by John Lutz
“We think it’s the system itself he’s raging against,” Nell said.
Selig considered, blue gaze turned momentarily inward. “I see.”
“Unfortunately, your wife became an integral part of that system.”
“She might have been foreperson of that jury, but she only had one vote. And why doesn’t this maniac go after the prosecutors and judges? They’re part of the system, too. Some of them are the system.”
“When we catch him,” Nell said, “we’ll ask him, but we probably won’t be satisfied with the answer.”
Selig’s expression hardened. Everything about him shouted that he’d been born rich and enjoyed all of life’s advantages, Ivy League education, connections, soft safety net.
But soft wasn’t the word for this guy. There was a surprising steeliness to him as he looked at Nell. “I’d like to be alone with him and ask him some questions before I wring his neck.”
Nell smiled faintly. “I can’t promise you that, but we’re doing everything possible to put you in the same room with him—a courtroom.”
Selig sighed. His hands were clenched tightly into fists.
Nell hated to ask him to relive the night of his wife’s death, but she had no choice.
Selig didn’t seem to mind. “I came home from the office at eight twenty, after working late, and called out Iris’s name when I couldn’t find her. When I looked into various rooms and got to the bathroom off the hall…” he swallowed hard; Nell could hear it “…I found her. She was lying on the floor in a pool of blood…so much blood. I could see the bullet hole in her chest, between her breasts. It was so small…It didn’t look necessarily fatal, but later, when I saw photographs of the exit wound…” He bowed his head. “A large area of her back was missing. Her spine…” Selig stood up. “You mind if I have a drink myself?”
“Not at all,” Nell said.
He started across the blue carpet, then he paused and turned back to her. “You sure you—”
“Nothing for me,” Nell told him.
“Working girl.”
“Working cop.”
He looked at her closely then managed a thin smile. “I’m sorry.”
“I won’t tell the politically correct police.” She waited, staring out at the galaxy of the city, until he returned carrying a glass of what looked like water with ice cubes.
“It’s surprising to me how that night’s coming back.” He settled down again on the white sofa, on the leg of the L, seated at a slight angle so they were facing each other. He seemed calmer now, even relaxed. Nell had to admire the drape of his gray slacks as he crossed his legs.
She said, “After you found your wife’s body…”
Selig took a sip of water. “I phoned the police, of course.”
“911?”
“No. It didn’t occur to me. But the police notified somebody, and an ambulance and paramedics arrived the same time they did.”
“When you found Iris’s body, did you notice the red letter J scrawled with lipstick on the bathroom mirror?”
“No. The police asked me about it later. I told them I knew nothing about it, but I—we—thought at the time that maybe Iris had been trying to write something to me, beginning to spell out Jack when she died. Later, they told me that wouldn’t have been possible. She’d died instantly. There were no fingerprints on the lipstick tube. The killer had either wiped them off or worn gloves. The police said he wouldn’t have bothered if he hadn’t touched the lipstick, so they figured he was the one who wrote on the mirror.”
Nell glanced around at all the opulence. “How did he get in here? I mean, you need to have the doorman use his key to get the elevator to go all the way to the penthouse. I’m assuming his key and yours are the same.”
“As was Iris’s key.”
“According to the file, the killer might have come up here with Iris.” Nell moderated her tone so Selig wouldn’t get the wrong—or the obvious—idea. Had Iris brought home a lover?
“The doorman remembers her coming up alone,” he said.
“Eddie?”
“A different doorman.” Selig chewed the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, thinking, then said, “I do remember there’d been a series of burglaries in the building that same year. Some without signs of forced entry. The police checked all the keys, everyone’s in the building. There weren’t a lot of spare keys floating around after that. I’m sure there still aren’t. It’s still a mystery as to how the killer got in here.”
“Have you changed the locks?”
“Of course.”
“You were a suspect for a while,” Nell said, not liking it but knowing she should push here.
No sign of guilt or uneasiness on Selig’s face. “I know. That’s natural, since I was the victim’s husband. But my alibi, my presence at the office, was well established.”
“They considered the possibility you might have hired someone to kill your wife, and provided him with a key.”
“It’s still a possibility,” Selig said calmly. “But I didn’t do that. I loved my wife. I wish she were still alive. I had no motive. Iris had money when I married her, and I made plenty of money in New York real estate. We had no children. Either of us could have walked away from the marriage clean. Neither of us dreamed of doing so.”
Nell believed him. Not only that, she felt sorry for him. Not very professional. Her eyes threatened to tear up, so she pretended to concentrate on the notepad in her lap until she gained control. Working girl. Not me!
“The past two years have been lonely ones,” Selig said. “I’d give every penny I have if there were some way to get Iris back.” His chest heaved beneath the neatly pressed white shirt. “Impossible, and masochistic to keep thinking about it. And of course,” he added, “I don’t think about it all the time. Two years ago isn’t yesterday.”
Nell didn’t know quite how to phrase this next question. “Is there anyone in your life now?”
