Chill of Night

by John Lutz

  But there was something in their expressions that Adelaide recognized, a kind of reserved awe. Only a few other times had people looked at her that way, the way they looked at real celebrities they knew were beyond their reach and envied. At stars.

  In the morning, they drove her home under police escort. Some of the people on the sidewalk seemed to recognize Adelaide and waved. As the lead cruiser she was in slowed to take a corner, a woman began hopping up and down, mouthing her name. Ad-e-laide, Ad-e-laide. Three of the cops asked for her autograph, and she smilingly obliged and asked how the siren worked.

  Her attorneys told her that next week, when she was due to appear in court in answer to her jury summons and wouldn’t be present, the police would issue a warrant for her arrest. She shouldn’t be alarmed. It was according to plan.

  Scared as she was, she was also excited. She was sure, as she had been all along, that Barry was an absolute genius and one of the truly sweet men in her life.

  Marge trusted Manfred Byrd enough to lend him a key to her apartment. That always seemed to Manfred to be the Rubicon, marking a client’s complete faith in him, the equating of decorator talent with honesty. A man less honest would take advantage of Marge.

  She was having lunch with a friend, she’d told him, to discuss some sort of charitable contribution, and would meet him immediately afterward. Manfred thought it interesting that a woman could become suddenly very rich and give some of it away to those less fortunate. He didn’t completely understand the impulse, but he found it commendable.

  Apparently her lunch had run later than anticipated. It was past two o’clock and he was alone in the unfurnished living room of her apartment. No matter. He could take the measurements he needed without her. He’d already decided that the sofa she chose would go well with the slightly burnt umber tint to the previously dead white walls. When he was finished, the room would be much warmer, and with a sense of order and stability, which was what Marge wanted.

  Manfred took off his gray silk sport jacket, carefully folded it lining out, and laid it on the carpet. Then he removed his tape measure from his briefcase on the floor and prepared to go to work.

  He was headed for the corner where the tall étagère was going to be, when a slight sound made him turn.

  And there was a man with a gun.

  Guns were not part of Manfred’s universe. All he could manage to say was, “Huh?”

  There was something bulky on the gun’s barrel, and while Manfred knew next to nothing about firearms, he recognized it as a silencer. It was all he could stare at as the man moved toward him.

  The gun didn’t waver as the man said, “Slip your jacket back on.”

  Manfred quickly did as he was told, so hurriedly he might have heard a seam rip in the silk fabric. Dreadful sound.

  “Now go out on the balcony,” said the very calm voice behind the gun. It might have been an invitation to step outside and admire the breathtaking view.

  “No. You’re—”

  “Outside!”

  Manfred turned his back on the gunman, opened the French doors to the balcony, and reluctantly stepped outside. Though the day was calm, at this height there was a steady breeze. He couldn’t help but notice that fear was making his movements stiff. At the same time, there was an unreality about all of this.

  He was shoved roughly from behind, stumbled forward, and caught himself on the waist-high iron railing just in time to keep from tumbling out into space. He gasped and began to turn around. He was dizzy, terrified.

  The rudeness! This really shouldn’t be happening!

  He was only halfway around when he was shoved again. This time he felt his right ankle grasped and lifted, and his perspiring hand slipped off the railing.

  Along with the momentum of the shove, it was enough to tip the balance.

  Manfred Byrd was airborne and for several seconds too astounded to be simultaneously frightened.

  It’s all so fast!

  Ten floors down he began to scream.

  36

  “Who the hell is she?” da Vinci asked.

  Beam was standing. Nell and Looper were seated before da Vinci’s desk. Helen Iman, the profiler, was sprawled in a chair over by the computer. The usually organized office was more cluttered than Beam had ever seen it. Papers were scattered over da Vinci’s desk, a stack of file folders leaned precariously on top of the computer monitor. A crumpled yellow slip of some sort had missed the wastebasket. It was almost as if the job were getting away from da Vinci. The Adelaide effect, Beam thought.

