by John Lutz
Beam and Nell were in Beam’s Lincoln, on their way to Lenny Rodman’s Brooklyn address, when Beam’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Taking a corner with one hand on the steering wheel, he yanked out the phone, flipped up its lid, and glanced at the Caller ID. Looper.
“Beam, Loop.”
They were breaking the law, using a hand-held phone in New York while driving, Nell thought. Felt good.
“I talked to Floyd Baker, then called two of his golf buddies,” said Looper’s voice on the phone, almost breaking up as the big Lincoln rounded the corner and rocked as it straightened out. Looks like his alibi is tight. In fact, he already seems to be getting over his grief at his wife’s death. Once it was obvious he wasn’t going to be a suspect, all he wanted to talk about was this eagle he made on the tenth hole. Popped the ball out of a sand trap, it bounced once and hit the pole, then dropped straight down into the cup. Says he shot two on a par four. You believe that?”
“I dunno,” Beam said. “What do his golfing partners say?”
“I checked it out with them and they swear to it, too.”
“Think you could get them to say it under oath?”
Nell was looking intently at Beam.
“Hah!” Looper said. “You a golfer?”
“Used to be. Get them to swear to it and we can believe it.”
Beam broke the connection.
“What?” Nell said anxiously. “We catch a break?”
“Ever actually seen anyone use their sand wedge to clear a trap and eagle the hole?” Beam asked.
She stared at him, confused.
“Floyd Baker’s not a suspect,” Beam said. “His golfing buddies confirm his alibi.”
“Golf,” Nell said. “It’s one of the few male diseases that don’t infect women.”
Beam thought about telling her that was because women couldn’t drive the ball as far, then decided he’d better not. Besides, plenty of women liked golf.
The phone, still in his hand, vibrated again, startling him. He flipped the lid back up and said hello without taking his eyes off the traffic ahead.
“Da Vinci here, Beam. Get anything interesting on the Beverly Baker murder?”
“I just talked to Looper. Looks like Floyd Baker’s in the clear. He was out on the links when his wife was killed.”
“Links?”
“You don’t golf?”
“Never.”
“Floyd was playing golf in Connecticut at the time of his wife’s murder, shot an eagle out of a sand trap, has witnesses.”
Da Vinci was unmoved. “Ballistics says it was a steel-jacketed thirty-two caliber slug that killed Beverly Baker. It matches the others. Same gun that killed the previous victims.”
“Killer doesn’t seem to care that we’re making a match,” Beam said. He braked to a stop for a traffic jam as they neared the bridge. “I mean, he’s careful enough he recovers his shell casings, and wears gloves so he doesn’t leave prints, but using the same gun and knowing we can match it doesn’t seem to concern him.”
“Maybe he’s only got one gun,” da Vinci said.
“Could be that simple.” Traffic was moving again, but barely; Beam’s foot came off the brake and the long-hooded Lincoln crept forward like a dark, chrome-festooned predator. “But a guy like this, you’d think he’d know where to get his hands on more than one gun.”
“He doesn’t worry about getting caught,” da Vinci said.
“None of them think they’ll get caught. At least not until they’re ready. They’re all smarter than we are. I think he wants to be sure we match the murders, just in case one of the letter Js blows away or isn’t noticed. The steel-jacketed slugs penetrate flesh and bone better and don’t get too misshapen, so the lab can pick up marks on them and ID the gun. The bullets are part of his signature. He wants to be sure he gets the notch when each of his victims dies.”
“Not just for us, though,” da Vinci said. “The media’s starting to heat up on this, just as I feared. They’re zeroing in on the anti-Semitism angle.”
“They’re wrong,” Beam said, and told da Vinci about Nell’s theory, along with the fact that Beverly Baker once served as a jury foreperson.
“Impressive,” da Vinci said. “You buy it?”
“Hard not to. The media’ll like this angle, too.”
“You bet they will. That’s just what the asshole wants, I’m sure. You know how they are, in it for the notoriety, even if their name’s not in the papers.”
