Chill of Night (17 page)

The piano started up again. Same tune.

 

When the detectives were gone, Gina returned to her room, where she'd been playing Castle Strike on her computer, a game wherein a futuristic Delta Force patrol invades a medieval castle and slays various armored knights with high-tech weapons. Glittering pieces of polished steel and various body parts flew in all directions from fiery explosions. It was a colorful game.

After only about fifteen minutes, she left the computer and stretched out on the bed with her eyes closed.

The detectives' visit had opened wounds never fully healed, and triggered more and darker thoughts of Bradley Aimes. He was one of the evil knights—no,
every
knight—she'd slain in the castle. As insensitive and self-involved as a vicious animal, Aimes wouldn't be suffering as she and the rest of her family were right now. Probably he wouldn't be thinking of Genelle at all, since he'd been exonerated of her murder. People like Aimes lived in castles impossible to haunt.

But he'd murdered Genelle.

Like all those people who'd responded to endless media polls, Gina was positive of his guilt. Aimes had murdered her twin. Her other self.

And hadn't paid for it.

Gina had paid and was still paying, and what a dear price it was. And Gina still hated Bradley Aimes. Not only was he the reason Genelle was dead, he was the reason for all of Gina's nightmares. Twins were not like other people. The pain of her sister's death was still a powerful force in Gina's life. What Aimes had done meant to Gina a grief that became part of a soul no longer whole, difficult sessions with an analyst, medication, and nights that presented horrible dreams of a dead Genelle who lingered like a specter in the daylight.

Gina knew a sad truth she'd heard from other unfortunate twins: when one twin dies, it's almost as if the other also dies, only without stoppage of breathing or heartbeat. Gina was left alive in the conversational sense of the word, but part of her was missing, glimpsed in agonized memory only in shadows or unexpected reflections in mirrors or shop windows.

The part of her that remained craved vengeance the way an addict craved a drug.

Her need to avenge her twin's death might have been the reason Gina read all the true crime literature she could find, and had followed the Justice Killer investigation so carefully in the news. She knew that a copycat killer was briefly suspected in the murder of one of JK's victims. The concept of a copycat killer more and more fascinated her. She'd researched such killers thoroughly, who they were, why they killed. It was surprising, in widely publicized cases, how often they killed. Surprising to most people, anyway, but not to the police.

Might a copycat killer murder the killer of her twin? Her other self? Fair and just. Double double.

There was no reason a copycat killer had to be motivated only by the unreasonable compulsions Gina read about in the crime literature she so tirelessly consumed. It wasn't as if there was a law. Injured ego, feelings of inferiority, and a powerful lust for attention didn't have to be the reasons a copycat killed.

Vengeance would do just fine.

As in most crimes of daring, an alibi would be necessary. Gina thought about Eunie Royce, her coworker and friend at the Middle World Restaurant in Tribeca, where Gina waited tables part time. Gina had lied for Eunie more than once, so Eunie wouldn't be caught cheating on her husband Ray. Gina had marked restaurant checks with Eunie's initials so she could prove to Ray she'd been working as she claimed.

If Gina asked, Eunie would forge
her
initials on some tabs, establishing Gina's presence at work at the time of…say, a murder. Eunie would never admit she'd done such a thing, mainly because she wouldn't believe for a moment that Gina had stalked and killed someone, even if the someone was Bradley Aimes. Not until it was too late and she couldn't admit to a lie without implicating herself.

If it ever came to that.

The Justice Killer was widening his qualifications for victims. Bradley Aimes would seem a logical choice. Especially if an exonerated guilty defendant like him were to be killed by the real Justice Killer.

Then a copycat killer would probably get away with claiming another JK victim. If the Justice Killer were killed rather than arrested, no one would ever know or even suspect. If the police arrested him and he stood trial, who would believe anything he said?

Gina opened her eyes and saw nothing but the swirling maelstrom of her own thoughts. Her own desires.

A copycat murdering the killer of a twin. Double double. Such an intriguing idea.

Mom and Dad would approve, though they surely wouldn't say so.

