Chill of Night (21 page)

“I hardly knew the man,” Marge Caldwell said, obviously tired of Beam's questions after she'd already given a statement to the police—and less than an hour after Manfred Byrd had died.

“You knew him well enough that he died in your apartment,” Beam said.

Except for Nell, they were seated in the unfurnished living room on imitation Chippendale chairs that Beam and Looper had dragged in from the dining room. Nell was out on the balcony, looking around again to see if the crime scene unit had missed anything, thinking this was an apartment most New Yorkers would die for.

“Well, not exactly
in
my apartment, thank God,” Marge said. “He was a decorator who was recommended to me by my hair stylist.”

“Who is?”

“Terra. I don't know her last name. She owns Terra's Do's and Don'ts, over on First Avenue.”

“How long have you been going there?” Beam asked. Looper was silent; on the drive over, they'd agreed to let Beam do the questioning.

“I've been there exactly once,” Marge said. “I've only been in New York a little over a month, and I wasn't crazy about Terra.” She unconsciously raised a hand to touch her permed, graying hair. “She insisted on doing my hair her way. She's like a lot of hair stylists—she doesn't
listen.
”

Beam had read the preliminary report on Marge; it briefly described a markedly ordinary woman except for one thing.

“You won the Michigan lottery?” he asked, making sure.

“Three point nine million dollars,” Marge said, with an expression suggesting she'd answered the question many times before and it annoyed her.

“Congratulations,” Looper said.

Marge looked over at him and smiled. He was a nice man, not like Beam.

“Why did you decide to move to New York?” Beam asked.

“To be somewhere my ex-husband isn't. We'd just been divorced when I was notified of my winnings. He's had a change of heart.”

“I'll bet,” Nell said, having just wandered back in from the balcony. She looked at Beam and Looper. “Nothing out there except for the fantastic view,” she said. “Not so much as a scuff mark.”

Beam wasn't surprised.

Marge's patience seemed to be wearing thin. “Look,” she said, “it's not as if I don't want to help, but I really don't know anything. I talked to the police right after I came home and learned what happened. The officer took notes.”

“I'm sorry to bother you again,” Beam said, “but there've been developments that make it necessary we talk with you again.”

“The Justice Killer?”

“He's the main development.”

“Is the news right? Did the Justice Killer push Manfred off my balcony?”

“It looks that way.”

“Then I can't see what you want with me. I was ten blocks away when it happened.” Marge seemed upset and was obviously getting uncomfortable in her chair. She didn't want to be unpleasant, but they were pressing her.

“We need to be thorough,” Beam said, “so I'll have to ask your indulgence. Did anyone other than you and Byrd have a key to get in here?”

“No. Look, I hardly even know anyone in New York. Like a lot of other people, I came here for anonymity.”

“Did you ever see Manfred Byrd socially?”

“Look,” Marge said again, as if she actually had something to show Beam, “Manfred was simply somebody I hired to help me decorate this place. He was…flighty. We weren't about to see each other socially, but I think we liked each other okay. I could tell he was very good at what he did. And, I think if he was still alive, he'd say I was one of his clients that actually listened to him and took his advice.”

“Did he complain about any other clients?”

“Not specifically. He only mentioned a few times that it was frustrating when people paid for his advice then refused to take it.”

Like with Terra the beautician, Beam thought. He said, “Do you remember ever seeing Mr. Byrd in anyone else's company?”

“I only saw him when he came here,” Marge said, “other than when we went shopping together for decorators' materials or furniture.”

“And how often was that?”

“Three—no, four times. Once for paint and wallpaper, and three times for furniture.”

“When was the last time?”

“Two days ago. We bought a sofa to go in this room. It will be the only furniture in here with a pattern.”

“I don't see a sofa.”

“We're—I'm still waiting for delivery, on the sofa and several other pieces of furniture. We didn't want any of it here until the painters were finished.” Marge's body gave a quick little start, as if experiencing a tiny shock. “Look,” she said, “I didn't lie to you, but I was wrong. I do think I remember something I haven't mentioned. Manfred told me once he kept getting the feeling he was being followed.”