“Not in the papers at first, anyway,” Beam said.
Traffic was moving rapidly now. He had to concentrate to steer one-handed while talking on the phone. Breaking the law. Well, not technically, since he was the law. “I think we oughta let everything hang out,” Beam said. “Hold a press conference. Give the media what we know. The NYPD leaks anyway. You might as well get credit for being up front with the press, get them on our side. And the publicity might shake something loose.”
“I was thinking we could hold back on the matching bullets, give them another red letter J to chew on.”
“They’ll find out about the bullets anyway, if they don’t already know. And they’re dead certain to stumble across the jury foreperson tie-in.”
“You’re right.” Da Vinci obviously didn’t like admitting it. “You’re also beginning to break up.”
“Nell and I are in my car, approaching the bridge; that’s probably screwing up the signal. You want me with you for the press conference?”
“I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, too.”
The connection was broken. Beam flipped the phone closed and slid it back in his pocket so he could drive with both hands on the wheel.
“Pressure getting to da Vinci?” Nell asked.
“He’s still got his sense of humor,” Beam said. “So called.”
12
Lenny Rodman’s address belonged to a seriously rundown brick and stone building on Kloss Avenue in Brooklyn. The block was made up of almost identical buildings.
Cloning gone bad, Nell thought.
Except for a few that showed signs of being rehabbed, the buildings shared the same state of hopelessness. Small patches of grassless dirt on each side of the concrete stoops harbored only a hardy weed here and there, as well as rusted tricycles, empty soda bottles, and beer cans.
Beam parked the Lincoln two buildings down from Lenny’s, placed the NYPD placard where it was visible on the dashboard, and hoped for the best. Under the casual scrutiny of half a dozen or so people sitting out on the stoops, he and Nell walked down the jaggedly sectioned, uneven sidewalk to Lenny’s building.
There was a dirt-splattered red and yellow plastic car for a kid about five in the front yard, next to a leafless tree about three feet high that was surrounded by a low wire fence and supported by three pieces of twine wrapped round the spindly trunk and staked in a triangle. Nell stepped on an already shattered glass crack vial and thought the tree had about as much chance as a child born into this world on this block of Kloss Avenue. She knew that parts of Brooklyn were quite beautiful, desirable, and getting more expensive by the minute. This wasn’t one of them.
No one sat on the steps of this stoop. And no one was in the small vestibule that reeked of stale urine. There were more crushed crack vials on the stained tile floor.
A faded card slipped into the slot above one of the mailboxes confirmed that Lenny was in 2D. There was an intercom that probably didn’t work. Didn’t matter to Beam or Nell, anyway, as they quickly climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor, located apartment 2D, and stood on either side of the door.
Beam rapped on the age-checkered door with his knuckles.
He and Nell were both surprised when a voice promptly said, “Who is it?”
Beam told himself to be careful. “Police. We’d like to talk to you, Mr. Rodman.”
“Sure. Be right there.” Rodman’s voice exuded cheer and cooperation.
Beam knew what that meant. He
motioned for Nell to go back downstairs and check around back. Rodman might at that moment be descending the fire escape, if there was one.
Nell ran down the stairs and outside, then headed for one of the narrow passageways that separated the buildings. It seemed there were more people on the sidewalks now or sitting outside their buildings, watching expectantly, as if there might be some entertainment in the offing.
Something’s up, she thought, rounding the corner of the building.
Something—
The man running full tilt down the passageway slammed into her, but it was a glancing blow and he barely slowed down. She caught the reek of cheap cologne, a whiff of foul breath, and a lot of pain as the impact spun her and her shoulder bounced hard off a brick wall.
Reeling like a drunk, she almost fell, then managed to fix her gaze on a running man in tight, faded jeans and a black T-shirt. He was picking up speed, swinging his long arms wide. Not a trained runner, but he could outdistance her, Nell was sure.
Still disoriented, she tried to yell halt. Tried to yell police. But she couldn’t find her breath as she staggered after the man.
