Читать книгу Night Victims - John Lutz - Страница 13

“Kinda posh for a former police captain,” Paula said, as she and Bickerstaff were about to climb out of the unmarked Paula had parked at the curb in front of Horn’s brownstone.

“Nobody ever suggested Horn was a bent cop,” Bickerstaff said. “Rumor is he inherited some money, made some smart investments. And he’s not exactly a millionaire.”

“Yeah, but I bet his wife’s not bagging groceries so they can scrape by.”

“Matter of fact she does hold down a job. Some kinda executive at a hospital.”

Paula had her fingers curled around the door handle but paused. “You like this guy.”

“Never met him. But I like what I heard. He’s straight and tough and an old-fashioned cop.”

“What’s that mean—old-fashioned?”

“Means he knows when and how and how hard to push.” Bickerstaff sat and wheezed for a while, then added, “I know how you feel about Horn taking over the investigation, but the important thing you gotta know is that from everything I heard about the guy, he’s not about to hang us out to dry.”

Paula sighed. “So he’s got balls. Cojones. He’ll go to the wall for us.”

“Let’s get outta the car, Paula,” Bickerstaff said, perceptive enough to know when he was being patronized.

He’d already opened his door and was squeezing his bulk out. Egress wasn’t his strong suit. He was still working on it after Paula had gotten out of the car. She slammed her door before he did his. Too many doughnuts, the unknowing might say of Bickerstaff, but Paula knew better. He could move amazingly fast when it was necessary and with an economy that made what he did count. Almost too many doughnuts.

Neither of them said anything as they took the concrete steps to tall oak doors that had to be original to the house. Bickerstaff pressed the faintly illuminated doorbell button.

There was no sound from inside, but within a few seconds the door to the left opened and a tall man with bulky shoulders and the beginning of a stomach paunch smiled out at them. He had a nice smile that crinkled his craggy features. He was wearing pinstriped gray suit pants and a white shirt, loosened red tie, and dark blue suspenders, but Paula thought he’d look good modeling hunting outfits in an outdoorsware catalog. It was something about his rangy if slightly paunchy build, and his marksman’s pale eyes. Your manly guide for hunting moose in the north country.

“Detectives Ramboquette and Bickerstaff,” he said, and shook both their hands with his left hand. His own hands were huge and rough as a stone mason’s but clean and with closely trimmed nails.

Paula managed to smile back at him, slightly irritated that he’d unnerved her with his size and presence. He wasn’t exactly what she’d expected, and his welcome and amiability seemed genuine.

Paula and Bickerstaff followed as Horn led them into the comfortably furnished living room with overstuffed chairs and sofa, an oriental rug on hardwood flooring, a fireplace that had a brass shovel and poker set alongside it but looked as if it was never used. On the mantel was an arrangement of elegant vases and framed photos of a young blond woman holding an infant, and an older blond woman who might be her mother.

“My wife, Anne, and our daughter and grandson,” Horn said, reading Paula’s mind. He glanced at the photos and held a trace of a smile when he looked back at Paula and Bickerstaff.

“He a relative, too?” Bickerstaff asked, pointing to a framed, wall-mounted black-and-white photograph of a distinguished looking man in coat and tie.

“No, that’s a signed photograph of George Hearn. He’s a great Broadway actor people who mostly go to movies don’t know about. My wife and I are avid theatergoers.”

“I have to admit I never heard of him,” Paula said. Jesus! Insert foot in mouth.

Horn motioned for both of them to sit on the sofa. “You’re officially off duty. Either of you want something to drink? I have some good single malt or blended scotch.”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Paula said. At least you won’t think I’m a drunk.

“I’ll try the single malt,” Bickerstaff said, settling into a corner of the sofa. He was a guy about to retire with nothing to lose. “Splash of water, no ice.”

“Done,” Horn said. He went to an old-fashioned mahogany credenza and worked for a few minutes with his broad back to them. There must have been an ice bucket there; when he turned around he was holding two drink glasses with cobbled bottoms, a couple of ice cubes in one of them. The scotch without ice was a much deeper amber than the other; Paula wondered if Horn had lightened up on his drink and gone heavy on Bickerstaff’s. “To our new working relationship,” Horn said, after handing over the glass to Bickerstaff.

The two men clinked glass rims, while Paula smiled and made a toasting motion with her hand. She felt suddenly out of place in a male world, sitting there alongside Bickerstaff and watching Horn settle his rangy bulk into a green leather armchair opposite them. She was the one wearing the wrong kind of underwear here.

“This,” Bickerstaff said, “is wonderful scotch.”

“And you,” Horn said, fixing his gray-green eyes on Paula, “are Cajun.”

“You have a good ear for accents,” Paula said.