  He said, “She’s an actress who lives in the Village.”

  Da Vinci raised his eyebrows in that way that made him look more than ever like young Tony Curtis. “Successful?”

  “Not unsuccessful,” Beam said. “Sings, dances, acts…the whole package.”

  “And cute enough to top a dessert,” Looper said.

  The others stared at him and he nervously tapped his breast pocket where he used to carry his cigarettes.

  “She certainly stirred up some shit,” da Vinci said.

  “The kind she wanted,” Beam said, standing with his arms crossed. “She’s front page and leads the news all over town. And out of town. The rest of the country’s getting more and more interested in our predicament, thinking it might happen to them.”

  “Do you think she’s the sort who could start a popular movement?” Nell asked.

  All three men looked at her disbelievingly.

  “She could start things moving that have never moved before,” Looper said.

  Da Vinci looked over at Helen. “What do you think of our Adelaide?”

  “Not exactly my department,” she said. Her voice was throaty and, in a quiet way, commanded attention. “But I’ll try. She’s self-involved, narrowly focused, clever, and not as dumb as she looks. Or at least she’s got somebody with brains directing her. Don’t let the cute act fool you. Could she start a movement? Think Joan of Arc.”

  Da Vinci looked disgusted. This was a turn in the case he hadn’t counted on.

  “This city’s gonna have an even tougher time getting anyone to serve on a jury,” Beam said, “unless we get ahead of the curve on this.”

  “I’ve heard that advice somewhere before,” da Vinci said. “It seems to have more to do with surfing than homicide investigations.”

  “It’s more or less worked.”

  “Mostly less. But what do you suggest this time?”

  “When she doesn’t report for jury duty,” Beam said, “don’t charge her.”

  Da Vinci shook his head. “We can’t let her get away with it and set an example, or nobody will even open their mail from the city unless they need something to wipe their ass.”

  “Issue a statement saying she’s being excused because she’s a hardship case.”

  “She’s an out-of-work actress,” Nell said. “She’s got nothing else to do, and the city does pay jurors a stipend.”

  “Only a stipend,” Looper said. “When last I checked, it was forty dollars a day. That doesn’t take you far in New York.”

  “She was in a show until six weeks ago,” Beam said, “a musical called Nuts and Bolts at the Herald Squared Theatre, Off-Off-Broadway. It was panned by the critics, but it ran for almost three months.”

  Da Vinci moved an elbow that had been resting on his desk, almost sending a sheet of paper onto the floor. He absently weighted one corner of the paper under one of the wheels of his brass motorcycle sculpture. “And?”

  “She’s almost certainly collecting unemployment. It’s a fact of life and a mainstay for most actors. And her jury pay would be deducted from what she draws, at least on a weekly basis. That means she wouldn’t actually be collecting anything for serving as a juror. Her jury service would mean she wouldn’t have time to look for work. We can call her, and theater people like her who are temporarily out of work, hardship cases and excuse them all from jury duty. The media would love it. New York’s supposed to be a friendly town f
or theatrical performers.”

  Da Vinci leaned back in his desk chair. “You’re a devious bastard, Beam.”

  Helen dug in a heel and began swiveling an inch back and forth in the swivel chair by the computer. “He really is,” she said, looking at Beam appraisingly.

  “Do you think it’d work?” da Vinci asked her.

  “Might.”

  “Think it’d shut the little pest up?”

  “Slow her down, at least.”

  Da Vinci smiled. “I gotta say I like it.”

  He was still smiling when his phone buzzed, but as he listened to what the caller had to say, the smile faded. His knuckles whitened on the receiver, and he looked at Beam. Away from Beam. Beam didn’t like it.

  “Wait here just a minute,” da Vinci said when he hung up. He rose from his desk and left the office before anyone could reply.

  “What the hell?” Nell said.

