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.”
“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.
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 wolverine. 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.”
Nina smiled in a way that made Newsy’s stomach flutter. Not an unpleasant sensation.
“But the New York Times, Nina. They’ve got resources and lots of ways to check their facts. I figured, even though most of what I gave you’s on record, you’d at least have it right and all in one place and be up to speed on the case.”
“Thomas Horn’s acting as an advisor to the police,” Nina said. “That’s a crock of shit. If Horn’s involved, he’s in charge.”
“How come you say that?”
Nina snorted. “Horn was probably in charge of the delivery room five minutes after birth. He’s a smart, tough cop. Old school and with no quit in him.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Newsy said. “S’posed to be a real piss cutter. Beat up a couple of mob guys in Brooklyn about five years ago. Took their guns away from them first. But lots of times you hear that about old cops and it’s bullshit.”
“Seven years ago,” Nina said. “And it isn’t bullshit this time. But Horn has a softer side when you get to know him. He’s not just a goon set to catch a goon.”
There was a look in Nina’s eyes Newsy wasn’t sure he liked. “You know him well enough to say that?”
“Well enough I might be able to get his cooperation. Use him as a source.”
Newsy’s face split wide in an admiring grin. “You get the lead investigator as your source, we’ll have the competition by the balls. But how about what we’ve got so far? Good enough for the six o’clock? There’s some tape of the crime scenes, just the buildings from the outside. Cops are keeping a pretty tight lid on this one. You wanna go for the six, I can get you the tape.”
Nina gave him her sincere on-camera smile. Newsy knew it was canned as shucked corn, but he liked it anyway.
“We’re not only gonna put it on the six,” Nina said, “we’re gonna lead with it.”
11
“Sure, I know her,” said the bartender at Brook’s Crooks. “I got a photographic memory for faces. That’s Pattie.”
Paula caught Bickerstaff’s expression in the mirror behind the long, curved bar. It was one of pleased disbelief, as if he were ice fishing and had just yanked a ten pounder up through the hole. Sometimes luck was on the side of the good guys.
“She’s not a regular. Only been in a few times when I was here.” The bartender looked concerned as he glanced up from the photograph lifted from one of Pattie Redmond’s credit cards. The place wasn’t yet crowded but somehow managed to smell like stale beer. “That ain’t a good shot of her, though. Pattie’s a real attractive woman. She could make it as a regular.”
“What do you mean by ‘making it as a regular’?” Paula asked the bartender, a skinny, buzz-cut guy who had a silver ring through one nostril and looked too young to be serving liquor. He was wearing a black, sleeveless Brook’s Crooks T-shirt with a name tag that said he was Lightfinger.
“Not what you might