“Ah, I do,” Horn said, “but the fact is I read it in your file. I learned as much as I could about the two of you before deciding if I wanted you with me on this case. I am sure. About both of you. I want you to be sure about me.”

“I’ve heard about you,” Bickerstaff said. “I am sure.”

“I heard from Roy,” Paula said.

“You left the New Orleans Police Department because of a personality clash with a superior who had a record that didn’t stack up against yours,” Horn said to Paula. “They gave you top recommendations so they could move you along out of town, and you had somebody influential in the NYPD to act as your angel.”

“My uncle, Captain Sean Boudine,” Paula said, figuring Horn would already know that but wanting to seem open and cooperative.

“Politics out, politics in.”

“Isn’t that the way it works?” Paula said.

Horn smiled. “’Fraid so.”

Bickerstaff sipped his scotch and said nothing, obviously intrigued by their exchange.

“Boudine’s a fine man and a good cop,” Horn said. “And because of him you managed to move into plainclothes Homicide immediately, though in truth you’re in a probation period.”

“In truth,” Paula agreed.

“And I know you want to retire at the end of the month and go ice fishing in Minnesota,” Horn said to Bickerstaff. “I was retired myself and looking forward to deep-sea fishing in the Florida Keys, landing a blue marlin. What I’m proposing is we both push that off into the future, until this case is resolved. When we do get around to catching those fish, it’ll be all the sweeter for the both of us.”

“Agreed,” Bickerstaff said, amazing Paula.

“Have you got any plans that need putting aside?” Horn asked her.

“I’m a working cop,” she said. “I plan on being one a year from now. That’s about as far ahead as I want to look.” So here I am, sitting around with a guy who wants to squat in front of a hole in the ice and another one who wants to catch a fish with a sword on its nose. Is this a wise career move?

Horn sipped his drink, then rested the glass on his knee, holding it with the middle finger and thumb of his left hand. “I’ve read the murder files on all three dead women, as I’m sure you have. I don’t think I have to ask if there’s any disagreement on whether we have a serial killer at work here.”

“You don’t,” Bickerstaff said.

Horn looked at Paula, who nodded.

“I also see by your records that neither of you ever did any rock or mountain climbing. Neither have I. But it seems a certain degree of skill had to be involved for our perp to reach those bedroom windows. That’s something that needs looking into. He’s also got some skill with a glass cutter and masking tape. Two of the windows were locked, and he silently—almost had to be silently—cut a crescent in the glass at the latch, using tape so the section removed wouldn’t fall to the outside sill or ground. And it looks like some kind of wax or oil was put on the tracks before he raised the windows so they’d move easily and without making much noise.”

“An experienced B-and-E man,” Bickerstaff suggested.

“Cat burglar,” Paula said. “They climb.”

“Don’t usually kill,” Horn said. “Our man has a rare combination of skills.”

“The autopsy reports suggest he knows anatomy and how to use a knife,” Paula said. “He kept his victims alive so they’d suffer as long as possible.”

“Medical background, you think?”

“Maybe. But the postmortems suggest he doesn’t have skills at that level. More like a butcher or simple torturer with experience.”

“A cruel bastard!” Horn said, with a vehemence that surprised Paula.

“Which brings us to kinky sex,” Bickerstaff said. “You think the victims mighta known their killer? That they mighta wanted to be wrapped in their sheets that way for some kinda S-and-M thing, then he surprised them by going too far?”

“There’s nothing in their backgrounds to suggest that,” Horn said. “So for now, we can rule it out.”

Good enough for Paula.

Horn looked from her to Bickerstaff. “You two have got a few days on me when it comes to this case. Is there anything else you think might be worth mentioning?”

“The footprint in Sally Bridge’s bedroom,” Paula said. “The lab brought it out more. Looks like a man’s bare right foot, medium-sized. Not as good in court as a handprint, but a match might help build a case if we catch this guy. When we catch him.”

Horn sat back and lifted his glass of scotch but didn’t sip. He simply stared at it while he rotated the glass and made the light change in the amber liquid. “Yes, he apparently climbs barefoot.”

“Or, more likely, undresses before he kills so he doesn’t get bloody,” Bickerstaff said.

“I’d agree,” Horn said, “except there doesn’t figure to be much spurting or flowing blood, the way he shrouds his victims in their bedsheets before going to work with the knife. Aside from method, that single partial footprint is the only thing remotely like a substantial clue at any of the three murder scenes.” He took a sip of scotch. “Still, we don’t want to form too many preconceived notions at this point. We’re not dealing with someone who thinks logically in the ways that we do, which is why we need to get inside his mind, gain some idea of his particular and peculiar logic.” He smiled. “You know, they don’t all murder their mothers over and over.”

