by John Lutz
He can’t accept that he’s without meaning, that he can die or be imprisoned without attaining his own twisted idea of grandeur. He’s crossed the Rubicon and believes in destiny.
And in vengeance.”
They sat staring at her, knowing in a way deeper than logically that she was right.
She smiled tentatively, as if suddenly embarrassed.
Topped off their coffee.
Alice Duggan figured she had the part nailed. For over a year she’d been understudy to the star of the off-Broadway hit comedy Leave Her, Take Her, She’s Mine. This morning limited auditions had been held for the starring role, since NIGHT VICTIMS
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the present star, Marnie Willison, had announced she was leaving at the end of the month.
Alice knew the show’s author wasn’t keen on her stepping into Marnie’s role on a regular basis, but the director and producer wanted her to have the inside track. Alice’s agent had taken the risk of hinting that if Alice didn’t assume the role, she might follow Marnie in leaving the show, necessi-tating finding another understudy. An hour ago Alice had gotten word that the strategy seemed to have worked.
She felt great when she left the theater after morning auditions. On the sidewalk were scattered playbills from the show, along with inserts from last night announcing that she was playing Marnie’s role for that performance. She saw the fluttering white inserts stuck to the concrete with stepped-on gum, or pinned by the breeze against the theater wall, as a good omen.
After taking the subway downtown to within a few blocks of her apartment near Twelfth Street and Broadway, she stopped in at a drugstore to buy toothpaste and a Times.
Then, on impulse, she stopped at a sidewalk stand and bought a bouquet of colorful flowers to brighten up her apartment.
Her world was looking up. Hard work might soon pay off.
There was always the possibility—in her mind, anyway—
that if she grabbed and shook this role as she knew she could, Leave Her, Take Her, She’s Mine might find a new life and a new home on Broadway.
As she walked along the sunny, crowded sidewalk, kicking out her long dancer’s legs in easy, optimistic strides, she had no way of knowing she’d been followed from the moment she’d left the theater.
“The rumor is the star’s leaving the show,” Anne said to Horn, while they waited for a cabbie to pay attention to Horn’s raised left arm. The theater was close enough to Times Square that the crowd disgorged back onto the street after curtain was joined by theatergoers from other plays on their way 280
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home. Half a dozen people stood up-traffic from Horn and Anne, also unsuccessfully attempting to lure cabs. A man in a business suit was impatiently waving a folded newspaper as if it were a signal flag being ignored. Nothing seemed to work. Few things were more coy than a New York cab after the theater break.
“The stand-in wasn’t bad,” Horn said. “Whatever her name is.” He watched a lucky couple half a block up the street hurriedly climb into a cab before a nearby woman on the run could reach it.
“Alice Duggan.”
“She’ll never be a star, with a bland name like that.”
“Remember Cloris Leachman.” Anne’s tone suggested she’d taken his comment seriously. Probably because she was distracted and only half listening. Horn had known all evening there was something other than the play on her mind, and that there had been for some time.
“Let’s skip the cab for now,” he said. “It’s a nice night.
Let’s walk a few blocks to that coffee shop we used to stop in and wait for the theater crowd to thin, have some cappuc-cino, maybe a pastry.”
She didn’t say yes or no, but fell in beside him as he stepped back up on the curb and began walking. He glanced out at the flow of traffic and counted three cabs whose roof lights indicated they were without passengers. Their drivers were ignoring prospective passengers frantically beckoning them.
Horn and Anne both ordered simple decaf. Sign of growing old, Horn thought ruefully. He glanced around at the oak- and fern-adorned coffee shop, and the counter with computers where half a dozen patrons sat gooing up keyboards with doughnut glaze. He remembered a working-man’s bar at this site twenty years ago, mob connections, assaults, illegal gambling, a fatal knifing. The city was changing, had always been changing, always would change. A lot of it was for the better.
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Over second cups of coffee, Anne decided to tell him what was on her mind.
“Finlay was in to see me today. About the Alan Vine case.”
“How’s the kid doing?”
“The same.”
“And the lawsuit?”
“That’s what Finlay wanted to talk about. The hospital made another offer to settle. Half a million dollars.”
“The Vine family accept it?”
“We’re still waiting to find out.” She raised her cup, then looked at it sourly and put it back down. “The hospital’s also offered to accept blame. In exchange for indemnification, of course.”
Horn knew where she was going. Why she was upset.
“The radiology department’s being made the scapegoat in the settlement and will be tagged as incompetent and dangerous. And I’ll be wearing an identical tag. It isn’t fair.”
“No, it isn’t. What about personal indemnification?”
“That’s part of the deal. The Vines won’t be able to squeeze any money out of me. But that’s not the goddamn point!”
“I understand,” Horn said quickly. “But at the same time, it’ll be nice to know you can’t be sued.”
“I’m going to resign.”
Horn wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Maybe she meant transfer out of Radiology. “You mean quit your job?”
“Yes.” She drilled him with a cold stare, anticipating his reaction. “Like you quit yours.”
“Mine was a case of involuntary retirement, with a dis-ability pension.”
