by John Lutz
“He was here, all right,” Horn said.
“Notice the pigeon droppings here have been stepped in,” Paula said. Further evidence.
Horn looked over at her approvingly, but Bickerstaff said,
“Sherlock Homing pigeon.”
The roof of the building next door was only about ten feet higher than the one on which they stood, and only about ten feet away, sharing what amounted to an air shaft. At that edge of the roof they found more scuff marks, and, in farther, a vent pipe that was marked by what might have been some kind of grappling hook that secured a line.
Horn smiled grimly. “We certainly have his MO nailed.”
“Now all we have to do is nail the bastard himself,” Paula 64
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said, surprising herself with the vehemence of her words.
Horn didn’t seem to notice, which didn’t fool Paula. Bickerstaff was grinning at her.
The three detectives spent another ten minutes on the roof, carefully searching for anything of possible use.
All they came up with were a tangle of old antenna wire and a crumpled chewing gum wrapper.
“Juicy Fruit,” Bickerstaff said, staring at the smoothed-out wrapper in his hand.
“The sun’s faded the lettering,” Horn said, “and the antenn wire’s rusty. This stuff ’s been here awhile and doesn’t help us.”
Bickerstaff nodded, then wadded and flipped the gum wrapper away.
They went back through the service door and into the building. As they were descending in the elevator, it stopped at nineteen to pick up Eb, the uniform. He nodded to them, and when he stepped in, Paula looked beyond his bulk and got a glimpse of the techs and emergency personnel milling around in the hall. The ME was there, too. Harry Potter again.
He caught sight of Paula and smiled and winked at her as the elevator door slid shut. There was no reason death shouldn’t be a little bit fun.
10
Pattie Redmond’s fellow clerk at Styles and Smiles wasn’t a guy who minded people seeing him cry. His name was Herb, and dressed in black as he was, he looked too thin to be alive as he stood near a rack of swimwear and unabashedly let tears track down his sallow cheeks.
“She was a sweetheart,” he said of Pattie Redmond between sobs.
“They say the good die young,” Bickerstaff said.
Paula rolled her eyes. She felt sorry for Herb and wished Bickerstaff would keep his sarcastic platitudes to himself.
“Ain’t it the fucking truth!” Herb said, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief.
“Did she have any—”
“Nobody in their right mind could help loving Pattie,” Herb interrupted her.
“We don’t think whoever killed her was in his right mind,” Bickerstaff said. “You got any idea who he might be?” Herb shook his head, sniffed, and folded and replaced his handkerchief in the pocket of his black silk shirt. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, gaining control of himself 66
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but not completely or permanently. He stood there as if he were balancing on a wire.
“She confide in you much?” Paula asked.
“Quite a bit.” Sniff. “We were friends.”
“Just friends?”
Bickerstaff gave Paula an incredulous glance.
“You can count on it,” Herb said. Sniff, sniff. Out came the handkerchief again. He dabbed at the tip of his nose while holding his free hand out away from his body as if to provide a counterweight and keep from tilting.
“So she might talk to you about the men she dated?” Bickerstaff asked.
“Now and then. She wasn’t the sort to dish.” Bickerstaff looked puzzled. “Dis?”
“Dish. The dirt.”
“Ah!”
“She was kinda excited about this guy she met last week.
Gary something. According to Pattie, they met some place in the Village. I’m not sure exactly where.”
“So you can’t think of Gary’s last name, and you don’t remember where she said they met.”
“She never told me Gary’s last name. The place in the Village she did tell me. Sounded something like a stream or river, but not those.”
“Like Mississippi or something?”
“No, no.”
“Creek?” Paula ventured.
“Brook!” Herb almost shouted. “Brook’s Crooks. It’s near McDougal, I think.”
“I know where it is,” Bickerstaff said. To Paula: “It’s a re-spectable enough place, hangout for yuppies who work nearby on Avenue of the Americas. They go there and pick each other up, try to mesh their pathetic lives.” Herb gazed at Bickerstaff with wounded eyes. “God!
Such a cynic!”
“You’ve just seen the surface,” Paula said.
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“I doubt if it was Gary,” Herb said, “considering how kind and gentle Pattie said he was.” Bickerstaff simply looked at him, and Herb turned away.
About ten years before, on the Upper East Side, some people were killed with an ice ax of the sort mountain climbers used. Back then the NYPD had called on a mountain climber of note named Royce Sayles to identify the weapon, then to help the police locate the killer. Sayles had then testified in court and helped to gain a conviction. The murderer turned out to be an attorney who was well-known for championing controversial liberal causes. The Times was convinced the police arrested the wrong man. Horn had thought they might be right, but there hadn’t been another ice ax murder on the East Side.
It wasn’t difficult for Horn to locate Sayles. He lived in the same apartment near Riverside Drive and, in fact, was now married to the young widow of one of the ice ax victims. Lucky in love and rent stabilization, Horn thought, as he parked his low-mileage, ten-year-old Chrysler in front of an attractive apartment building with a white stone facade and fake Doric columns flanking the entrance.