  “Looks like it could be bad news,” Looper said, giving his shirt pocket a tap. When a minute or so passed and no one else commented on the obvious, he said, “You ever get your air conditioner fixed, Nell?”

  Nell blushed.

  She was about to stammer a reply when the door opened and da Vinci blustered back in. He went back behind his desk, sat down, and dropped a piece of red material on his green desk pad.

  When he smoothed and straightened out the material, it was about five inches long and cut in the shape of a capital J.

  “I wanted to make sure this was like the others,” da Vinci said. “We’ve got another JK victim, over on Third Avenue.”

  “Shot?” Looper asked.

  “No. Died on the street. Apparently he was made to jump or was pushed from a thirty-first floor balcony. He was an interior decorator who let himself into his client’s apartment and was waiting for her. It looked like it could be a simple accident or suicide until the CSU found the cloth letter tucked into one of his sport coat pockets.”

  “Has anyone checked to see if he ever served on a jury?” Nell asked.

  “He has,” da Vinci said. “Five years ago. A rape trial. The defendant walked on a technicality.”

  “Not the jury’s fault,” Looper pointed out.

  “Makes no difference,” da Vinci said. “The jury still could have found him guilty. In our system, a jury can do just about what it damn well pleases.”

  “Was he foreman?” Nell asked.

  “No, just one of the jurors.”

  “Like Tina Flitt,” Nell said.

  “We have another change of MO,” Beam said. “Death by falling.”

  “A familiar one, though,” da Vinci said, looking at Beam the way he had when he was on the phone. “I think our killer might be trying to tell us something.”

  Beam suddenly understood. He felt a chill. “You mean the way Lani died? You can’t think—”

  “That he killed your wife to motivate you to become his opponent?” da Vinci said. “I’m afraid it’s possible.”

  “But not likely,” Nell said. “If that were true, the killer would have made sure there was a letter J involved. Or he would have made sure some other way that Beam knew who was responsible.”

  Da Vinci glanced over at Helen.

  “I think she’s right,” Helen said.

  “He could still be sending a message, though,” Looper said. “Taunting Beam.”

  “Showing us he can get by with anything,” Nell said.

  “Sounds more plausible,” Helen said.

  Beam slipped his fingertips into his rear pants pockets and paced a few steps toward the file cabinets, then back. He was trying to figure out how he felt about this, sort through grief and anger, reason it out.

  Finally he said, “I think Nell’s right. He couldn’t have had anything to do with Lani. And Loop’s right, too. The sick asshole deliberately mimicked Lani’s death to send a message, a taunt.”

  Instead of turning to Helen this time, da Vinci seemed to think about it, then nodded. “Yeah, probably a taunt. The apartment with the balcony is a condo unit owned by a woman named Marge Caldwell. Crime scene unit’s over there now getting what they can, but the place got too contaminated when we thought it was accidental death or suicide to give up much in the way of admissible evidence. You can start there on this one. But it looks like our killer got away clean again.”

  “The time’s coming when he won’t,” Helen said. “He’ll make a mistake because unconsciously he wants to. He wanted to play his game in the first place with Beam because he knew he’d eventually be nailed.”

  “That last one’s hard to believe,” da Vinci said. Now he did look over at Helen.

  Helen shrugged.

  “If it’s true, he’ll get his wish.” Beam said. He’d sorted through his emotions and knew now how he felt—angry. Even if the killer had nothing to do with Lani’s death, it was as if he’d somehow defiled her. “He’s going to get a return message he isn’t going to like.”

  Helen smiled like something carnivorous about to take a bite. Beam still didn’t have much confidence in her, but he was beginning to like her.

  37

  “You really wanna score some coke?” Vanessa Asarian asked Gina.

  They were in Häagen-Dazs near where Vanessa shared an apartment with two other NYU students. There were only a few places to sit after buying your ice cream or drinks at the counter. Gina and Vanessa were at a table near the back of the long ice cream shop. The only other occupied table was up front, where three preppy types Gina thought looked like future asshole attorneys were sitting spooning in ice cream.

