Chill of Night

by John Lutz

  Nola, whose signature had helped to authorize the exhumation, had decided not to attend. Beam was there, along with da Vinci. No need for Nell or Looper.

  Beam stood in the night with da Vinci and a tall African American man named Dan Jackson from the Medical Examiner’s office. Jackson stood off to the side, smoking a cigar. They were in soft light that seeped through a canvas tent that had been pitched around Harry’s grave. A small bulldozer had unearthed most of the grave before the tent was pitched. Now, inside the tent, cemetery workers, watched over by a uniformed officer, worked with shovels and an electric winch.

  “They sound busy in there,” da Vinci said.

  “It won’t be long now,” Jackson assured him.

  “I can hardly wait,” da Vinci said under his breath. He gave Beam an annoyed look in the moonlight.

  “Having second thoughts?” Beam asked.

  “I’m not allowed those.” A strong smell of Jackson’s cigar smoke came their way on the breeze. “Adelaide Starr was scheduled to report for jury duty today.”

  “She show up?” Beam asked.

  “No.”

  “Gonna issue a warning?”

  “No. We’re going to bring her in tomorrow, if we can find her.”

  “You’ll find her,” Beam said. “It’s what she wants. She’s probably already got her toothbrush packed.”

  “If it’s what she wants, why are we doing it?”

  “Not much choice. And it sends the right signal.”

  “She won’t shut up in jail,” da Vinci said. “She’ll find a way to send her own signals to her adoring public.” He jumped and batted something away from his face. “Friggin’ moths!”

  “I saw it,” Jackson said. “It was a bat.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “I’m mostly interested in signaling one member of her public,” Beam said. “The Justice Killer.”

  Light spilled out of the tent as the uniform held the flap open. “We’re ready, sir,” he said to da Vinci.

  Beam led the way inside. His show.

  The illumination from the portable lights inside the tent was almost blinding and left no place for shadows to hide. It was hot in there. There was no strong odor, only a faint musty scent.

  Harry’s casket was made out of some kind of smooth, light colored metal that looked as if it might have been buried yesterday. It sat on a couple of four-by-fours that had been laid across the open grave. It was open. The cemetery workers, the uniform, Jackson, all stood back away from the casket. Beam and da Vinci edged forward to look.

  Harry hadn’t held up as well as the casket. One glance at what was left of his face, and Beam looked away. It wasn’t Harry’s face he was interested in, anyway.

  There was Harry’s reattached right hand, awkwardly extending from his faded blue suit coat sleeve.

  The gaudy ring was still there—much too large for Harry now—on the withered, leathery hand. Hand that had touched Nola. Beam swallowed and turned away.

  “That it?” da Vinci asked.

  “It,” Beam said.

  Jackson moved in with a camera and began photographing. With any luck, Harry could now rest beneath the earth forever.

  “So the ring in the shop is a duplicate,” da Vinci said. “But why is it there?”

  “Not for Nola,” Beam said. “For me. To taunt me. To let me know he’s aware of my relationship with Nola and can do something about it any time he chooses.”

  Da Vinci squinted at him in the blinding light. “You got a relationship with Nola Lima?”

  “Something like,” Beam said.

  “I don’t care for this, Beam.”

  “It’s what moved our freak friend to go to a lot of trouble.”

  “And expense.”

  Da Vinci went back out into the night, and Beam followed.

  “Helen was right about him wanting to taunt you,” da Vinci said, standing with his hands in his pockets. “One for the profiler.”

  “The ring borders on a threat,” Beam said. “To me and to Nola. And there’s something else in it for JK—misdirection. We’re doing this instead of breathing down his neck.”

  “He had to have the duplicate ring made somewhere,” da Vinci said. “The jeweler will remember working off the photographs and ring descriptions that were in the news. We can find him.”

  Beam stood gazing around the cemetery, at the silent, leafy trees black against the dark sky, at the tombstones and statuary pale in the moonlight. It didn’t seem peaceful to him. He had the eerie feeling that everyone buried there was aware of what had been done tonight to one of their own, and was dismayed by it. Blamed Beam for it.

  He shuddered and began walking toward where the cars were parked near a stone angel on a narrow, winding road. “I’m getting out of here,” he said over his shoulder. “You gonna hang around a while?”

  “Not friggin’ likely,” da Vinci said, and hurried to catch up with him.

  Maybe he felt what Beam did.

  Rest in peace, Harry. It’s easier down there than up here.

  47

  “I didn’t know you were a lawyer,” Adelaide said.

  “In a previous life,” Barry told her, “and not actually a criminal lawyer, but I’m still a member of the bar. They had no choice but to let me in to see you.”

  They were talking on phones, separated by a thick sheet of Plexiglas. Three chairs down, another detainee was talking to his lawyer. With the phones, it was impossible to eavesdrop.

  “So you’re my lawyer as well as my agent.”

  “I’m your agent, Ad. We’ll get you the real thing when it comes to trial attorneys. Are they treating you okay?”

  “I don’t like it in here, Barry. It smells like that pine stuff they use to clean restrooms. Smells that way all the time.”

  “Other than that.”

  “Nobody’s hit me with a rubber hose.”

