Chill of Night (18 page)

Think pattern, think pattern…something that will pop…something wild…

But as the cab accelerated away from the curb, Byrd craned his neck to peer out the rear window.

Everyone else on the busy street seemed to be facing any direction other than toward the cab, but Harley Davidson man was looking directly at Byrd.

Looper suggested they prioritize, and Looper was right. Beam should have thought of it first.

In Beam's comfortably messy den, they sat around his desk and looked over the list of controversial acquittals during the past ten years, supplied to them by da Vinci. The air conditioning was working well and the den was cool. One of the trees planted outside happened to be right in front of the window, providing a view of morning sunlight glancing off green maple leaves.

Beam sat in his leather desk chair, and Nell and Looper were in chairs pulled close to the other side of the desk, where the murder files were stacked. Beam wished he had a cigar. He didn't want to smoke one in front of Looper, who was trying hard to quit cigarettes, and he had a suspicion as to what Nell would say, or at least think, about what he could do with his cigar if he asked if she minded. The world was rapidly closing in on smokers.

“These three,” Beam said. “Bradley Aimes, Sal Palmetto, and Irwin Breach. They seem to have had the most publicity, and all three defendants sure as hell looked guilty but were allowed to walk.”

“At least that's what the public thought,” Nell said.

“Still thinks,” Beam added. “Which means murdering someone who had any part in their trials will only make the Justice Killer more…famous.”

He'd almost said
popular.

“Breach is dead,” Looper said. “Hanged himself in a holding cell when he was arrested on a later burglary charge.”

“And Palmetto's left the country,” Nell said. “He lives someplace now in Spain or Italy.”

“A perpetual vacation,” Looper said in disgust.

“It's the jurors we're most interested in,” Beam said. “And we can't rule out Aimes as a potential victim. Not with this killer.” He laid the three files out side by side on the desk. “You take the Palmetto jury,” he said to Looper. “Make sure they know the danger to them, and at the same time try to find out anything they might know that might help us.” To Nell, “You get the folks who gave Breach a free pass.” He tapped the remaining file with his forefinger. “I'll do the Bradley Aimes jury.”

“Loop and I already talked to the Dixon family as potential suspects,” Nell said.

“You wanna do that jury?” Beam asked.

“I don't see where it makes any difference. Not unless we seriously consider any of the Dixon family members suspects.”

Looper gave her a look over the Palmetto file. “Do we?”

Nell shook her head. “Not a chance. All they are in my view are Bradley Aimes's secondary victims. Somebody kills Aimes, I guess we'd need to consider the Dixons, but it'd only be routine as far as I'm concerned. No more likely than Genelle Dixon returning from the dead to kill Aimes.”

“I've never known that kind of thing to happen,” Looper said. He sniffed the air. Beam wondered if he could smell the cigars sealed in their desktop humidor. Beam could.

“Okay, then,” Beam said, standing up behind his desk. “I'll do Carl Dudman. He was foreman of the Aimes jury.”

“I've seen his real estate agency ads in the papers,” Looper said. “He sells high end property. Guy like that, he's probably too rich to be in much danger.”

Nell and Beam looked at each other. Maybe Looper was right; neither could, offhand, think of a serial killer case where the victims were wealthy, their murders spread over a period of time and following a psychotic theme.

But then, the killer they were chasing had a nasty unpredictable streak in him.

Beam picked up the phone to dial information for a number for Dudman Properties.

He watched Nell and Looper leave the den, and as he was jotting down the phone number, heard them find their own way out.

 

It was surprisingly easy to see Carl Dudman. His offices were in Tribeca, in a tall, prewar building that covered half a block and contained three banks at street level. It was being remodeled, and while no one was visibly working at the moment, the main entrance was flanked by iron scaffolding painted a dull, flaking red. Pedestrians streamed over plywood that covered mud where the sidewalk had been torn up. The city was an organic being that changed constantly, and its citizens understood and accepted it.

The building's lobby was a symphony of oak paneling, polished brass, and dark-veined marble. Temporary but neatly painted signs directed visitors to the street-level bank entrances. A uniformed attendant behind a marble desk gave directions to Beam and had him sign in.

