Cold Blue Midnight

by Ed Gorman

  Eric started running his hands through his thinning hair, pacing off little six-steps-and-back tattoos on the sweetly carpeted floor. He paused and said, 'This is my wife, right? Hiring some hit guy to take care of me? Right? Am I right?'

  'Eric, a great white hunter like you should know that a ''hit guy" like me could never tell who hired him. Us "hit guys" just don't do things like that, Eric. Sorry.'

  Now both of Eric's hands were twitching. His eyes were filling with tears.

  'I don't want to die. Please. I know you think I don't have any guts, butbut I don't want to die. I'll do anything you want me to. I promise.' Beat. 'I have kids. And a wife. Think of what it'd do to them if I died.'

  'You see them a lot, do you, Eric? Your wife and kids, I mean.'

  'Every chance I get.'

  'Sort of like Ozzie and Harriet, I'll bet.'

  'What?'

  'You know, good faithful wife, good faithful husband.'

  'Oh. Right. Absolutely.'

  He didn't even stand up, he was close enough sitting on the edge of the desk to stab the scissors deep into Eric's chest.

  Eric didn't even come up with a very good scream.

  He seemed so shocked he couldn't really do anything but stand there and cover the hole in his chest as blood began to spurt and spray through his fingers.

  Corday angled away, so he wouldn't be sprayed.

  'Please,' Eric muttered, 'please.'

  Corday wasn't sure what Eric was 'pleasing' him about but at this point he didn't much care.

  The kill was at hand.

  The only thing Corday liked more than the risk was the kill itself.

  Indeed indeed.

  He eased himself from the edge of the desk and took two steps over to Eric so that he could put the scissors in at an angle this time. Right at the base of the skull.

  This time Eric's scream was a little better but it was short-lived because paralysis was setting in. Corday knew the exact spot to effect that. And that's just where the scissors had gone.

  By now, there were small puddles and pools of blood on the floor, and the fabric walls were getting blotchy from the spurting geyser escaping from between Eric's fingers.

  'You ever kill a puma, Eric? I hear they're really tough. Some hunters tell me they're the toughest of all.'

  This time he stabbed him in the stomach.

  Had to look like a frenzy kill.

  Lots and lots of wounds.

  Hatred accumulated over a long period of time suddenly bursting forth.

  Eric put up bloody hands so Corday could not cut him but by now Eric was too weak to do much of anything.

  He slumped back against the wall.

  'Eric, you'd make this a lot easier for both of us if you'd just stand still. You really would, babe.' Corday smiled. 'I heard you calling that woman on the phone "babe." You like being called "babe?" Huh? You like it, Eric?'

  This was a good one.

  Right in the old larynx.

  For a milli-second, Eric looked like that famous painting The Scream; his eyes bulging in horror, his mouth open widebut no sound coming out.

  Hard to make a sound when some nasty man has just plunged a pair of scissors deep into your throat.

  Poor baby.

  Eric slid to the floor.

  He was dead by the time his haunches settled into the deep carpeting.

  All was silence.

  Corday knew better than to stay around.

  He worked quickly.

  From his pocket he took the Ziploc bag with the pair of scissors identical to the ones he'd used on Eric.

  He held the new scissors between thumb and forefinger and carried them delicately to Eric.

  He dipped the scissors in blood, then inserted the tips of the scissors into various wounds, collecting not only blood but cotton from the shirt and skin from the stomach, both things the medical examiner would expect to find on the murder weapon. He inserted the scissors into all the major wounds.

  Then he placed the bloody scissors several feet from Eric.

  This section of the office was a mess by now, especially the wall, blotched blood looking like Rorschach tests in some places.

  Then it was time to go.

  And go quickly.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 19

  Cini had never much liked elevators. As a little girl she'd heard a news story about a Loop elevator car falling twenty-six floors. A woman visiting from Iowa had died from injuries two hours later. The newsman, trying to reassure everybody, talked about how uncommon this wasless common than being struck by lightning was the example he usedbut Cini could never ride an elevator car now without a few moments of anxiety bordering on hyperventilation.

  But not now. She was concentrating so hard on her game planretrieving her purse and getting out of the office without letting Eric Brooks lay a finger on herthat she paid no attention to the faint whining sounds of the powerful elevator system, nor to the way the car shimmied every half-floor or so, nor to the way the doors didn't part for long, long moments after the car had reached the top floor.

  Ordinarily, she would have wanted to scream for help and start pounding on the door.

  But now…

  Now Cini got off the car and stood in the eerie silence of a Loop office building after closing hours. The corridor leading to the Brooks Agency's door was long and empty, and the wall-sconce indirect lighting, bouncing off the grid and tile system of the ceiling, produced a curiously alien brilliance.

  She started down the corridor.

  She was halfway there when the elevator doors rumbled shut behind her. She turned, startled, just as the two doors came together.

  Just had to get this over with…

  Just had to get out of here…

  She no longer cared about the TV commercialor even Michaelanymore. She'd been so foolish…

  As she started to open the door, she thought she heard a noise. A muffled shout, perhaps. Or scream.