  “They better not. Half the people in this city would run over this place.” Barry leaned closer, as if it made a difference over the phone. “We’re going to get you out of here, Ad, but not too soon. The media are all over this now, but wait till they see some Free Adelaide demonstrations. I’ve got three spontaneous ones all planned. Big one in Central Park.”

  “Wow! I wish I could be there, Barry.”

  “For a while, it’s better that you’re not.” He looked closely at her through the clear divider, as if assessing damage. “If they mistreated you in some way…” He was looking expectantly at her now.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, Barry, all the jump suits aren’t this bright orange.”

  “Yeah?” He sat back.

  “I’ve seen prisoners in some darker colored ones. More neutrals.”

  “I guess they have more than one color, Ad.”

  “I’m a natural redhead, Barry. Do you know what this goddamned color does to my complexion?”

  “Ad—”

  “I know how it must make me look—just hideous!”

  “It’s okay, Ad, you look your beautiful self. Cute, the way the suit’s too big for you. The cuddly look.”

  “If looking flushed all the time is cuddly.”

  “On you it’s cuddly, Ad.” Barry stood up. “I’ve gotta go now. I’ll think of something.”

  “I know you will, Barry.”

  He smiled at her, and when he left, Adelaide began to cry.

  Really.

  Three of them. It would take a while, but they could cover most of the places in New York to see if anyone sold the duplicate ring lately, or created it using old newspaper photographs. They divided the list of shops and wholesalers, then split up. Sometimes Beam carried the duplicate ring to show jewelers, sometimes Nell or Looper had the ring.

  By the end of the second day, no one had recognized the ring, or the hallmarks or characteristics of whoever had created it. Beam did learn, on his first stop at a small shop in the diamond district, that Nola had it wrong—the ring was worth about two thousand dollars. It was fourteen-
karat gold, and the rubies were glass. The diamonds were real, but of low quality. All as Nola had said. Still, two thousand dollars. Because of the gold and the workmanship. That would be wholesale, the jeweler had said. Insure it for three thousand.

  So they did learn one thing: The Justice Killer probably wasn’t poor, though maybe not particularly rich.

  Another odd thing: Harry’s unearthing seemed to draw Beam and Nola closer together. There the past had been, lying in a casket, and they’d survived the encounter and reburied it. It no longer conveyed ambiguous obligation, and it wasn’t nearly as threatening as the present.

  No longer were they haunted.

  Later that evening, but well before dusk, Beam was walking with Nola in Central Park. The heat had let up, and there was a nice breeze rattling the leaves overhead. Nola had briefly held hands with Beam, then gently withdrew her hand. They were strolling side by side, but close together. Beam was coming to realize that trust and forgiveness didn’t come overnight.

  Nola said, “Some cop’s been hanging around the neighborhood near the antique shop.”

  “I know,” Beam said. “I arranged for you to have protection.”

  “I don’t think I need it. There’s no reason the Justice Killer would be interested in me.”

  “He left that ring in your shop. And he knows how I’d feel if anything happened to you.”

  “He’s also scaring away some of my customers.”

  “They’re not selling you hot Chippendale and Limoges, are they?”

  “I don’t know, Beam. And I don’t ask.” She glanced over at him and smiled. “I’m glad to know you’re learning something about the merchandise.”

  “Learning about you,” he said.

  They slowed, then stopped, in the shadow of a large elm. No one else seemed to be around. The wind kicked up, bending the tall grass in a field that stretched away toward a low stone wall and Central Park West, stirring the leaves over their heads so they alternated dappled light and darkness like a dancehall’s reflecting mirrored ball. Beam leaned down and kissed Nola on the lips, and she kissed him back, slowly, letting it linger. Thinking about it.

  No words afterward. Beam thought, Lani. Almost, I’m sorry.

  Almost.

  They continued walking along the path. Nola had his arm now, leaning her head lightly against his shoulder. Beam wondered what she was thinking. Was it about Harry? He hoped it wasn’t about the past. They should be thinking about the present and future. They could do that now.

  “What’s that?” Nola asked, pointing ahead and off to the left.

  Beam looked, squinting into the lowering sun. There were trees there. Movement that suggested people. A park entrance.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Looks like some kind of demonstration.

  Even as he said it, he understood what he had loosed.

  Melanie settled in before a large tuna melt with fries and a chocolate milkshake. Food comforted her, especially here, in her favorite diner on First Avenue. There was always a pleasant scent of simmering spices here. The help was friendly. There were signed and framed black-and-white photographs of celebrities hanging on the wall behind the counter. Real celebrities. Frank Sinatra, Lani Kazan, Miles Davis. People who created real music.

  The tuna was warm, and the milkshake was almost cold enough to give Melanie a headache. She felt better. Some of her anger at again trying futilely to see Richard Simms fell away. At least now, and for the next fifteen minutes, she’d have exactly what she wanted.

  The door opened and a man wearing badly wrinkled khakis, a T-shirt lettered FREE ADELAIDE, and worn jogging shoes entered and sat at the table directly across from hers. Melanie’s annoyance meter climbed. There were plenty of other places in the diner to sit, so why did he have to crowd her? She doubted it was her looks—not right now, anyway. Her hair was mussed, she’d been perspiring heavily, and irritation must show on her face.