A uniformed doorman held the outer lobby door open for Horn and called up to tell Sayles he’d arrived, then directed Horn to the elevators. Directions were needed; the elevators were around the corner in the main lobby and had doors of such convincing faux marble that they blended perfectly with the red-veined marble wall. Only a single brass button gave them away.
Horn had called ahead and Sayles was expecting him.
When Horn stepped out of the elevator on the tenth floor, the mountaineer was standing across the hall holding the apartment door wide open in welcome.
Sayles was average size and still looked fit, though Horn remembered him with dark hair and now it was gray. His 68
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blue eyes were the same, brittle bright with quiet daring and surrounded by heavily seamed tan flesh. He was wearing pleated gray slacks, a pale blue-on-blue striped dress shirt open at the collar, and a maroon ascot with white polka dots.
He looked good in the outfit. Horn wondered how he got by with it, thinking maybe it was the thirty-two-inch waist on a man who was probably in his sixties.
The apartment had tall windows and was bright, what decorators would call airy. On both sides of the windows were bookcases stuffed with volumes of every size and stacks of dog-eared magazines that appeared to have been pored over. The top magazine on one of the stacks was The Economist. The furniture was traditional and expensive. The walls were white, and on one of them was a vast framed landscape oil of a mountain range. There were framed black-and-white photographs of mountains on the other walls. A tall, black-laquered desk that looked to be of Chinese origin was the only incongruous thing in the room.
“Seventeenth century,” Sayles said, noticing Horn looking at the desk. “Beautiful and practical. I obtained it years ago. Spent a great deal of my youth in the northern provinces of China.”
“Really? I didn’t know.” Horn didn’t recall that morsel of information from ten years ago.
“The desk is the only furniture in the room Andrea didn’t choose. She indulged me when I insisted on keeping it.”
“Andrea?”
“Sorry—my wife. I’d introduce you but she’s visiting her family in Vermont. You being a policeman of some note, I thought you would have known all that before coming here.”
“I didn’t know about Vermont,” Horn said. Or China.
That’s two.
Sayles smiled and motioned for Horn to sit in a comfortable-looking cracked brown leather armchair. “Get you something?
A drink? I feature fine scotch.”
“Excellent,” Horn said, settling into the chair. For a second he thought he might never stop sinking into the soft NIGHT VICTIMS
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cushion. He watched as Sayles got a bottle and some glasses from an oak credenza and poured two glasses of Macallan.
“If you want ice or water I’ll have to go to the kitchen,” Sayles said.
“Straight up’s fine.”
After handing Horn his glass, Sayles sipped from his own and smiled with satisfaction. Then he settled into a matching armchair facing Horn’s.
“He lowered himself from the roofs,” Sayles said.
Horn grinned. “Ah, you’re ahead of me. First up the mountain.”
“Wasn’t hard to figure out. And because of the climbing aspect, I was interested and followed the murders in the smaller papers before the major media tumbled to what was happening. Two of those buildings would be almost impossible climbs from ground level. And time consuming. Hard to believe anyone could have spent time scaling them, even at night, without being noticed. But going down instead of up, that’s another matter. Wearing dark clothing or dressed to approximate the colors of the buildings, gaining entrance to those windows without being detected would have been within the capabilities of an expert climber. Except for one building, where the Bridge woman died.”
“That one was more difficult?” Horn said.
“Oh, that one would have required superb skills. Not to mention iron nerve.” Sayles flashed a sad smile. “I might have been able to do it when I was a bit younger.” Horn sipped his scotch and was further impressed. “A climber that skilled . . .”
“Not just skilled,” Sayles said. “Gifted.”
“With that ability,” Horn continued, “wouldn’t he be well-known, at least to other climbers?”
“He would,” Sayles said. “And that’s your problem. I know of no one climbing now who might have exhibited such technique and ability.”
Horn found himself slightly irked by the note of admiration in Sayles’s voice. “What about a good climber with new 70
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or revolutionary equipment? Might we be seeing evidence of that and not so much his climbing skills?” Sayles considered for a moment, then shrugged. “Equipment could account for some of it. With the new lightweight harnesses and slender but almost unbreakable lines, the new friction belayers that allow someone to virtually walk down a wall, abilities are enhanced, especially in descent. But I was also thinking about other problems your killer had to contend with. He had to be silent. He had to be fast. He had to be as invisible as possible from the ground or surrounding windows, and he had to gain access quickly. And, of course, he had to duplicate his feat in the opposite direction when leaving the scene of the crime.”
Horn nodded over his Macallan. “He showed some of the skills of an expert B-and-E man. A cat burglar. By the way, this is terrific scotch.”
Sayles cocked his head to the side and smiled. “Isn’t it, though? The papers I read are calling him a spider. The Night Spider. I suppose because he drops on a line to his victim’s window, then envelopes her, saps her of life, and leaves behind the shrouded and inanimate husk. Much like a spider.”
“I haven’t read the papers today,” Horn said. He wasn’t surprised the advance news hounds had caught the scent.
The Sally Bridge murder had stirred a lot of interest because of her show business connections. And the NYPD could leak like a spring shower. “Night Spider,” he said. “I suppose that’s accurate enough.”
“Soon they might be calling you the exterminator,” Sayles said.