“Did he have any idea by whom?”

“No. He did think it was a man.”

“Then he'd seen this person?”

“I don't know. If he did, I don't believe he described him.” She clasped her hands in her lap and appeared pained, thinking. “His exact words—exact as I can recall them—were, ‘This can be a dangerous city, Marge. Sometimes I think there's a man following me. But maybe I'm getting paranoid.'”

“He said that, about being paranoid?”

“Yes, I remember the conversation because I thought it was odd he'd be upset. I mean, a
man
following him. I should think he might have been pleased. You know, a
man…”

“Got it,” Beam said. “And when was this conversation about being followed?”

“Oh, three or four days ago, I believe. We were measuring for drapes.”

“Was that the only time he mentioned this man?”

“Yes. And to tell you the truth he didn't seem
terrifically
upset about it. I mean, it was just idle conversation. That's why I didn't remember it before.”

Looper and Nell were looking at Beam. Tina Flitt's husband had said the same thing not long before his wife was murdered; he had the feeling he was being followed. The Justice Killer stalking his prey while he was being stalked. The dangerous game he'd chosen to play.

Beam closed his notebook and stood up. His right leg felt weak and almost gave at the knee. Had it fallen asleep while he was perched uncomfortably on the hard chair, or was it suffering some sort of delayed reaction to his having been shot?

Whatever. The leg seemed to be regaining feeling and strength.

Beam made himself smile. “We appreciate your help, Ms. Caldwell, and we apologize for the inconvenience.”

Marge stood also, a little stiffly like Beam. She smiled. “That's okay. You're only doing your job. And I like the way you don't call me missus. It makes me feel unmarried.”

“No trouble at all. If you remember anything else, Ms. Caldwell…” He handed her a card.

“Of course.” Marge slipped the card into a pocket of her skirt.

“Are you going to hire another decorator to complete the work?” Nell asked.

“No. Manfred and I were finished with the choices. Now it's only a matter of execution. I think I can handle that.”

She showed them to the door like a dutiful hostess.

“Don't worry,” Looper told her as they were leaving, “it's going to look great.”

On the elevator ride down, Beam said, “Except for the remark about Byrd thinking he was being followed by a strange man, she knows just about zilch.”

“Our killer works clean every time,” Looper said.

“Byrd spotted him,” Nell pointed out.

“Maybe you didn't notice,” Looper said, “but Byrd had an eye.”

Nell glanced at him from the corner of her own eye, marveling once again how the world was full of surprises large and small.

 

Reggie was a piece of work. He was only about five-foot six or seven, but the way he carried himself you just knew he was strong. When he approached Gina the next morning near the statue in Columbus Circle he was wearing baggy chinos, a tan shirt with lots of pockets, comfortable-looking brown hiking shoes, and a beat up gray backpack. His dark hair was long and greasy, and he wore a weathered slouch hat that had at one time been white. He was passably handsome, with a strong jaw, blue eyes, and a mouth that looked as if it smiled easily and often. All in all, he looked like an American student just back from bumming around a foreign land on the cheap. A youth hostel user and a drug user maybe, but not a dealer.

Gina pretended not to notice him. The morning was already too warm, and her palms were sweating.

“You Gina?” he asked. She could barely hear him over the noise of the traffic, and thought that might be why he chose this as a meeting place. Conversations here would be difficult to tape.

“I am if you're Reggie.”

“I'm the Reggie you seek. Van didn't say you were so pretty.” He did a little shuffle, as if her unexpected attractiveness made him nervous.

“She wouldn't.”

“She did say I could trust you.”

“Can
I
trust
you?
” Gina asked, not liking all the exhaust fumes she was breathing in.

“Hell, no. But you can always count on me to act in my self-interest.”

“Are you in love with Vanessa?”

He laughed. “She thinks so. I like that.”

“And you use it. Use her.”

“Hey, I'm a user of people. I'd like to use you.”

“It wouldn't be in your self-interest or mine. Do you confide in Vanessa?”