  She listened, hearing only the faint buzz overhead of the electrical system.

  She went inside. The main reception area looked neat and empty, the massive front desk situated in front of a row of Clio awards the agency had won. The awards were kept in a glass case that was lit from inside and gave everything a theatrical-accent light.

  The corridor leading right was the one she wanted. At the far end of that she would find Eric Brooks' own smaller reception area, and his impressive digs.

  She had taken eight steps when she heard the scream and recognized it immediately as belonging to Eric Brooks.

  Without wanting to at all, she edged closer to his office and there, framed in the doorway, were two men. One was Eric Brooks. His face, chest, hands were covered with blood and he was cowering backward over his desk, holding his hands up to stop the bloody scissors from stabbing him again and again. The man with the scissors was tall and angular and handsome in a hard way. All she could think of was the actor James Coburn.

  Eric saw her but the killer didn't.

  Eric tried to call out her name, wave an entreating arm in her direction.

  But the killer was so intent on killing that Eric didn't have a chance, particularly after the man plunged the scissors deep into the area just below Eric's Adam's apple.

  This was very different from the kind of violence you saw on TV programs. For one thing, both men were kind of clumsy. The killer stumbled a couple of times in his frenzy, and Eric, for his part, kept making a kind of wheezing braying noise, like one of the dusty old donkeys she used to ride at the Illinois State Fair. The killer made sounds, too. And that's what they weresoundsnot fine fancy words put in his mouth by some screenwriter. He grunted, he groaned, he yelped, he yippedand when his blade struck home, he made curiously ecstatic sounds… 'orgasmic' would not be too strong a word. His cry was pure pleasure as the scissors went in and out, in and out

  Eric's head flopped backwards, soon followed by his entire body, his arms waving for balance as he fell across hi
s desk, the killer staying right with him, ripping the scissors from the trachea area and plunging them once again into Eric's chest.

  She was afraid she'd scream.

  She was afraid he'd see her.

  She ran.

  She ran back down the narrow corridor to the main reception area then across the lobby to the front door.

  She ran to the elevator and pushed the button ten, twenty, thirty times. But the elevator doors did not part. She kept glancing back over her shoulder, to see if the front door opened. To see if the man with the bloody scissors was coming for her

  She pressed the elevator button ten, twenty more times. Then, more in frustration than anything else, she started banging her fists on the elevator doors until she realized how crazy she was being. He'd hear her for sure.

  She ran to the neat red overhead sign that read: FIRE. Flung back the door. Started down the stairs two at a time. Stumbled once, slamming her knee painfully against the edge of a concrete step. Swore. Started to cry. Swore at herself this time for being such a sissy. No time to cry. Only time to run.

  Run.

  She ran.

  CHAPTER 20

  He stood across the street from Jill's apartment, staring up at the only lighted window. She passed by it occasionally, her slender body provocative in silhouette. Probably wearing her Danskins.

  Eric Brooks was less than an hour dead.

  Full night now. Traffic a steady flow of lights and the smells of gasoline and rubber. The occasional booming, blaring radio.

  The sidewalks were full, too. Lovers. He'd had a lover once. Been faithful, too. At least for a time. But then

  He watched the window.

  He was going up there soon.

  Very soon.

  CHAPTER 21

  Jill looked longingly at the fireplace. With autumn setting in, it was nearly time for a fire. But she hadn't bought any logs yet, nor cleaned out the grates.

  Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow.

  Her argument with Eric finally starting to fadeit took her a long time to calm down once she'd been angeredshe went into the kitchen for a glass of Chablis.

  She'd spent a good share of last year's photography profits having custom-cabinets installed. At that time, she'd still had dreams of marrying Mitch Ayers. Following the divorce, Mitch would be poor. This would be a perfect place for them to start a marriage.

  Or so she'd thought.

  Now, reaching into the open refrigerator for the bottle of wine, she forcefully willed Mitch from her mind.

  She wasn't dishonest with herself: she knew she wasn't over him completely yet. But one day she would be and when she waswell, maybe she'd meet somebody even nicer who wanted to move in here.

  Somebody who actually would move in.

  Not run back to his wife.

  She carried the wine goblet into the living room. She enjoyed the eclectic nature of the furnishings in therethe antique fireplace mantel contrasting with the shining hardwood floors and off-white sofa.

  She put on a Kenny G CD and strolled over to the window for her peek out at the street below. She'd always liked the excitement of this particular thoroughfare: it reminded her of her high-school days. She'd done a lot of cruising up and down streets in the company of boys determined to despoil her. But

  She smiled. In college, it got even crazier, though it was still kind of funny. All that spluttering of Donald's. All his protesting. All his bring-down-the-Government talk. And all the while living on a big fat inheritance.

  Then she saw him.

  Across the street.

  Looking up here.

  She didn't have a detailed look at him but she was sure he was the man in the blue Volvo.

  She wished she'd heard from Marcy Browne, the private investigator. Wished she knew who this man was for sure. And what he wanted.

  What if he wasn't a TV tabloid reporter?

  What if he were something far more ominous?