Dudman Properties occupied the building's entire ninth floor. Beam elevatored up in about a second and a half. A trim, efficient gray-haired woman, wearing a severe dark skirt and blazer with a white blouse and man's maroon tie, had him wait only a few minutes before ushering him into Dudman's office.

Dudman was standing behind his desk, smiling slightly and looking curious. He was about five-foot nine and broad shouldered, his chalk-stripe, double-breasted suit buttoned across a flat stomach. He had a broad, handsome face with a shiny, protruding forehead, and the over-groomed, rested look of a man who ate well, slept in pajamas, wore a robe to breakfast, and had just stepped from a shower into clothes that had been laid out by a valet. Beam thought all of that might be true.

He shook Beam's hand with a firm grip but didn't make it a contest. “Effie said you were police.”

Beam smiled. “Effie was right. Detective Beam, Homicide, NYPD.” He reached for his shield, but Dudman waved a hand to stay the effort. He trusted Beam. Or knew about him.

“Captain Artemis Beam. Retired. Sort of.”

Beam almost winced. He didn't like people using his given name. Few knew it. He was sure Dudman was letting him know he was one of the few. “You're ahead of the game, Mr. Dudman.”

“Only way to play,” Dudman said. “It isn't difficult to learn about you, Detective Beam. You're getting a great deal of publicity right now because of the Justice Killer investigation.”

“Unfortunately,” Beam said. He was sure the name Artemis hadn't been printed or mentioned on TV news. Well, not
sure.
How could he be?

“Why unfortunate? I would think you'd enjoy being a celebrity.”

“It can be inconvenient. I'd rather only the killer was a celebrity.”

“Why so?”

“It can be convenient.”

Dudman grinned. The guy was a game player who obviously relished verbal fencing.

“The investigation is what brings me here, Mr. Dudman.”

“Carl, please. I hope I'm not a suspect.”

“You know better, Carl.”

Dudman's grin became a thin smile, letting Beam know their little joust was ended and it was time to get to the point, he was a busy man. “Yes. To the Justice Killer, I'm a prospective victim.” He motioned for Beam to sit down in an overstuffed black leather chair facing the desk. “Maybe even a tempting one, as I've done quite well with my business since the Bradley Aimes trial. It's always more fun to kill somebody rich.”

Beam sat. The chair hissed and enveloped him like a creature that might devour his body slowly and at will. But the damned thing was sure comfortable. “So far,” he said, “the killer seems to be fairly democratic when it comes to victims. I wouldn't let your wealth bother you, sir. But that doesn't alter why I came here, which is to make certain you understand that you need to be cautious about your vulnerabilities.”

“I've considered that, Detective Beam, and I have few vulnerabilities. I'm one of the lucky potential victims who can afford tight security.”

“I got in easily to see you,” Beam said.

Dudman gave him a smug look, then pressed a button behind his desk.

A door opened on Beam's left. A large man in a dark suit stepped into the office. He had a buzz cut but with a thatch of longer, gray-shot black hair in front, no nonsense brown eyes, a nose that had been broken a few times, and a balanced way of standing suggesting that despite his bulk he could be lightning in any direction.

“This is Chris Talbotson of Talbotson Security,” Dudman said. “He's modest, so I'll tell you he's a former martial arts champion and Navy Seal, a decorated veteran. His two brothers are almost as qualified, as are all Talbotson employees.”

Beam nodded at Talbotson. “I've heard of your firm. It's a good one.”

Talbotson didn't smile, but said, “Thank you. Fifteen minutes after your phone call, we had you researched and entered in our data banks, sir. We have tape of you entering the building. Your identification was verified before you left the elevator. And I've been observing and listening to the conversation since you arrived.”

“Impressive,” Beam admitted. He looked at Dudman. “What about your family?”

“If I had one,” Dudman said, “I'd be terrified for them. It didn't escape me that the late Tina Flitt was the wife of a jury foreman.”

“There's no one?”

“A sister in England. Married to a poet, would you believe it?”