“The result was the same: you left the NYPD. Just as I’m leaving Kincaid MemoriaI. I have plenty of money saved up outside my 401K. Enough to last till I find other work.”
“I was thinking more about you possibly giving up legal protection as part of the hospital staff. You’ve only heard Finlay’s take on the lawsuit and proposed settlement. Maybe you should see our attorney. I can give him a call tomorrow.” 282
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“I already talked to him.”
There was a surprise. “It’s a big decision,” Horn said needlessly, while trying to sort all this out and think of what else to say. What exactly was going on here?
“Not anymore. I’ve made it.”
“Then that’s that. Money should be no problem. There’s no reason for you to be employed other than if you want to be.”
He was looking out the window at the string of unmoving headlights. Theater traffic had backed up and spread to the side streets.
A cop’s wife . . . he thought, knowing before he knew.
“I’m going to move out of the house,” Anne told him.
“I’ve decided to leave you.”
38
They were in Horn’s den. The Home Away had been too crowded tonight for them to privately discuss the Night Spider case. At least that was what Horn had told them. It didn’t set quite right with Paula.
When they’d entered the brownstone, she’d noticed a stack of cardboard boxes in the entry hall, and a glance into the living room suggested furniture and knickknacks had been removed.
Horn settled in behind his desk; Bickerstaff took an overstuffed brown leather chair. Paula sat in a similar chair that hissed and acted as if it wanted to devour her. The floor overhead creaked. Anne must be home, moving around up there.
Doing a lot of moving around.
Horn opened a wooden humidor on his desk and got out a cigar so dark it was almost green, then cut off its tip with a miniature guillotine. He held another of the cigars out for
Bickerstaff, who hesitated, then accepted the offer. The guillotine didn’t work so well in his hands. Paula thought he might cut off a finger.
“Paula?” Horn offered, holding up another cigar.
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“Thanks,” she said, “but I’m a lady.” And I thought smoking in the house was against the rules.
Horn and Bickerstaff chuckled at that lady remark. Paula didn’t know quite how to take it. She traded glances with Bickerstaff, who finally appeared to be catching on that something essential had changed there. He looked away from her and peered cross-eyed at the tip of his cigar as he struggled to light it with a paper match he’d produced from somewhere.
“Anne and I have decided to separate,” Horn said between puffs, effortlessly firing up his cigar with a silver lighter. “She’s rented an apartment on the East Side and is preparing to move out.”
The boxes in the hall. The missing furniture. Paula didn’t know what to say. Heard her own voice. “I’m . . . sorry.” Shit! Inadequate!
Bickerstaff said nothing but paused in his puffing, salivat-ing attempt to get his cigar burning.
Horn gave a shrug that might have meant anything.
“I think I might not’ve cut the whole tip off thish thing,” Bickerstaff said around the dead cigar.
Horn slid the guillotine across the desk to him. “Mind your finger.”
Bickerstaff took another swipe at the saliva-moistened tip of the cigar with the little angled blade, then tried again with a match. “Thash better.” Paula saw ash drop from the burning tip of the cigar onto the carpet. Overhead, the floor creaked. God!
“So we get to work,” Horn said. “Summarize what we’ve learned.”
“That’ll be easy,” Bickerstaff said, holding the cigar between index and middle fingers, “considering it isn’t much.”
“Evidence suggests both guards were killed at almost the same time,” Paula said, “one with the sharpened screw Mandle used to disembowel the other prisoner. The other was shot, then his face and head were bludgeoned, probably with the butt of the gun.”
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“The guard’s gun,” Horn said.
Paula nodded. “Mandle’s got both their guns.”
“Any witnesses turn up?”
Bickerstaff said, “Not anyone who saw the escape itself.
It had to have happened lightning fast. A guy named Smith—actually Smith—who happened to be glancing out a window of a sleazy hotel near where the escape took place and said he saw someone in what he called prison garb leaving the scene on the run. Then Smith disappeared. Apparently doesn’t want to get involved. Wants to join all those other Smiths out there who aren’t really Smiths.”
“We’ve canvassed the neighborhood,” Paula said. “Doubled patrols in the area, buttoned up the airports and Port Authority, put a watch in the subway. And, of course, every minute and a half the media are showing that creepy photo of Mandle taken during the trial.”
She thought she might have heard the doorbell chime in the bowels of the house, some noise on the stairs. Horn didn’t seem to have noticed. Or care.
“Not that it’ll do much good,” Bickerstaff said, “but we’re keeping a watch on the building where Mandle rented an apartment under an assumed name. Maybe something’ll draw him back to his familiar neighborhood—a favorite item he left behind, unfinished business, an old love or something.”
“Somebody he forgot to murder,” Paula said.
Bickerstaff drew on his cigar and looked at it apprais-ingly the way cigar smokers do, as if pleased by it and wondering what it was going to do next. “It’s amazing—” he said. Paula thought he was going to comment on the cigar.
“—the way Mandle just dropped out of the world without leaving tracks. He kills three men, then unlocks handcuffs and leg irons and strolls away dressed in a luminous jumpsuit. Right off the end of the earth. So far, a perfect disappearing act. How the hell did he bring it off?”