They didn't have to know. The secret would be forever held between Gina and Bradley Aimes, and Genelle.

Well, something to think about.

Gina scooted sideways on the bed, then stood up and returned to sit at her computer, where Castle Strike waited.

The battle was rejoined.

The crème brûlée was delicious.

Nell wore her good navy blue dress, pleased that it still fit so well, along with a cream-colored light jacket and navy high-heeled shoes. A string of white pearls completed the simple but—she thought with some surprise when she looked in her full-length mirror—fetching outfit.

Fetching.
A strange description. Yet a man like Jack Selig probably could convince some women to fetch for him. He looked like something off the cover of a romance novel, with his chiseled good looks, his flawless grooming, his casual beige sport jacket with just the right amount of gold flashing when he raised an arm to expose a cufflink or wristwatch. This guy was every mother's dream, but not for her daughter.

“Did I mention that you look stunningly beautiful?” he asked.

“Not that I can recall,” Nell lied, spooning in the last of her dessert. Outside the dark windows, topiary pinpointed with strings of tiny white lights looked like earthbound constellations. Inside, the light was soft and flattering, the food and service excellent. Nell could almost believe there was a world where this kind of ease and quality could be a daily occurrence.

And of course there was such a world. And Jack Selig could afford it.

“Consider yourself told for the first time tonight, then,” he said.

The waiter arrived and topped off their coffee. Selig's gaze strayed for a moment away from Nell. She needed the break. It was a relief not to be regarded as an object of worship.

“Are we going to be honest with each other?” she asked.

He looked back at her, slightly surprised. “Or course. We've taken the oath.”

Nell didn't recall any oath, but then he might have slipped it in somehow. “What were you thinking just a moment ago?” she asked.

“Of how much you resemble a younger Iris.”

Jesus!

“I hope that doesn't upset you,” he said.

“No. Well, yes…At the same time, I guess I'm flattered.”

“You see my problem,” he said.

“Yes. But I'm not sure I'm the solution.”

“Oh, I know you're not. No one is. But believe me, I enjoy being with you not only because of your resemblance to my late wife, but because of who you are.”

“But you don't know me that well.”

“Maybe better than you think. I have connections, Nell, and I confess I used them to gather some information about you. I know that you're spirited, generous, smart, and ambitious.”

And that I'm divorced and assumed by some to be a killer cop.

Nell wasn't sure just what to make of this. “That's all not very specific.”

“I'm not that interested in specifics, more in who you are. I know you've had marital problems in the past, and some scraps. Some run-ins with superior officers. I don't care.”

“Mr. Selig—”

“Jack.”

“Jack, I'm not Iris.”

“I don't expect you to be, wouldn't want you to be. Would never ask that you be.” He sipped his coffee and smiled at her. “You look confused.”

“Is it companionship you want, Jack?”

“More than that, Nell. But we pledged honesty—”

Did we?

“—and the pathetic truth is that I'll take what I can get.”

“Don't expect—”

“—I would never expect. Anything.”

Nell looked across the candle-lit table at him. “I don't think you could ever seem pathetic, Jack.”

He was obviously greatly pleased. “Ah, what you can do for me. Do I sound selfish?”

“Sure. We're all selfish.”

When they were finished with coffee, Selig paid the check, leaving an outsized tip, probably to show off.

Outside the restaurant, the evening had cooled and a breeze carried the fragrance of nearby flowerbeds. There was a bright half moon, with only a few clouds scudding across the night sky. It wasn't far to the edge of the park and the brighter lights of the city.

“I can dismiss the driver and we can walk,” Selig suggested.

“Fine,” Nell said. Though her feet might start to ache in the high heels, she was tired of sitting down.

She watched as Selig walked over and talked briefly with the driver behind the wheel of their waiting white stretch limo, paid him, no doubt with a generous tip, and returned to her. Two women entering the restaurant gave him more than a passing glance. He was trim and moved like a much younger man. Nell could believe he was interested in more than companionship.

“Sure you're not afraid strolling in the park at night?” he asked, taking her arm.

“It's not that far,” she said, as they began to walk, “and usually there's a cop nearby.”