Fumbling, she drew her weapon from its belt holster.
Warning shot?
What the hell was procedure?
She couldn’t get her mind to work. Couldn’t get her legs to work.
Tires screamed on concrete. At the corner she saw a small van skid past at an angle and bang over a mailbox. In the shadow beneath the van was a darker shadow shaped like a person tumbling, tumbling, arms and legs flailing in limited, crushing space. Nell caught a glimpse of light flesh for a moment before it was claimed again by the shadows beneath the van.
Barefoot!
He’s barefoot. How he must have wanted to get away!
The van came to a rocking stop. Nothing in the shadow beneath it moved. People started to drift closer, then crowded in on the vehicle.
Nell began walking fast toward the corner. She realized she was carrying her gun at her side and slid it back into its holster, then made sure her blazer was buttoned to cover it.
“He broke out through a window and down the fire escape,” a calm voice said beside her. Beam.
The nearness of him calmed her somewhat, but her heart was still pounding in her ears. “He decided to run. That van got him.”
“I know, I know…”
They reached the corner and flashed their shields, telling people to stand back. Beam kneeled down to look under the van, then quickly stood up.
“There’s a woman under there.”
Nell saw that there were smears of blood on the pavement between the skid marks left by the tires and looked away. The van’s driver must have been distracted by Rodman and struck the woman.
Knocked her out of her shoes.
Nell’s stomach kicked and she swallowed brass.
A radio car arrived and blocked the street. Sirens whooped, and another car came in from the opposite direction, then braked and parked angled sideways. The uniforms piled out and hurried toward the van, moving swiftly, looking this way and that, sizing up the situation.
Beam identified himself and Nell to the nearest two uniforms and explained what must have happened. They all gazed up and down the street, as if Rodman might still be somewhere in sight.
The van driver was out of the vehicle now, leaning on a fender and yammering to one of the uniforms. He was a short, dark-complected man wearing gray work pants and a darker gray shirt. He looked as if he might vomit any second. He’d killed someone; one day it had been work as usual delivering packages, necessary and monotonous, the world in its revolutions, then he’d killed someone and everything was changed.
“Rodman didn’t have a record, so why’d he run?” Beam asked.
Nell looked at him, rubbing her shoulder. “Because he’s who we’re looking for?”
Beam gave her a level, unreadable look. “You really think this guy’s the killer?”
She shook her head no. “Not unless our guy establishes a romance with his victims before killing them.”
Beam studied her as if wondering if she’d bumped her head as well as her shoulder on the bricks, then turned away, maybe giving her more time to recover. He spoke briefly to one of the uniforms, making sure the scene was secured, then returned to Nell. “Let’s go back up to his apartment, see why he might have bolted.”
“Drugs would be my bet,” Nell said.
“Always the favorite,” Beam said, walking beside her. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Still attached.”
“Wanna have it looked at?”
“Later, if it needs it.”
In the corner of her vision, she might have seen Beam smile.
No one stopped them or spoke to them as they made their way to Lenny Rodman’s building and up the stairs to his second floor apartment.
Beam must have realized along with Nell that Rodman had rabbitted, because the door was hanging open. Nell saw that the wooden frame was splintered around the latch from Beam kicking his way in.
They entered the apartment carefully, though they figured if anyone had been in there besides Rodman, he or she surely would have taken the opportunity to leave.
Nell said, “He must have had reason to want out of here fast.”
She looked around. The place was a mess. It was an efficiency, and from where they stood just inside the door they could see all of it except into the closets and bathroom. There were heaps of clothes on the painted hardwood floor, and a sofa bed was open and unmade. Furniture had obviously been shifted around, and along one wall were stacks of large cardboard boxes.