“It’s his training,” said a voice from the doorway.
And there was Colonel Victor Kray in full military uniform, his regulation coat slung casually over his arm. The 286
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medals on his chest gleamed as if he’d just polished them—
or had an aide do it.
“I know because I trained him.”
“I feel somewhat guilty,” Kray said, stepping the rest of the way into the room. He draped his coat over the back of a chair but remained standing. “I don’t think I fully got across to you earlier how skilled Mandle would be in the lethal arts.
And that includes the art of subterfuge. If he’s hiding from the police, from the world, he won’t be easily found. He’s trained to be elusive in countries where he doesn’t even speak the language.”
Horn’s only response was to offer Kray a cigar.
“I don’t smoke,” Kray said. “But I wouldn’t mind another glass of that single malt scotch.” Paula was beginning to feel as if she’d wandered into a men’s club. What next? A pheasant hunt and billiards?
Horn got up from behind the desk and poured Kray his drink. Paula and Bickerstaff declined, and Horn put the bottle back in its cabinet then returned to sit behind his desk.
Though there was a chair nearby, Kray didn’t make a move to sit down. Paula wondered how he could appear so relaxed while maintaining such an erect posture. Must be leadership.
“I came back,” Kray said, after sampling the scotch, “to offer my help. After all, the Night Spider is, in a way, my creation. I taught him how to move like a ghost and kill, and then hide.”
“And now you think you’re better qualified than anyone to find him,” Horn said.
“I think I might be the only one who can find him,” Kray said. “Or who can effectively help you find him.”
“How do you intend to help?”
“In any way you choose. Fill me in on what you know about his escape, keep me apprised, and as events unfold, you can contact me and I’ll provide any insights I can.
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Obviously, you can accept or reject my suggestions. If nothing else, I’ll sleep easier knowing I made them. I’ll be staying at the Sheraton Towers. Not for an indefinite period of time, but as long as my absence from other duties permits.” Horn thanked him. “I’m sure your insights and advice will be of value.”
“And of course,” Kray said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d view me as a kind of ace in the hole. To alert media or other agencies of my involvement would be to admit the SSF exists, which officially it doesn’t. The relatively few people who know about it get kind of prickly if they’re forced to go on record denying they’ve ever heard of it. Elections, promotions, and all might be at stake. Careers.”
“Such as your own,” Bickerstaff said.
Kray shot him a look that seemed to physically press Bickerstaff back in his chair. “Yes, such as my own.” Horn said he understood, and that they appreciated the risk Kray was taking. They’d do everything possible to maintain confidentiality. Bickerstaff and Paula seconded the sentiment.
Kray finished his scotch, then smiled graciously and nodded to each of them in turn as he said his good nights. He abruptly did a kind of smooth about-face, scooping up his coat from the chair back as he spun, and showed himself out.
The room seemed to have been made smaller by his leaving. Paula thought you didn’t often meet somebody whose absence made almost as profound an impression as his presence. The man did have an effect. She felt as if she’d hear an order to charge up a hill any second, and up the hill she would go.
“Well?” Horn said, after about half a minute.
“He doesn’t waste our time with small talk,” Paula said.
“He said what he came to say,” Bickerstaff remarked in a tone of admiration, “so it was time to leave and he went.”
“How very military,” Paula said.
Bickerstaff puffed on his ciga
r. “You think about it, Paula, we’ve won some wars.”
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*
*
*
Horn’s first night alone in the brownstone. Scotch straight up. Cuban cigar and the hell with the smoke and lingering tobacco scent. He was still bewildered and smarting from Anne’s departure, and knew he was indulging himself in a way that was almost childishly defiant.
Living alone. Old cop aging in an old house in an old part of an old city. It was a depressing thought, but at least it had some advantages. Like greater personal freedom.
Damn, the place was quiet!
He’d just returned from a steak dinner at a neighborhood restaurant he’d always liked but Anne despised. Full stomach, good liquor, and a quality cigar. He knew he should feel at least some sense of well-being if not contentment. What he had, what he was left with, was far beyond the means and luck of most people in the world. There was a reason why misery loved company. It was probably comparison.
But he felt no contentment, and it was no comfort that others had more reason for misery. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man still had only one eye. He remembered a time long ago when fledgling TV journalist Nina Count almost touched a microphone to the nose of a young cop who’d just shot and killed a burglary suspect and asked, “How do you feel? Right now?” Then it became such a cliché that even TV journalists no longer asked the question. It was an interesting question despite its intrusive and often tasteless nature. Horn took a sip of scotch and asked it of himself.
Lonely, was the answer. Right now, I feel goddamned lonely.
He realized he hadn’t been lonely in years. Really lonely.
The kind of lonely that grabs at your guts and makes you afraid to look into yourself.
He also had to admit he was feeling too sorry for himself.
If there was any emotion Horn hated it was self-pity. It robbed you of everything worthwhile. It made you vulnerable.
He mentally castigated himself for falling into such a NIGHT VICTIMS