Beam smiled. “She should be safe, then. And the Justice Killer will likely confine his activities to New York. Of course, there's no guarantee. This killer doesn't necessarily run true to form.”

“I think we're well prepared for anything he might attempt,” Talbotson said.

Dudman looked at Beam as if to say,
There! See!
“I appreciate your concern, Detective Beam, but I do feel that all necessary precautions have been taken.” He shifted his weight in his chair, not standing, but clearly signaling that Beam's time would be more productively spent elsewhere.

Beam remained seated. “Why did you find Aimes innocent?”

Dudman looked as if he might make a tent of his fingers, then laced them together and squeezed hard enough to whiten his knuckles. “Reasonable doubt. We were pledged to follow the letter of the law.”

“Was it the letter of the law that got Aimes off?”

“Of course. Most of us thought he killed Genelle Dixon, but we weren't absolutely
sure
. Believe me, we didn't like him. And we didn't like what we felt compelled to do.”

“All of you?”

“As a matter of record, yes. As foreperson, and considering the gravity of what we were deliberating, I felt it incumbent upon us to talk everything out until our verdict was unanimous.”

“Spreading around the guilt?”

“That was an unkind thing to say, Detective Beam, but accurate. Only it was more like spreading around the remorse we knew would follow. But perhaps less remorse than if it turned out we'd convicted an innocent man. It does happen.”

“Just often enough,” Beam admitted. He stood up from the chair, which hissed its relief and regret, and offered his hand across the desk.

Dudman stood and shook hands. “I hope you never get in the position we on the jury were in,” he said. “Are you going to interview the other jurors?”

“Yes. You were the first.”

“They must be very afraid. Give them my best. Tell them…”

Beam waited. Dudman hadn't released his hand.

“Tell them I still think we did the right thing,” Dudman said.

“Right thing?”

“Only thing.” Dudman released Beam's hand but remained standing. “Chris'll walk you out.”

When Beam and Chris were at the office door, Dudman said, “You do understand, don't you, Detective Beam?”

“I do,” Beam assured him. “I've had to do the only thing a few times myself.”

Dudman seemed relieved as he sat down and the two much larger men left his office.

Chris rode the elevator down with Beam and walked with him through the lobby and out to the sunny sidewalk. Beam considered warning him about the Justice Killer's cold-bloodedness and capabilities, then decided it wasn't necessary. Talbotson, like Beam, was a professional. He might know more about cold-blooded killers than Beam, even if they weren't the serial kind.

“Take care of yourself and Dudman,” he said, shaking hands with Chris.

He thought Talbotson would assure him he would. Instead the younger man surprised him by saying, “I've published a few poems myself.”

Beam almost told him that was about the only way to get them published, then decided Talbotson wouldn't think it was funny. He was nothing if not the serious type. “What about?”

“The things I've seen, what people can do to each other.”

“Good poems, I'll bet,” Beam said, and patted the man's bulky shoulder as they parted.

Back by his car, he unfolded the sheet of paper he'd brought and checked the other Aimes trial jurors' last known addresses. His plan had been to save time and work his way uptown. Right now he was south. Not far from the Village.

From Nola Lima.

What people can do to each other.

“Cool enough for you?” he asked.

“For now,” Nell said. She took a sip of cold Budweiser from the can. Terry Adams, the air-conditioner repairman, had finally gotten back to her on her cell phone number, and told her he could work her into his schedule. The problem was it had to be this afternoon. Could Nell have the super let him in? He understood why she wouldn't want somebody she'd never met left alone in her apartment to repair her air conditioner. Could she get a friend or relative to be there while he worked? Maybe the super would stay. Terry wouldn't be insulted, he said; he didn't want to be responsible if, after he left, something seemed to be broken or missing.

Nell didn't have a friend or relative who'd sit in her sweltering apartment and watch this guy work. And her building's super wasn't even on the premises most of the time. She'd been considering reporting him to Missing Persons. She was driving when she got Terry's call, on her way to interview another of the Palmetto case jurors. She really didn't want to go. The juror would be like the last three, deficient in any fresh knowledge of the Justice Killer investigation, and already sufficiently frightened by what they did know. If JK's goal was to scare hell out of the city, he was doing a good job.