“Another woman? No. There’ve been a few minor attachments, that’s all.” A shadow of sadness passed over his features, this handsome, mature man who looked as if he should be carefree on the bridge of his yacht, who for all Nell knew might very well own a yacht. “I’ve made my fortune. Fortune enough, anyway. Now I manage my investments out of my home office, take most meals alone, and travel by myself.”
Minor attachments, Nell thought. Maybe for him, but she bet not for the women. This guy was quite a catch for an older woman. In fact…
“Have I been of any help?”
Nell refocused her attention. “I’m sorry?”
“I thought you were finished with the interview. You were quiet, and you closed your notepad.”
Nell glanced down again at her lap. She had absently closed the notepad. It didn’t matter, as she hadn’t taken any notes. What Selig had told her coincided precisely with what was in the two-year-old murder file.
“I was thinking,” she said. “The doorman at the time of Iris’s death, do you know where he might be found?”
“He was struck and killed by a bus a year ago,” Selig said. “I sent flowers to his family where he was buried, somewhere in Louisiana.”
Alexandria. Nell had already known the answer to her question. Selig had answered accurately again, volunteering information, not seeming in any way guilty of anything. Seeming, in fact, to be just as he described himself—rich and lonely. That could be a dangerous combination for a man. It would be terrible if some fortune-hunting bitch glommed onto this guy.
Of course, there were women other than fortune hunters who might be interested in him. Wealthy widows who frequented the same yacht club.
Nell stood up.
“Will there be more questions later?”
“I’m sure there will be,” Nell said, though she could find no reason for more questions.
“Good,” Selig said, smiling as he ushered her back to the elevator. He watched over her as if the thing might explode before it began its descent.
&n
bsp; “Good,” she heard him say again, as she dropped.
When Nell was gone, Selig went to his desk in the penthouse’s den that had been converted to his office. He opened a drawer and withdrew several framed photographs and laid them out on the desk.
He hadn’t looked at them in months. He’d tried, in fact, to forget they existed. But he could never have thrown them away.
For the next five minutes, in the hushed, lonely silence, he studied the photos.
It was amazing how much Nell the detective resembled the younger Iris Selig.
Tina left the car in short-term parking and went into the terminal with Martin. If it were possible, she would have accompanied him down the concourse and watched him board. She was becoming more and more uneasy about his safety and wanted him free and clear of the city as soon as possible. She needed reassurance.
Martin had forty minutes before his flight left, so he bought a Newsweek to read on the plane, and he and Tina sat and watched people stream past, some of whom would be Martin’s fellow passengers. It was slight comfort for Tina to know that none of JK’s victims had been killed on a plane. Silly, she knew, but she wondered if Martin also had considered it. Serial killers were supposedly programmed to follow certain patterns, so maybe you were safe on a plane.
“Once you’re on board, we can breath easier,” she said.
He glanced over at her and smiled. “I suppose you’re right, but I still have my doubts about running away from what might only be my imagination.”
Tina was a little irritated, especially since, as he spoke, Martin couldn’t resist eyeing a long-legged blonde with exceptionally large breasts flounce past. Machismo kicking in, now that fear had partially retreated. “That’s not how you were talking earlier.”
“This is later,” Martin said. “And I’m boarding the plane anyway, so relax.”
“I’ll relax when you’re up, up, and away.” She watched every male head along the concourse turn to observe the tall blonde. Pathetic, thought tiny Tina, then wondered if the tall blonde would be on Martin’s flight.
“I much prefer you,” Martin said, guessing what she was thinking.
Tina leaned toward him and pecked his cheek. “Bastard.”
Grinning, he stood up and slung the strap of his carry-on over his shoulder. “They’ll be boarding pretty soon.”
Tina also stood. “I’ll walk with you to security.”
“You want to sit on my lap on the plane?”
“If I didn’t have such a workload, maybe I would.”
“You make me feel as if I don’t have life insurance.”
“Bad joke, baby.”
He shrugged with his unburdened shoulder. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” As they began walking toward the security check point, he said, “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t be turning tail if I didn’t share your premonition of doom.”
“You’re not turning tail.”
“Showing the white feather.”
“You’re showing good sense,” Tina insisted.
As he joined the end of the security line, Martin kissed her goodbye on the lips. “That’s what all us cowards say.”
“Live cowards,” Tina corrected.
She stood and watched the line move along. Martin had to remove his wristwatch and go through the metal detector twice. Good, Tina thought, Security has the device fine-tuned. Maybe there was some sort of terror alert. That would be ironic, if she talked Martin into leaving town so he’d be safe, and he boarded a plane that was commandeered by terrorists. Martin’s black carry-on made its way along the conveyor belt and through the fluoroscope. No one opened it or had him remove his shoes.
He glanced back at her, smiled, and waved as he blended in with the other passengers beyond Security and moved along the concourse. What if I’m seeing him for the last time?
When he was out of sight, Tina felt unaccountably lonely as well as relieved. She was sure that, later, relief would win out. They were doing the right thing, whatever Martin’s inner conflict. Men were bullheaded and carefully nurtured their egos, and he was no exception.
She returned to short-term parking and got into the Saab.
