Night Victims. John Lutz

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СКАЧАТЬ he’d have to become someone else. Trouble was, he couldn’t figure out who.

      “Corn muffins, Horn.”

      He looked up from his steaming coffee cup.

      Marla, the waitress who usually served Horn on the mornings he came into the diner for breakfast, had placed a plate with two toasted muffins before him. She was fortyish, maybe older, slim, and attractive, even in her dowdy black-checked uniform that made her somber brown eyes look even darker. She didn’t wear much makeup and didn’t seem to care much about her mud-colored hair, which she wore pulled back in a ponytail.

      “Sorry,” he said, “I was daydreaming.”

      “Want juice this morning?”

      “No, this is fine.”

      “You gonna tell me crime stories today?”

      “No, I’m slacking off. I’m not some old fart living in the past.”

      She grinned. “You hardly qualify for old fart status.” She walked away, then came back with a coffeepot and topped off his cup. “Even if you sometimes think so.”

      He glanced around. The breakfast crowd was gone and there were only a few other customers in the diner, down near the other end of the counter. Maybe he would talk with Marla. She made him feel better, that was for sure. Sometimes her incisive questions surprised him—her curiosity about the criminal mind and the mind of a cop, about serial killers, which had been Horn’s specialty when he was active.

      But when he was about to call her back, the bell above the door tinkled as another customer entered. Marla would have work to do, and Horn didn’t want to pass the time of day with her anyway if the customer sat down within earshot.

      Horn sipped his coffee as he turned and glanced to watch where whoever had entered would settle.

      He was surprised to see heading toward his booth Assistant Chief of Police Roland Larkin.

      “Now you’re retired,” Larkin said with a grin, “I see you’re working on clogging your arteries.” He shook his head. “You were eating those toasted muffins when we were young and riding together in Queens.”

      “Not like these,” Horn said. “These are toasted just right and are delicious.”

      “And have soaked up all the grease and every flavor from the grill.” Larkin extended his right hand palm down and Horn shook it with his left. Old friends.

      “Why don’t you sit down and have some of your own, Rollie?”

      Larkin slipped the button on his suitcoat and slid into the seat on the other side of the table. When the coat flapped open, Horn saw he wasn’t carrying a gun. Too important these days. Larkin looked good, Horn thought. Tall and lean, even if a little paunchy, his gray eyes slightly more faded, his hair grayer, his usually rouged-looking cheeks a little more florid. He was the kind of tough but compassionate Irishman who would have made a good priest and had made a good cop.

      Marla came over with a menu, all waitress now, as if she’d never seen either man before.

      Larkin handed the menu back and told her just coffee.

      “You come in here often?” Horn asked, knowing Larkin lived across town.

      “First time. Just to talk to you.”

      “How’d you find me?”

      “I’m a cop. I followed the muffins.”

      Marla brought coffee, then left and began working behind the counter, not far away.

      “So how’s retirement?” Larkin asked.

      “It hasn’t dulled my senses.” Horn took a bite of toasted muffin, chewed, and swallowed. “How come you looked me up, Rollie?”

      Stirring sugar into his coffee, Larkin leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Need your help, Horn. Something’s going on.”

      “What something?”

      “Last week a woman named Sally Bridge was found murdered in her apartment. She’d been wound up in her bedsheets and stabbed thirty-seven times.”

      “Lot of stab wounds.” Horn took another big bite of muffin.

      “Not many of them were fatal. The killer wanted to inflict maximum agony before she died.”

      “Husband?” Another bite of muffin, what was left of the top removed and buttered. Horn chased it down with some coffee.

      “Bridge was single. And we don’t have the killer.”

      “Victim have a love life?”

      “About what you’d expect. She was between rides.”

      Horn spread butter on the uneaten half of his muffin, watching it melt in. “What is it about this murder, Rollie, other than the thirty-seven stab wounds?”

      “The media haven’t tumbled to the fact yet, but it’s the third one like this in the last five months.”

      “Ah!” Horn rested the knife on his plate. “Serial killer.”

      “Uh-huh. Same guy for sure. He climbs the building and enters through the bedroom window. Then he winds the women up in their bedsheets like they’re wrapped in some kind of shroud. Does it so expertly it looks like they don’t even wake up all the way until he slaps a piece of duct tape over their mouths. Then he goes to work with the knife, all stab wounds, no slices, missing the vital organs. Victims finally give out from the pain, die of shock or blood loss.”

      Horn was staring into his coffee cup. “You said he climbs the buildings?”

      “Yeah. The women live on high floors, think they’re safe. But our boy’s a hell of a climber. Uses a glass cutter to get to the hardware if a window’s locked.”

      “Victims the same type?”

      “They’re between twenty-five and forty-six years old. Attractive, well built but maybe a little on the chunky side. All were single. A call girl, a computer programmer, and a casting director, in that order.”

      “Sexual penetration?”

      “Not unless you count the knife, all over the body. Narrow blade, about ten inches long, with a very sharp point.”

      “Unusual killer,” Horn said.

      “And the time between the second and third murders is less than between the first and second.”

      “And scales buildings.”

      “Must.”

      “You’ve got a problem,” Horn said.

      “To be honest,” Larkin said, “why I came here was to talk you into making it your problem.”

      Her case. Paula knew this one was going to be something СКАЧАТЬ