. . .

  “You don’t usually get questioned by the law in a cozy unmarked police car with the windows all fogged up.” He glanced around. “You know, we could make out in here, Detective Ramboquette, and nobody would see us.”

  “You’re part of an active homicide investigation,” she reminded him.

  “Is that all that’s stopping us?”

  She turned and looked him dead in the eye. “That’s all.”

  That backed him up but not much. He was grinning widely, obviously pleased. “Do we really have to wait until the case is solved?”

  “We do.”

  “You’re damned serious about your job.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  He leaned toward her and kissed her lightly on the lips. She couldn’t turn away. Could barely make herself move. She was losing control of the situation here and didn’t like it.

  There was a deafening high-pitched Whooop! that made him jerk backward and bang his head against the window.

  “What the hell was that?” His eyes were wide.

  “Siren,” she said. “For emergencies.”

  She switched on the wipers to allow a view out of the car, and in. Two elderly women who were half a block away were standing and staring at the unmarked.

  “Jesus, Paula.” Linnert rubbed his head where he’d bumped it, then he started to laugh.

  “Get out of here,” she said.

  “Now? Right now?”

  “You betcha.”

  He stirred, started to lean toward her again, then changed his mind and opened the door. He slid out of the car, still looking at her. When he’d gotten out, he didn’t straighten up. “That’s it?”

  “No,” she said. “Don’t leave town.”

  He laughed again and shut the door.

  She drove away fast. Her heart was doing a wild dance.

  Dumb, dumb, dumb! Definitely, a dumb thing to do!

  But she wasn’t sorry.

  This looked like it: the Home Away Diner.

  Unimposing little place, Nina thought, as she observed it from across the street. Just another
corner diner like a zillion others in Manhattan, windows with booths looking out on the street, menu taped on its tinted glass door, yellow and blue Plexiglas sign that bent around the corner, no doubt backlighted in the evening. A placard on an easel near the door advertised daily specials. It was the kind of place Seinfeld and his friends might use as a hangout.

  As she waited for a break in the traffic so she could cross the street, Nina wondered if Horn knew what he was doing.

  And do I know what I’m doing?

  She saw her opportunity and hurried across the street as fast as possible. Her high heels were in her oversized leather purse; she was wearing her Nikes. Still, she almost wasn’t fast enough. A horn blared and a taxi she hadn’t noticed pulled away from the curb and had to skid to a stop rather than hit her.

  The driver rolled down his window. “Better get a guide dog, lady!”

  Nina gave him the finger and went on her way.

  “Hey! Ain’t you that TV newswoman?”

  “I am,” Nina said, smiling and not looking back.

  “Fuck you, anyway!”

  New York.

  As she entered the Home Away, she saw scrawled on the placard that tonight’s special was going to be veal parmesan, including roll and salad. Something to know, she thought, in case she was abducted by a motorcycle gang and dumped nearby.

  At least it was cool in the diner. There were a few customers, despite the fact that it was the restaurant business void between lunch and dinner. An elderly couple sat in a window booth drinking milkshakes. A guy who looked like a bum was slouched on a stool at the end of the counter, sipping what appeared to be cola with a straw in it. Maybe too drunk to realize he wasn’t in a bar.

  A man who looked like he was from the Middle East was perched on a high stool behind the counter, thumbing through a Sports Illustrated. He stood up when Nina walked in.

  “Whatever he’s drinking,” she said, motioning with her head toward the homeless type using the straw.

  The counterman smiled, put down his magazine, and went to the glasses and taps behind the counter.

  Nina saw Horn sitting in a back booth. There was a woman with him, a fortyish, slender brunette, nice looking in a classy way, wearing a white blouse and what looked like Levis. White slip-on sandals showed beneath the booth’s table. The waitress on her day off. The waitress-psychologist. Jesus!