  She glanced again at the lettering on his T-shirt.

  “Adelaide Starr,” he explained.

  “Ah, the woman who refuses to serve as a juror.”

  “She’s my hero,” the man said. He was in his mid-thirties, well proportioned if slightly pudgy, and had his own hair and regular features. Worth talking to, Melanie decided, then reminded herself she’d sworn a private oath to hate all men.

  Of course all men weren’t like Cold Cat. They couldn’t be. “She’s my hero, too,” Melanie said. “I don’t think anybody should have to serve on any jury. I think we should just electrocute people like Richard Simms.”

  “Forgive my asking,” said the man across the aisle, “but who’s Richard Simms?”

  “Cold Cat, the rap art-singer.”

  “That guy who killed his wife and walked. Yeah. I don’t dig his music. Sounds like somebody banging his head and scraping his nails on a blackboard at the same time.” The man ordered, only coffee, then turned his attention again to Melanie. “So what do you care about Cold Cat? You glad he’s free to make more noise?”

  “Hardly. I think he killed his wife.”

  “You and lots of other people. I followed the trial in the papers. Witnesses had him someplace else when she was killed. That didn’t leave the jury much choice but to acquit. Personally, I think if he didn’t do it himself, he hired it done.”

  Talking about the trial was bringing back Melanie’s anger. She’d saved Cold Cat’s life, and now he refused even to be in her company. “One witness was currying favor from the police,” Melanie said. “The other hero-worshipped Cold Cat.”

  “You think they were lying?”

  “Of course they were lying.”

  “So how come the jury didn’t see it that way?”

  “Why do sheep cross the road?”

  “Maybe they wanted to show they weren’t afraid of the Justice Killer,” the man suggested. He accepted a mug of coffee from the waiter, sipped it, then decided it needed cream and poured some in from the small white pitcher on the table. He stirred noisily with his spoon. “Human nature.”

  “That kind of false bravado might have helped to get him off,” Melanie agreed. She finished half her tuna melt and sipped at her milkshake. The ice cream in the shake made the roof of her mouth ache so the pain spread higher in her head, behind her eyes. Does everything good in the world have to bring pain?

  “I personally think all that legal stuff comes down to who has the best lawyer,” the man said. “That’s the way this country works.”

  “Oh, Simms had a good lawyer. He could afford the best.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the trial. You manage to get into the courtroom and actually see any of it?”

  “No,” Melanie said, “just followed it in the papers and on TV. I don’t think you had to be there to know Cold Cat killed his wife.”

  Suddenly her appetite left her. She managed to finish her milkshake, then she asked for a take-out box for the other half of her tuna melt and most of her fries. Tomorrow’s lunch.

  “When I finish this coffee,” the man said, “I’m gonna take a cab over to the park. There’s gonna be a Free Adelaide demonstration. The bastards threw the poor little thing in jail.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Too wrapped up in my own problems.

  “You wanna join me?”

  “Thanks, but I’m too tired. Way too tired.”

  The waiter came with the take-out box, and Melanie carefully transferred her half sandwich and fries.

  “Nice talking to you, Melanie,” the man said, as she headed toward the cash register near the door.

  “Same here.”

  “Have a nice evening.”

  It wasn’t until she’d walked several blocks and was descending the steps to a subway stop that she realized something was bothering her.

  “Nice talking to you, Melanie.”

  Try as she might to reconstruct their conversation, she couldn’t remember telling the man in the diner her name.

  48

  “It’s a mob,” N
ola said.

  Beam said, “Not quite yet.”

  He estimated there were about a hundred people. They streamed silently into the park from Central Park West. They were flanked and followed by news vans and media types on foot, some of them lugging cameras. Many in the crowd were carrying signs, but from this distance, and in the failing light, Beam couldn’t make out what the lettering said. A few had flashlights, even what looked like lighted candles, which they waved around or held high.

  The crowd was led by a man and a woman who strode out about twenty feet ahead of everyone, maintaining their distance. There was a businesslike eagerness about these people. Beam thought that if everyone had rifles and uniforms, they would have looked like those Civil War reenactors who replicate famous battles—the advance and silence before the shouting and shooting. They seemed to know exactly where they were going.

  Their destination was the wide area of windblown grass Beam had been admiring. In the approximate center of the field, the two leaders stopped and waved their arms, gathering people closer together, bringing in stragglers. The media vans and personnel took up position, quickly set up equipment, and suddenly the area was brighter than noon. So much for flashlights and candles.

  The crowd began to chant. Beam and Nola couldn’t make out what they were saying, so they moved in closer.

  Beam wasn’t surprised that the chant repeated what most of the signs said: “Free Adelaide!” Other signs declared that the city didn’t care about its citizens, and that cops were the tools of fascists. The lettering was neat and all of the same type; obviously the placards had been turned out by a sign shop or similar printing facility. Of course, computers these days…

  “Are you really a tool of fascists?” Nola asked.

  “Have been for years,” Beam said.

  The chants were getting louder, the crowd more raucous. Television cameras did that to people.