John Lutz

Night Victims


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victim was stabbed repeatedly,” Horn said, slipping into cop talk to put a protective shell around his emotions and to signal Bickerstaff and Paula to do the same.

      “I’ll bet somewhere around thirty-seven times,” Paula said, noting the many slits in the bloody sheets. Each cut must have seemed like a world of pain in suspended time. Paula hoped her stomach, her emotions, were going to hold up here.

      Careful not to tread on any impressions on the throw rug, Horn moved across the bare wood floor to the open window. He peered up beneath the shade. “The glass has been cut so he could open the window and climb in. Looks like soap or candle wax on the tracks to smooth the way and mute the sound.”

      “Our guy,” Paula said. Not that there’d been some doubt.

      Horn led them back into the living room. Strangely, it was like leaving a church.

      “We’ll let the ME and techs go over the place,” he said, “see what they come up with before we conduct a thorough search. Assign some uniforms to question neighbors in this building, and don’t forget canvassing adjacent buildings. Then you two interview the best possibilities in a second pass and compare their stories with the first versions.”

      Bickerstaff was staring down at an angle through the living room window. “Cavalry’s here. Ambulance, two squad cars, and the ME.”

      Paula walked over and looked down at the small shiny vehicles parked at careless angles in front of the building, like toys hurriedly shoved there by a child. Tiny, foreshortened human figures were scurrying toward the entrance. “They’re on the way up.”

      “Fine,” Horn said. “We’re done here, for the moment, anyway.”

      “Let’s go up to the roof,” Bickerstaff said. “Maybe he dropped his wallet.”

      It’s happened before, Paula mused, as they exited Pattie Redmond’s apartment and made their way toward the elevator.

      Not this time, though.

      But the roof gave them what they expected to find. There were scuff marks in the heat-softened, graveled tar directly above the victim’s window. The tile-capped parapet was marked by what might have been a rope rubbing on it. And there, low on the parapet, was a deep and freshly forged hole where a piton might have been driven into the mortar.

      “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 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 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 respectable 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.

      “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