  She let the drape fall and walked back to the fireplace mantel. Now that he knew she was aware of him, maybe he'd leave. Maybe he'd get scared that she'd call the police.

  She sipped her Chablis. Her heart was pounding and she resented being upset again. Eric was enough for one day. She didn't need this, too.

  She charged across the room to the window, swept back the drape and glared out into the night.

  Gone.

  He was gone.

  She let the drape fall again and walked across to the hutch where the phone rested.

  She consulted the number she'd written on her phone pad this afternoon.

  'Marcy?'

  'Uh-huh?'

  'This is Jill Coffey.'

  'Oh, hi. Excuse all the pig noises. I just ran over to McDonald's and bought myself a little dinner.'

  'That's finego right on eating. I just wondered if you'd gotten any information yet on the Volvo.'

  'Not so far. I'm waiting for Nate to call me back.'

  'Nate?'

  'Yeah. Cop friend I have. He's going to run the number for me.'

  'Oh.'

  'But he got stuck doing something else for his boss first. He says he'll run it soon as he can. You sound kind of nervous.'

  'I am. He was across the street just a few minutes ago.'

  'Guy in the Volvo?'

  'Uh-huh. Except this time I didn't see the Volvo. This time he seemed to be on foot.'

  'Maybe you should call the cops.'

  'Not yet. I'm going to give it a little more time.'

  'I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Damn.'

  'What's wrong?'

  'I just knocked over my malt. Spilled it all over the desk.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  That was when the bell at the bottom of the stairs rang, the stairs that led to her apartment.

  'You hear that?'

  'Your doorbell?' Marcy Browne said.

  'Yes.'

  'You have any way of knowing who it is?'

  'Not till I get down to the door and look through the eyehole.'

  'Maybe you better call the police.'

  'I can do better than that.'

  'How?'

  'I've got a.38. I'm going to get it and go downstairs.'

  'You want to leave the phone off the hook so I can hear what happens?'

  'That's a good idea. I'll be back soon.'

  She rushed into the bedroom, searched in the second drawer of her night-stand, and found the.38.

  She went to the front door, opened it and went down the stairs. In the dark.

  Now her heart was really hammering.

  She kept flashing on the man in the Volvo.

  Maybe he had a gun, too. Maybe he'd shoot her right through the door.

  The hall was narrow and dusty. She sneezed. Great. Fine time to sneeze. You're supposed to feel independent and strong with the cold gray metal of a gun in your hand and then you go screw it up by sneezing.

  She reached the small vestibule.

  Walked to the door.

  Peered out the safety eye.

  It took a moment for her eye to adjust in the darkness, then she made a small gasping sound.

  It was a man she'd seen across the street just a few minutes ago, but it wasn't the man in the Volvo.

  It was Mitch Ayers.

  CHAPTER 22

  Cini hid on the sixth floor.

  She snuck in from the back stairs and found a darkened corner at the far end of the sixth-floor hall where she could huddle in the shadows and hope that the cleaning crew didn't spot her.

  Had to think things through.

  Carefully. Sanely. So much at stake now.

  Even in panic, she realized that she couldn't just leave her purse up in Eric's office. Eventually, the police would get there and find it. And then she would be dragged into the case.

  God, she could just imagine the interrogation…

  ***

  And after the bar, you went back with Eric to his office?

  Yes, sir.

  Why?
<
br />   (Obviously lying) He, he wanted to show me some commercials he'd done.

  I see. He couldn't have shown you the commercials during regular business hours?

  I guess I never thought of that.

  Were you aware of Eric Brooks' reputation?

  Reputation?

  He was quite the ladies' man.

  I see.

  In fact, he was notorious for making love to women right in his office.

  Oh.

  Did you make love to him in his office, Ms Powell?

  (Pause) No.

  You hesitated.

  I wouldn't call it making love.

  What would you call it, then?

  Please, do I have to tell you what happened?

  This is a murder investigation. Of course you have to tell us what happened.

  Well, he, I I mean

  Ms Powell?

  (Silence)

  Cini?

  (Silence)

  You have to tell us the truth. Maybe not right now, Cini. But eventually.

  ***

  And she would have to tell the truth. About what she'd done, there in his office. Just so she could get a part in a commercial. Just so she could make Michael jealous. It would be in all the newspapers, and on all the TV stationsand all the radio stations. She could hear the disc jockeys laughing about it now. This was the sort of thing they loved. She would be a laughing stock to all of Chicago. Or maybe even worse… Maybe David Letterman or Jay Leno would start making jokes about her

  She had to go up and get her purse.

  Nobody must ever know what she'd done in Eric's office tonight. Nobody. Ever.

  She'd take the stairs again. Walk very quietly. And when she got to the top, she'd listen very hard. The killer was probably gone by now. They didn't usually hang around. Not on television, anyway.

  She moved away from the shadows of the corner.

  Walked toward the FIRE sign at the far end of the hall. She'd have to go back up there and get her purse. Go back up there and try very hard not to look at Eric. He had been so bloody the last time she'd seen him.

  She reached the door. Eased it open. Started climbing.