“Hah! I don't confide in no one.” The shuffle again; he might have been shaking out a sudden cramp in one leg. He adjusted his soiled slouch hat so it sat far back on his head and made him look jaunty and younger. “You're certainly ballsy for one of Van's friends.”

“Oh, maybe you don't know them well enough.”

“I know 'em. They only act ballsy. You ain't acting.” He smiled. He really wasn't a bad-looking guy. Gina could understand what Vanessa saw in him. But then sharks were, in their own way, beautiful. “We gonna get to the point?”

“Vanessa said you were a businessman.”

“She's got that right.”

“And you're a burglar.”

He gave her a hard look that chilled. Now he wasn't so good looking. Momentarily, the shark had bared its teeth. “Van tell you that?”

“It isn't any secret,” Gina said. “You did your time, and now you're out and a productive member of society.”

“You must watch a lotta TV.”

“Hardly any.”

“The point,” he reminded her. He actually glanced at his watch, letting her know he had more important things to do and didn't want to waste much more time here. “You wanna score some dope, right?”

“Wrong. I'm more interested in the burglary part.”

He scratched his scalp beneath the greasy hair near his hat brim and grinned, showing he was learning to like her and was interested. “You want me to steal something?”

“Have you broken into any pawn shops since you got out of prison?”

“Since and before,” Reggie said. “I like pawn shops. They got a lotta stuff in 'em I can turn into money.” He did his little shuffle and glanced around at the ongoing maelstrom of traffic. Gina thought again he might have chosen this meeting place because the constant noise would make electronic eavesdropping on their conversation difficult, if not impossible.

She hesitated, wondering if she should simply call this off and walk away, if this was one of those crucial moments in life that would change everything that came after.

No, she decided, it didn't have to be. But hadn't somebody or other said the forks in life's road are usually only visible in the rearview mirror?

“You interested in something that might be in a pawn shop?” Reggie asked.

“A gun,” Gina said.

“Can they do that to me?” Adelaide asked.

She was sitting, talking on the phone at the table in her tiny kitchen. In front of her was a plate with half a piece of buttered toast with a bite out of it, a tumbler with a residue of orange juice, and a full cup of decaffeinated coffee with cream added to it. She'd just poured the coffee—her third cup of the morning—from the Braun brewer that sat on the table near the wall and electrical socket. Alongside the cup was today's
Post.

Adelaide was pleased with her photo on the front page. It was a shot of her standing on the City Hall steps with her fist raised, breasts thrust forward, a resolute expression on her face. The wind had for once cooperated and not done bad things to her hair. She looked like a stubborn child, but one to be reckoned with. She looked adorable.

What she didn't like was the story that went with the photo. New York City had decided not to summon her, or other temporarily unemployed show business people, for jury duty. They were classifying such citizens as hardship cases and rejects.

“They can do it to you,” Barry confirmed on the phone. “They can summon anyone they want for jury duty, and they can reject anyone.”

“Reject,” Adelaide said. “I don't like that word, Barry. I hear it too often.”

“If you read further down,” Barry said, “you'll find that the paper regards you as heroic. They say you made the city back down.”

Adelaide paused in her one-handed attempt to spread more butter on her toast. “That's good, Barry.”

“It would be, Ad, but it happened too soon. We want them to back down, but later, after you've had plenty of press. The bastards know that. They just want to fast shuffle you out of the news.”

“The bastards,” Adelaide said. She laid the butter knife aside and took another tiny bite of toast. Chewed. “Summoning me for jury duty was bad, but then canceling the summons like they say in the paper, that's a cruel trick.”

“You could say that, Ad.”

“I did say it.” She washed down the bite of toast with a swallow of coffee. “Cruelty in others is something I cannot abide.”

“Of course, what they'll say if we complain is that you're getting exactly what you've been demanding.”

“I don't put that below them.”

Adelaide turned to the next page. There were more photographs of her. Most of them were okay, but not as good as the one on the front page. One of them, taken at an upward angle from the base of the steps, made her nostrils look too large. Her nostrils did not look like
that.
She turned her attention away from the photos and began to read.

“Ad? Still with me?” Barry, ever patient with his client.

“My God! It says under my picture in the
Post
that I've won. How can they print that kinda stuff without getting sued?”