“I hope so.”
“Like Arnold Whatsisname.”
“I was thinking James Bond.”
Sayles grinned as if thinking, Damned if you didn’t find a sense of humor in the most unlikely places, even in a retired homicide detective who’d seen hell.
Horn said, “We think the . . . er, Night Spider entered buildings adjacent to the victims’, crossed gangways or air NIGHT VICTIMS
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shafts to the roof, then dropped down on a line to the victims’ windows.”
“Sounds plausible.”
“Wouldn’t that entail a lot of equipment?” Sayles ran a finger around the rim of his glass and thought about it. “Not really. As I said, climbing ropes are thin and lightweight these days. And the hardware’s sometimes made of unbreakable but light polymer materials.” The glass rim sang. “Your killer might have simply wrapped the slender line around his waist, had whatever else he needed, including a telescoping or folding grappling hook, in his pockets or taped to his inner thighs. The military developed top secret stuff for Ranger and Special Forces mountain units.” Sayles sat back and took a sip of scotch, his blue eyes watching Horn over the glass rim as if peeking above a fox-hole. In this case, he was waiting for another question to be lobbed. It struck Horn as it had years ago what a wily and willful man Sayles was. He knew how to reach mountain peaks, how to get to know the right people, and how to handle media. And now he was living well and more or less anonymously on the momentum of his early success.
“The military,” Horn said. “A climber as skilled as you say might have been in one of those units, and with the right equipment could be the climber who reached those windows.”
“I doubt if even Special Forces can climb like that.” Sayles squinted and seemed to look inward. “But I’ve heard of a secret Special Forces mountain unit in the military that works in conjunction with the CIA in black operations.” He didn’t have to tell Horn what black operations were—
missions done secretly and at times without the knowledge of even the president. For many people in power, some things were better not known.
“The men in those units are the cream of the cream,” Sayles said. “They go on missions that can’t fail and can never be made public. That’s the only place I can think of where you might find somebody not known to the outside world who can climb like . . . well, a spider.” 72
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“An outfit like that,” Horn said, “doesn’t usually publish its roster.”
“If such a unit even exists,” Sayles cautioned. “I told you, it’s only rumors that I’ve heard, and now I’m repeating them to you.” He reached into his shirt pocket for a pen, then pulled a small writing tablet from the drawer of a nearby table. After setting down his glass of scotch, he scribbled something on a sheet of paper and ripped it from the pad.
Then he stood and crossed the room in three long strides, bending at the waist and holding out the piece of paper for Horn.
“A name and a phone number to call,” Sayles said. “No promises, but the man who answers might be able to help you. You can mention my name.”
Horn accepted the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “A name and number. That’s just what an old cop like me needs and wants. The NYPD thanks you again for your services, Mr. Sayles.”
“I don’t like murder or the people who do it,” Sayles said.
“They make the ordinary risks we take in life seem meaningless.”
Ordinary risks like climbing mountains? Horn started to struggle up out of the comfortable chair, but Sayles waved him back down.
“Don’t leave till you’ve finished your drink, Captain Horn. Then please have another. I took note years ago that you were an unusual and interesting man. Very different from most policemen. I enjoy talking with you. About climbing, police work, theater, human nature, whatever . . .”
“Not Captain any longer,” Horn
said, settling back down.
“I retired, then temporarily unretired to handle this case.”
“Temporary, is it?”
“Yes. To keep a promise to my wife.”
“Once a captain always one,” Sayles said. “It’s much more than a title, especially in your line of work.” Sayles had it right. But husband was one of those titles, too. Horn had another drink.
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*
*
*
Nina Count, anchor of Eye Spy six o’clock news on cable, put down the notes she’d been studying and looked up at Newsy Winthrop. Nina was tall and blond and icy, all angles from the neck up, curves from the neck down. Said neck was elegantly long, and she consciously accentuated it with V-neck blouses and blazers with long lapels. She was known for her dedication to ratings and her insistence on excellence from the people around her. These people included Newsy, who was thirty-five and hungry for approval and a promotion, who was a small and dark man, with round-rimmed glasses that rode low on his perpetually greasy nose. He had the face of a ferret with spectacles and the soul of a wolver-ine. Nina was prominent and lusted after because of the long shots that showed off her shapely legs. In New York, her legs were famous.
She was aware that Newsy was her legs—her practical and efficient legs.
It was Newsy whom she sent on errands and assignments, who did her bidding and returned with hard facts—hard enough, anyway. Quick and precise and pithy Newsy.
Invaluable. Behind every successful woman . . .
“This is some potent shit,” she said, after motioning for Newsy to close the office door. “These women were all murdered by the same sicko who came at them in their sleep like a nightmare.”
“The Night Spider,” Winthrop said.
“That’s what the Times calls him. I wish we’d thought of it first.” Nina glanced again at his notes. “It looks like most of what you got here is from the Times.”
“That’s where most of it is,” Newsy said. He grinned, a dark lock of hair from his widow’s peak dangling over his forehead. “From a mole in the NYPD, to the Times, to us .”
“Why don’t we have somebody in the NYPD?”
“We do now.”