Beam and Nell went to the apartment’s two closets and made sure they concealed nothing human or dangerous. The first closet contained half a dozen dress shirts, a gray suit, and two blazers. There was a pair of black shoes on the floor, and a stack of yellowed pornographic magazines on the wooden shelf. The second closet contained nothing other than wire hangers on the rod and in a tangle on the floor, and two roaches that scurried beneath the baseboard to escape the sudden light. Nobody in the bathroom. The torn plastic shower curtain dangled from its rod on two hooks. The window near the tub was wide open. Rodman’s access to the fire escape.
Beam opened the medicine cabinet. Arranged on sagging shelves were a disposable razor and aerosol can of shaving cream, toothpaste, a toothbrush, comb, deodorant, lemon-scented cologne. Nell remembered the sickening sweet scent of cologne when Rodman had shouldered her aside in his desperate flight.
“You think he lived here,” she asked, “or used the place as a kind of combination office and hideout?”
“Maybe all of the above,” Beam said. “Let’s look into those cardboard boxes.”
“If they contain drugs,” Nell said, “we got us the mother lode.”
Kane removed a small bone-handled folding knife from his pocket and began slicing the tape holding the boxes’ flaps down. But the tape was so flimsy there was no need for the knife, and he and Nell began opening the boxes eagerly with only their hands, examining contents then pushing down the flaps and shoving the boxes aside.
They learned soon enough that the boxes contained sea shells.
“Conch shells,” Beam said.
“They look like the kind of sea shell you might be able to blow like a horn,” Nell said. “Or put to your ear and hear the ocean.”
“They are,” Beam said. “Down in Key West and other places they fry and eat what lives inside. Conch fritters.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Nell said. “I haven’t spent my whole life in New York.”
“There are plenty of these shells down there, but not a lot as perfect as these are. Notice they’re all unbroken?”
“I did,” Nell said. “What on earth was Rodman doing with sea shells?”
“He stole ’em,” a voice said.
Beam and Nell turned to see a skinny African American girl about sixteen standing in the doorway. She was wearing baggy red shorts, rubber sandals, and a sleev
eless white T-shirt lettered JUST VOTE. She would have been pretty if it weren’t for severely crooked yellowed teeth.
“He tol’ me he stole them shells,” she said. “What you gonna do to him?”
“Try to catch him and find out why he stole them,” Beam said.
“Oh, I know why. Lenny’s kinda man like to brag on hisself. Like to play the lead role in his own movie. Need the audience. Need a leading lady. We close. He tol’ me lotsa things. You know what I mean?”
Beam and Nell glanced at each other. They could imagine.
“We know,” Beam said. “We don’t want to hurt Lenny, but we do need to find him. You understand that?”
“Sure. I warned him more’n once. He jus’ laugh the way he do.”
“Where would he steal sea shells from?” Nell asked.
“Place in New Jersey buys shells and ships ’em up here from Florida, uses ’em to crush and pave things like driveways an’ such for rich folks here an’ down south. But the good shells that ain’t broke, they set aside and sell ’em to souvenir shops and the like.”
“Lenny told you this?”
“Sure. He trust me. Got his reasons.”
“But now you’re telling us about him,” Nell said.
“Don’ make me no difference now. He ain’t comin’ back, not ever. Ain’t nobody standin’ here don’t know that.”
“So Lenny just stole the unbroken shells,” Beam said. “But why?”
“Telephones. He tol’ me he’s gon’ make phones outta them shells—designer phones, he called ’em—an’ sell ’em all over the place. Make hisself some cash.” The girl looked from Beam to Nell. “You know how people likes to hold them shells to their ears an’ all.”
“Mind telling us your name?” Beam asked.
The girl smiled with her horrible teeth. “Candy Ann.”
“Last name?”
“Kane, thas’ with a K. I lives right downstairs in 1D, me an’ my kids. I knowed the kinda things goin’ on up here even before Lenny tol’ me. Man don’t know how to keep a secret no how. Got hisself a tongue too big for his mouth.”
“How old are you, Candy Ann?” Beam asked.
“Eighteen next month. Lenny was gonna give me one of them shell phones for my birthday. Promised me. I didn’t pay him no mind.”