“You did win, Ad. That's the problem.”

“This is outrageous. What are we gonna do, Barry?”

“I'll think of something.”

“I hope so. I am really, totally, shit-kicking angry about this.”

Beneath the table, her dainty foot began to tap.

 

Nell lay perspiring beside Terry in her bed and watched the morning light filter in through the cracks in the blinds. The air conditioner emitted a steady hum, providing white noise that seemed to isolate the room from the noisy city outside, still waking to a new and boisterous day.

Terry was an attentive, considerate lover, if sometimes a little rough. Nell wondered what kind of lover Jack Selig was. She wasn't going to find out now.

She was totally smitten by Terry Adams. Last night had been wonderful. She'd feared the bed would collapse as the headboard slammed over and over against the wall with each of Terry's thrusts into her. At first she'd been concerned about whether the proper Mr. Ramirez downstairs would hear the racket, but it wasn't long before she forgot about Mr. Ramirez altogether.

The longer she knew Terry, the more she was surprised by his many facets. He not only repaired appliances and was a struggling but respected actor, he'd yesterday mentioned that ten years ago he'd actually published a collection of short stories. He'd shown her a yellowing copy. The publisher was a small one Nell had never heard of. The stories were dark and lyrical, and, she thought, quite good. Of course, she was a cop, not a literary critic.

She did know that this far into their developing relationship, nothing about him had disappointed her.

Then why do I find myself thinking about Jack Selig? What does he represent to me? Safety? My father? Wealth?

She didn't like to think it might be wealth. But how well did people really know themselves?

Amazing! A few weeks ago I thought I'd never have a relationship again, and now I'm trying to decide between two men.

No—I've decided!

But she knew better.

“You awake?”

Terry's voice beside her startled her and her body jerked. The iron headboard bounced off the wall and the bedsprings sang. The noise reminded her of last night and made her aware of the musty scent of sex that lingered in the room despite the flow of cool air from the window unit.

“Most of the way,” she answered.

“What're you thinking?”

Better come up with something here.

“That actress who's got everybody stirred up about her jury duty,” she said, remembering the conversation in da Vinci's office.

“Adelaide Starr?”

“Yeah. You know her?”

“I've met her. And I saw her in
Nuts and Bolts
. She's got talent, and she's cute as a bug's ear.”

“You ever look close at a bug's ear?” Nell asked.

He laughed. “Don't be jealous.”

“Don't be conceited. I was asking about Adelaide Starr professionally. Is she the type who'd be doing all this for publicity?”

“Since she's an actress, I don't have to know her well to answer that one. Yes, she would. Many, maybe most, of my fellow thespians would.”

“Would you?”

“Maybe. This is a rough, competitive business in a tough city.”

“Lots of businesses are. Even appliance repair.”

“Refrigerators and air conditioners break and have to be fixed. Nobody has to put on a play. Adelaide Starr might come across as cute and naive onstage, but you better mark her down as shrewd and calculating. Being cute and innocent is her
shtick,
and she's good at it. Another actor can watch her and appreciate some of her techniques. And I know her manager, Barry Baxter, by reputation. He knows how to play the media like an orchestra.”

“Is he honest?”

“Like everybody else.”

“You think he's behind this?”

“Sure. He's trying to get publicity for his client.”

“Simple as that?”

“Well, maybe not. Adelaide might be scared shitless. I'm sure she really doesn't want to serve on a jury in the city of New York. No one with good sense would.”

“That's how the Justice Killer wants her to think. In a way, she's helping him.”

“I doubt if they're friends,” Terry said, and pulled down the elasticized neck of Nell's nightgown and kissed her left nipple. He used his tongue skillfully and she felt his hand move down her body and over the swell of her stomach.

“Again?” she asked, playing her fingertips over his ear, through his hair.

“Again and again and again,” he said, and began working her nightgown up.

Nell dug her bare heels into the mattress and raised her buttocks to help him. He used his mouth on her until she was moist and ready, then mounted her.

The loosely connected iron headboard began its joyous clamor. Nell was lost again and didn't want to be found.