“I'll meet you there in half an hour and let you in,” she said to Terry.

“That'll work. I'll probably need only a couple of hours at most.”

So here sat Nell on her living room sofa, observing her window air conditioner being operated on instead of pursuing a serial killer.

Terry had the unit on a blue tarp he'd spread on the floor so as not to dirty the carpet. He wasn't the repairman of TV sitcoms, overweight with low-slung work pants. He was slim and muscular, wearing a tight black T-shirt, jeans and moccasins. His hair was a curly brown and slightly mussed above a high forehead and symmetrical features. He had brown eyes with laugh crinkles at their corners, and was clean shaven, with a chiseled jaw and cleft chin. Quite the package. It figured he was an actor as well as an air conditioner repairman—or was it the other way around?

She'd given him a can of beer, too, and watched as he put down a crescent wrench for a moment and took a sip, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Nell found herself wishing she were wearing something other than her shapeless blue skirt and blazer and thick-soled black cop shoes. She knew she had nicely turned ankles, but not in these clod-hoppers.

She scooted to the corner of the sofa, so she could see over Terry's shoulder, and crossed her legs. “How's it look?”

He didn't glance back at her. The hair at the nape of his neck was curling and wet with perspiration in a way she liked. She was sweating herself.

“Not bad,” he said, exchanging beer can for wrench. “This brass tube”—he tapped a curved, rusty tube with the wrench—“is leaking coolant, needs to be replaced. You got a couple of leaky connections, too.”

“I didn't notice anything dripping.”

“The coolant evaporated before it ran over. But your filter needs changing. Condensation was building in your drip pan and running down the outside of the building.”

“Sounds serious.” Nell had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

He turned and smiled at her. The way his lips curled made him look kind of sardonic, like a fifties movie matinee idol who could rape his way through a movie and everybody liked it. “It isn't. I'll only be here about an hour.”

He'd set up a paint-splattered old box fan he no doubt used to cool himself on the job, but he'd angled it to blow not on him but on Nell. It hummed steadily, with a faint clinking sound, sending a slight breeze over her.

“Want me to turn that to a higher speed?” he asked, pointing at the fan with his wrench.

“It's fine the way it is, thanks. Are you really an actor?”

“Don't I seem like one?”

“You seem like a man who knows a lot about air conditioners.”

Again the smile. Right at her heart. “Got you fooled.” He bent back to his task, gave the wrench a turn, and removed the rusty curved piece of brass tubing. “I've been in some plays, done a few commercials. Way I met cops, I co-starred a couple of years ago in
Safe and Loft.
”

“I remember it. Didn't see it, though. It was on Broadway.”

“Well, close to Broadway. It was a genuine hit, though. Ran for over a year. I played a cop, and I did my research by riding in radio cars with some of the cops in the Two-Oh Precinct. I learned about folks like you, and about breaking and entering, too. The professional burglars. I was a cop in the play, but I was also the stand-in for the actor who played the burglar. I take my research seriously, so I got to be pretty good with a lock pick. Got to know a lot of cops, and made contacts for my sideline, which is repairing household appliances.”

“That's how I got your name. You must do a lot of work for cops.”

“Yeah. This time of year, mostly air conditioners.”

“Maybe you should join the NYPD,” Nell said.

“I thought about it.” He sounded serious. “But after getting a taste of the job, I realized how difficult it is. And dangerous. Theater critics are tough, but none of them has ever taken a shot at me.” He stopped work for a few seconds and gave her an appraising look that raised goose bumps on her arms. “I appreciate what you do.”

Could you ever, Nell found herself thinking. “Acting's gotta be hard on the ego, though, right? I mean, the competition must be tremendous. There aren't millions of kids all over the world dreaming of being cops the way they dream of being movie stars.”

“I work,” Terry said, “even if I have to repair appliances between what I consider my real occupation. Yeah, it's a struggle, and you get kicked in the teeth regularly, but then, every now and then, you know it's worth it. Probably not so unlike being a cop.”