As she was about to fit the key into the ignition, the light seemed to flicker, for less than a second, almost beyond her notice. Though she did notice, she thought nothing of it. She didn’t know the brief interference with her vision was the passing of an extremely fine, extremely strong wire before her face.
At each end of the wire were affixed four-inch wooden handles fashioned from a sawed-off broomstick, so the Justice Killer would have a firm grip with each and wouldn’t suffer any cuts or scrapes. As he straightened up in the back seat of the Saab, he yanked hard on the wire then crossed and twisted it at the back of the front seat’s headrest. Tina’s head and neck were immediately pinned to the headrest. As the Justice Killer applied more strength, Tina’s hands rose and flailed briefly. She tried to cry out but managed only a high, choking screech, almost exactly like the alarmed caw of a crow, before the wire sliced into her larynx, then her carotid arteries, and blood spurted forward onto the dash and windshield.
The Justice Killer left the wire embedded in Tina’s neck—he wore gloves and didn’t worry about fingerprints—then reached forward between the front seats and ran the tip of his forefinger in small circles through the blood covering Tina’s right nipple. He glanced around to be sure no one was nearby, then he scrawled a red capital J on the inside of the car’s left rear window. He opened the door, climbed out, and closed the door without slamming it.
Strolling away from the car, he quickly peeled off the gloves, leaving them inside out, and slipped them into a pocket. It took less than a minute for him to walk along the row of cars to where his own was parked, get in, and drive away.
He drove slowly, satisfied. More than just an erection this time.
Half an hour passed before a family with vacation tickets for Florida noticed the pale, horrified looking woman seated bolt upright behind the steering wheel of her parked car and gaping wide-eyed at nothing.
23
Beam, Nell, and Looper watched as Tina Flitt’s body was removed from behind the steering wheel of the Saab. The medical examiner and crime scene unit had done their preliminary work, so Tina was no longer needed. One of the techs used tiny snips to sever the wire on both sides of her neck. They’d wait until the autopsy to remove the length of wire deeply imbedded in her throat. The ends of the wire, with their small wooden handles, were bagged as evidence. It had already been determined that there were no fingerprints on the handles.
“Our guy wore gloves again,” Nell said. “There won’t be any usable prints anywhere on or in the car, either.”
“If he’s our guy,” Looper said. “Jeez, I wish I had a cigarette.”
“This is the airport,” Nell said. “They shoot you if you light a cigarette at the airport.”
“The J written on the rear side window looks exactly like the others left by JK,” Beam said.
“They’ve been all over the papers and TV,” Nell pointed out. “Could be a copycat.”
“Could be,” Beam agreed, but didn’t believe it. It wasn’t what his gut was telling him.
Nell’s cell phone chirped, and she walked away about twenty feet. Beam and Looper watched as she had a brief conversation, then returned, stuffing the phone back in her blazer pocket. “Computer check showed no Tina Flitt on our jury foreperson list,” Nell said. “But a letter in her purse indicates she’s an attorney.”
“Part of the system,” Looper said.
Beam rubbed his chin. “Different part, though. Different weapon, too.”
“Same red letter J, though.”
“Address on her driver’s license has her on the Upper East Side,” Nell said.
Beam made it a point not to look at Tina Flitt’s small, still form as it was loaded into the ambulance. Her head had been almost severed, and he’d seen enough of death lately.
Irv Minskoff from the
ME’s office walked over. Beam saw that since the last murder he’d been attempting to grow a mustache. It was coming in gray and bushy, and along with his gnarly features and thick-lensed glasses, made him look like a country-town general practitioner who mostly gave flu shots and birthed babies. Didn’t talk that way, though. “Poor bitch was damn near decapitated.”
“What kind of wire was it?” Beam asked.
“Hard to say. Very thin but with lots of tensile strength, like dental floss or fishing line leader.”
“But it wasn’t either of those?”
“No, it was wire. Maybe piano wire. She died quickly, probably didn’t make much noise.” Minskoff used a forefinger to smooth both sides of his mustache. “Nice car, but it’s not gonna be worth anything after this, what with all the blood and what came out when her sphincter relaxed. Smell just about knocks you out when you stick your head in there.” He turned to watch the silent ambulance pull away. “Probably a looker when she was alive. Slender body, good enough rack. Not much tit but terrific nipples. Killer noticed that, too. Looks like he ran whatever he wrote with—his finger, probably—over her right nipple to get his blood ink.” He shook his head. “I see a waste like that, it saddens me. Know anything about her?”
“I thought you might tell me,” Beam said.
“I make her out to be in her mid-forties. Fashion label clothes to go with the new car. Married.”
“How do you know she was married?” Beam asked, almost dreading the answer from the callous little medical examiner.
“Wedding ring,” Minskoff said with a smile. “Looks reasonably expensive. More to the point, she’s been dead less than an hour. So if she came here to catch a plane, it either left not long ago or it’s still here. You might wanna hurry.”
“Maybe she just flew in and was about to drive away when she was killed.”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s possible.”
“She didn’t come here to catch a plane,” Beam said, “and she didn’t just arrive. No luggage in the car. No airline ticket. And she’s in short term parking.”