“But plenty do,” Bickerstaff said.

“Plenty.” Horn shrugged. “Maybe even this barefoot, rock-climbing, glass-cutting, sheet-winding killer with a sound knowledge of human anatomy.”

“He sounds more individual,” Bickerstaff said, “when you put it that way.”

“Oh, he’s individual, all right. Unique and dangerous.”

And that’s why he interests you, Paula thought, looking at the expression on Horn’s set features. Maybe you belong in that hunting catalog after all.

“As far as we’re concerned,” Horn said, “this investigation enters a new phase tomorrow. I want you two to pore over and collate the information on all three cases, do some follow-up interviews of the people who discovered the bodies; the family, friends or neighbors who knew the victims. Sometimes people have fresh recollections after days or weeks have passed. Don’t just look for something new—look for combinations of information that might mean something new. Don’t toss aside anything. We can get together and decide among us whether it’s important. Meanwhile, I’m going to visit the crime scenes, starting with the Sally Bridge murder. A new perspective sometimes turns up something meaningful.”

He motioned for both of them to remain seated but stood up and went to one of the bookshelves with doors beneath it. From inside one of the doors he retrieved two cell phones; he gave one to Paula and the other to Bickerstaff. “Pertinent phone numbers are already in the data banks. I have a cell phone of my own. That’s primarily how we’ll stay in touch. You two will report only to me and be pretty much on your own. We meet back here at the same time, two days from now, and compare notes.”

Paula and Bickerstaff took that as a signal that the meeting was over. They stood up, Bickerstaff wheezing as he struggled out of the grasp of the deep sofa cushions.

“Needless to say,” Horn told them, “we keep all this from the media. They’ll catch up to it sooner or later, but maybe we can choose when and be able to use them in some way.”

“That would be nice for a change,” Paula said, slipping her cell phone into her blazer pocket.

As Horn ushered them into the foyer, a tall blond woman came down the stairs. Her hair was piled gracefully on her head and she was wearing jeans and a bleached-out blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She looked fresh and clean as only certain blond women could. Late forties, Paula thought, maybe early fifties. The older blond woman in the mantel photo.

“My wife, Anne,” Horn said, and introduced everyone as the woman walked the rest of the way down the stairs. Paula had the impression she’d timed this casual meeting so she could get a look at them, see what her husband was getting into.

Anne smiled graciously and said she was sorry they were leaving. Horn told her not to worry, they’d all be seeing plenty of each other. Paula noticed that Anne smelled subtly of perfumed soap or shampoo and wondered what the scent was. She wouldn’t mind smelling that way.

The handsome, mature couple stood with the door open as Paula and Bickerstaff left and climbed into the unmarked.

“You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you,” Paula said to Bickerstaff. Not a question. Maybe an accusation.

Bickerstaff shrugged as he buckled his seat belt. “We’re gonna do it, Paula. It’s our choice whether we enjoy our work.”

When the car had driven away and the front door was closed, Horn said to his wife, “I thought you might want to take their measure. What do you think?”

“The man looks like he shouldn’t climb stairs; the woman doesn’t look big enough to open an olive jar. I don’t like the idea of you having to depend on them, maybe for your life.”

“The man’s a good cop with a lot left in him.”

“He looks like he should use what remaining energy he has to work out in a gym and try to lose some weight.”

“He’s about to retire.”

Anne shook her head. “Don’t you know what always happens in crime novels and movies to cops who are about to retire?”

“If this were a book or movie,” Horn said, “I’d be chief.”

She frowned. The parallel lines again, deeper with each year, with each new worry in her life. Her cop husband, her job, the lawsuit against the hospital, and now her pensioned-off husband’s involvement in a murder case. “I really don’t like the feel of this, Thomas. You sure they’re going to be okay?”

“They’ll do just fine,” Horn said, grinning to show his confidence. “A wheezy fat man with savvy, and a feisty Cajun. I could do a lot worse.”

Anne smiled. “Isn’t that profiling?”

“Full frontal nudity wasn’t possible,” Horn said, and kissed away the lines in her cool forehead.

The last glance back at Horn and his wife in the doorway as the car pulled away stuck in Paula’s mind. The alpha male with his mate, made clever by experience and still plenty able. Like some rock-hard Cajuns she’d known. Her uncles, who’d roamed the Louisiana swamp with their shotguns modified to fire solid lead slugs, poached for whatever could be sold or eaten, the bigger the better. Hunters, southern version.

Horn was the northern version. Despite his obvious sophistication, the image of him in the deep woods in camouflage, armed with a high-powered rifle, still and silent and sighting through the scope at a distant and elusive moose, persisted.

Poor moose.