“I don't recall ever getting any applause for being a cop,” Nell said. “Not the way you must have.”

He laughed. “I got some at that. Hated to turn in the uniform when the show closed.”

He tightened some joints with the wrench, then let it clatter back into his toolbox and withdrew a small acetylene torch. “Gotta heat something up,” he said, “do some soldering. Then I'll recharge the unit, change the filter, and be out of here. I'll be able to make an audition, and you can return to chasing the bad guys.”

“No rush,” Nell said. “At the moment, no bad guys close enough to chase.”

He gave her a sideways glance as the torch popped and its nozzle emitted a narrow, hot flame. Another grin came her way. Then he adjusted the blue flame and began soldering. “Your name, Nell, is it short for Nelly?”

“It is, but nobody's called me Nelly in years.” She waited for him to comment that it was a nice name, but he didn't. The only sound was the humming and clinking of the old box fan, the hissing of the torch. The torch reminded her of the one the Tavern on the Green waiter had used to scorch the crème brûlée, which brought to mind a comparison between Jack Selig and Terry Adams. Nell wasn't sure she was ready for a sixtyish lover. It might be too much like being in her sixties herself, rushing the season. Selig was certainly sophisticated and handsome—and rich. Terry was certainly sensual and handsome—and still relatively poor. Maybe Terry was Selig twenty years ago.

Nell was Nell now, and now wasn't twenty years ago.

Terry had finished with the blow torch and was fitting a new filter into place. When he straightened up, he wiped his hands on the outer thighs of his Levi's so they'd be dry, getting ready to hoist the air conditioner back into the window frame. He was going to get away.

Unless Nell's refrigerator needed repair. It didn't seem to be keeping the milk as cold as it used to.

She watched silently as he slid the heavy unit back into the window, muscles flexing in his corded arms. He began to anchor it to the frame with a screwdriver.

“Aren't you going to try it first?” she asked.

“It'll work,” he said. “I knew exactly what it needed.”

When he was finished, he switched the air conditioner on and turned it to high. It ran quietly and more powerfully than it ever had. Nell could see the brass pull chain on the nearby table lamp swaying in the artificial breeze.

Terry unplugged the old box fan and wound the cord. Then he replaced his tools in their box, and carefully refolded the tarp so nothing would get on the carpet. He stooped gracefully for his Budweiser can, which he'd placed on his clipboard, tilted back his head, and finished his beer.

“Mind if I wash my hands?” he asked.

“Bathroom's down the hall, first door on your right.”

He placed the empty beer can on the smoothly running air conditioner, then made his way past her and down the hall. Nell knew he'd see her makeup, her toothbrush, intimate things. Maybe he'd sneak a look in the medicine cabinet and see the Midol. Maybe he'd look in the bottom vanity drawer and see her hair drier and her vibrator.

Can't get much more intimate than that.

For some reason, she didn't care.

“I bet you made a good cop,” she said, when he returned with freshly scrubbed, almost clean hands. “Got great reviews.”

“They said I was convincing.”

“I can imagine.”

“You should catch me when I perform sometime.”

“I'd like that.”

He crossed the room and picked up his clipboard and toolbox. Then he tucked the folded tarp beneath his arm. With his free hand, he picked up the box fan. Fully laden, he glanced at the empty beer can, then at her.

“I'll get it later,” she said. “Want me to write you a check?”

“Not necessary. I'll bill you.”

He started toward the door, then turned as if he'd forgotten something. But he didn't look anywhere other than at Nell. She hadn't risen from the sofa.

“Anything else you need?” he asked.

“Need? Maybe the refrigerator. You do refrigerators?”

“I do whatever needs doing.”

“Mine's been heating up lately.”

“Your refrigerator?”

“No”

He carefully placed the fan, his toolbox, tarp, and clipboard on the floor and moved toward her.

“Everything in the damned place is overheated,” she said. “I guess I need a Mr. Fixit.”

He sat down next to her on the sofa.

“We'll fix that.”