  Vanessa wasn’t one of Gina’s best friends at school, but she was a friend. While Gina had a reputation for being serious and studious to the point of being dull, Vanessa, beautiful, blond, and with improbably large brown eyes, had just the opposite reputation. Both reputations were pretty much on the money.

  “I want you to put me in contact with this guy Reggie I always hear you and some of the others talk about,” Gina said. She was trusted by those who knew her well, and they discussed matters involving lovers and drug suppliers in front of her without fear of betrayal. Or so Gina thought. Vanessa’s reaction to her request surprised her.

  “You haven’t been talking to the police, have you, Gina?”

  At first Gina thought she meant talking about the trial of Genelle’s killer and the Justice Killer, and wondered how she could know. Then she realized what Vanessa meant.

  “You’re not really afraid of me snitching to the narcs, are you, Van?”

  Not that it was narcotics Gina was interested in. She was more interested in Reggie. For a while he’d been away from the scene, and Gina had learned he was in prison, not for selling or possession of drugs, but because he’d been caught burglarizing a pawn shop in New Jersey.

  Vanessa sipped her Diet Pepsi through her straw, making a show of it with her pouty lips for the three preppy types sitting up near the entrance. When she lowered the plastic cup there were lipstick smears the first inch of the straw. The preps didn’t happen to be looking her way. Sometimes, Gina thought, Vanessa could be too much.

  “Do you really think I’d turn snitch?” Gina asked again.

  “No,” Vanessa said. “But Reg has had problems lately. He was beat up a few nights ago and his merchandise was stolen.”

  “Coke?”

  “Coke, grass, meth.”

  “I didn’t know he dealt in all of that. I thought he was only a coke dealer.”

  Vanessa stared at her wide-eyed, with her jaw dropped as if in shock. It was known around school as the Vanessa look. “He’s a businessman, Gina. Businessmen diversify.”

  “That’s investors,” Gina said.

  “Same thing. Being smart. Branching out.”

  Gina studied her friend. She’d chosen Vanessa to ask about Reggie because she’d long suspected the two might be lovers. Or at least fornicators. The way Vanessa was defending her supplier seemed to underscore the notion. “The guy’s a drug dealer, Van.”

 
“So’s your friendly pharmacist.”

  “I want to talk to Reggie in a friendly way.”

  “If you want to try coke, I can get you some.”

  “I want to talk to Reggie.”

  “You sure you two have never met?”

  Gina smiled at her. “It’s nothing like that.”

  The Vanessa look again. “Like what?”

  “You know what. And you’re making too big a deal out of it. I only want you to put me in touch with someone I don’t know.”

  Vanessa looked away and took another sensuous sip through her straw. Distracted this time, though. Gina knew she was considering whether Reggie might be interested in Gina if they met. Gina doubted he would be, but then she didn’t know much about Reggie other than that he dealt drugs and made a bad burglar. Gina knew she was the serious type. She couldn’t picture a hedonist like Reggie being interested in her. But Vanessa might not see it that way.

  “What do you want with him?” Vanessa asked around her straw, then did the pouty business with her lips again.

  “Would Reggie want me to tell you?”

  Vanessa’s cheeks became concave as she sucked in soda. The preps up front were staring at her now, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “I don’t want to have sex with him,” Gina said, “only talk to him.”

  Vanessa’s eyes widened in genuine surprise this time. Gina didn’t usually talk this way. “Gina—”

  “Don’t bother,” Gina said. “It’s none of my business who you or Reggie screw, and it’s going to stay that way.”

  One of the preps, maybe a lip reader, looked as if he might get up and make his way back to them, but he didn’t work up the nerve to rise from his little wrought iron chair.

  “Okay,” Vanessa said, “I’ll set up a meeting with Reg. But tell no one.”