Night Victims. John Lutz

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СКАЧАТЬ hadn’t taken them long to examine the roofs above the victims’ apartment windows and determine the killer had lowered himself to his prey, not climbed up. Other than that, they’d have to talk things over in the morning and compare notes, see if there was something else worthwhile when they put their information together. Other than that…

      When Paula and Bickerstaff walked in, Horn was already at the diner where he’d set up the meet, a place called the Home Away, not far from his brownstone. He was slouched in a back booth, sipping coffee, with a plate in front of him that contained nothing but yellow crumbs.

      There were only a few other customers, and it was pleasantly cool in the diner. The unmarked’s air conditioner wasn’t working well, so Paula and Bickerstaff had removed their jackets and, still uncomfortable, had left them in the car. Bickerstaff had tucked his holstered service revolver beneath his shirt, where it was barely noticeable amidst his bulk. Paula had her handgun and shield in her small black leather purse, which she carried just for that purpose. After a few days around ninety, with nights that didn’t cool down much, the city’s miles of concrete held the heat like a kiln. Summer in New York could be brutal. For some people it was hell.

      The two detectives slid into the booth so they were across the table from Horn. Paula thought the mingled scents of fried bacon and slightly burned toast or bagel smelled great, but she wasn’t hungry. Bickerstaff’s energy bars seemed to have formed an indigestible lump in her stomach.

      Bickerstaff didn’t feel the same gastric discomfort. “So what’s good here?” he asked.

      “Toasted corn muffins,” Horn said without hesitation.

      A waitress with an order pad came over. She was a nice looking brunette with a good figure and kind of sad face.

      “I’m not a muffin man,” Bickerstaff said.

      “Could have fooled me,” the waitress said without a change of expression.

      Bickerstaff grinned.

      “Marla, Marla…” Horn said. Then to Bickerstaff: “Marla has a droll sense of humor, among her many other attributes.”

      Marla seemed unaffected by the compliment.

      Bickerstaff simply grunted, then ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee. Paula just went with coffee.

      “You must come in here pretty often,” she said to Horn.

      “Probably too often. It’s the muffins.”

      “They must be something.” Paula glanced at the waitress, making sure Horn saw her.

      So she’d built up the nerve to joke with him. Horn liked that. It could be they were becoming a real team.

      “Let’s go over what we learned last night,” he said.

      They did this through breakfast, then over second cups of coffee.

      “Seems to me the only new thing we learned is that the killer lowers himself from the roof to get to the victims’ windows,” Bickerstaff said.

      But something had struck Paula after hearing overlapping accounts of the murders. “The first victim was stabbed thirty-seven times, the second thirty-six, the third thirty-seven.”

      “Sounds like my first wife,” Bickerstaff said. “Thirty-seven, thirty-six, thirty seven.”

      Christ! Paula thought. She and Horn both frowned at Bickerstaff.

      “According to the ME, the sick bastard knows exactly where to stab them over and over without killing them, so they suffer maximum pain,” Bickerstaff said with exaggerated somberness, obviously realizing he might have gone too far humorwise. “Turns out the way he does it, the number of stab wounds they survive is in the mid-thirties.”

      Paula felt slighty ill.

      “A surgeon?” Bickerstaff asked.

      “Not likely,” she said, “according to the ME. The murder knife isn’t surgical, and a doctor would probably cut rather than stab.”

      “So?” Bickerstaff raised his bushy eyebrows as he delicately picked up a last crumb of bacon from his plate and popped it into his mouth. Paula noticed that though it was cool in the diner, there were still dark crescents of perspiration beneath the arms of his wrinkled blue shirt.

      “He’s killed plenty of times before,” Paula said. “Not only these three times. He must have, in order to learn precisely how, where, and the number of times to stab his victims to inflict pain without causing immediate death.”

      “Or even unconsciousness,” Horn said, smiling at Paula.

      She was pleased by his approval but at the same time irritated. Horn had known where she was going and was there ahead of her, waiting for her to catch up. He must have thought of the likelihood of previous victims and already talked to the ME about it.

      “I called the ME from home this morning,” he said, knowing what she must be thinking.

      “What about the partial bare footprint?” Bickerstaff said. “What the hell is that all about?”

      “Our barefoot boy didn’t get undressed to prevent himself from getting bloody,” Horn said. “In all but the Sally Bridge murder, the sheets wrapped around the victims absorbed most of the bleeding and prevented him from becoming bloodstained. At least bloodstained enough that it was worth the risk to take extra time undressing, washing up afterward, and dressing. And there was no sign of blood in the bathroom or kitchen drains.”

      While they were thinking about that, Horn finished his coffee and set the cup down slowly but firmly in its saucer so it wouldn’t clink. If the cup was going to be picked up again soon, it wouldn’t be by him.

      “So what’re our marching orders for the day?” Bickerstaff asked.

      “You and Paula see if you can find some cold cases in the area during the past three or four years that are similar to the three murders we’ve got.”

      “Murders when he was learning,” Paula said. “Perfecting his act.”

      Horn nodded. “And it wouldn’t hurt to check some other cities. Our killer might be a transient.”

      He slid his bulk out of the booth and stood up straight, a big man with dark slacks, white shirt with tie, and suspenders. The shirt had long sleeves, but they were neatly rolled up to about six inches above his wrists. Paula thought he looked like an ominous blackjack dealer and wondered if he always dressed that way.

      “What I’m going to do today is consult some experts,” he said.

      “Medical experts?” Bickerstaff asked.

      “No,” Horn said, “I’ll be looking for somebody who climbs mountains.”

      They’d just stepped outside the cool diner into the bright, warm morning, when Horn’s cell phone chirped.

      He fished it from his pants pocket and stepped a few feet away. Paula could see his face while he listened to whoever was on the other end of the connection, the phone made miniature in СКАЧАТЬ