It was too warm in the jury assembly room. Melanie thought that might be on purpose, so juries would come in sooner with their verdict. One of the jurors asked the bailiff, who was standing just outside the door, to kick up the air conditioning. He smiled and complied. It made no difference.

Light spilled in through grilled windows that didn't allow for much of a view. Heat seemed to rise from the humidity-damp wood table and chairs, along with a subtle scent of furniture polish and painful deliberations past. No one on the jury thought this was going to be brief.

Melanie was the foreperson, primarily because no one else wanted the job.

The eleven other jurors stared at her for guidance. Each had a legal-size pad in front of them on the table, on which to make notes, but after only a preliminary discussion, Melanie suggested they take an anonymous vote and find out where everyone stood. So pieces were torn from the top sheets of legal pads and used simply to write “guilty” or “not guilty” on, then folded and passed to Melanie.

She unfolded and tallied them on what was left of her top yellow sheet. Three abstentions. Two not guilties. Seven for conviction.

“I'm a ‘not guilty,'” she said.

“What's your reasoning?” asked Juror Number Three, a greengrocer from the Bronx named Delahey. With his rimless glasses, refined air, and conservative suit, he looked more like a college professor than anyone in the room.

His question was a good one, because Melanie simply
knew
that Richard Simms—Cold Cat—wasn't a killer. “The time element,” she said. “If Simms was seen outside Knee High's apartment around the time Knee High said he was there, he wouldn't have had time to cross town on foot, or even by cab or subway, to his own apartment and murder his wife.”

“Barely time enough,” said Juror Number One, Mimi, a dance instructor who looked like, and in fact was, an aging ballerina and was always dressed in black.

“And for time to be a factor in the defendant's favor,” said Number Eight, a portly, sweaty gentleman who was a financial analyst, “we would have to believe Merv Clark. And, frankly, I didn't find him credible. Nor did I find his wife credible when she testified as to what a sterling husband he was.”

“She almost made you think her broken teeth were her fault,” said the ballerina.

“Clark might be a wife beater, but he was slightly more credible than Knee High,” said Number Two, a freelance writer named Wilma King who lived in the Village. “Why should anyone believe anything said by someone who's legally changed his name to Knee High?”

“Because he was under oath,” said Melanie.

Several of the jurors laughed. Others looked at her as if they were having second thoughts about her being foreperson.

“If you believed Clark, you don't have to believe Knee High,” Melanie pointed out to Wilma.

“I know. And I believed Clark's testimony.”

“There's also the fact that Edie Piaf was shot,” Melanie said, “and Simms didn't have any powder burns on his hands.”

“He could have worn gloves, like the prosecution said.” Delahey the greengrocer added.

“Knee High and Clark were both lying,” Mimi said. “This seems to me like a slam dunk.”

“I thought you were a dancer, not a basketball player,” said a gray-haired man at the far end of the table. Number Twelve, Walter Smithers. No one laughed. A few of the jurors groaned.

“My preliminary vote was guilty,” said Delahey, “but I'm not firm on it. I'm willing to listen to reason.”

“I'm firm on my not guilty vote,” said Number Four, an African American man named Harvey, who worked as a super in a midtown apartment building.

“Naturally,” said Smithers, from the other end of the table.

“No, not
naturally,”
Harvey said. “It's just that I've got plenty of reasonable doubt.”

“Of course you do.” Smithers was pushing it.

“I guess you don't,” Harvey said.

“Not a particle.”

“
Naturally
not. You probably thought Simms was guilty the moment you walked into court and saw him.”

“Or heard his music,” Mimi said with a laugh.

“Stuff you're too old to dance to,” Harvey said.

Mimi merely smiled. “I was only joking. If we don't joke now and then, we'll go mad in this stifling little room that smells like Lemon Pledge.”

Melanie hadn't counted on this. She took a quick count. Six of the jurors were Caucasian, one Asian, one Hispanic, and three African American. “I don't believe race enters into this,” she said. “We all need to agree on that.”

One of the other black jurors, a middle-aged nurse named Pam, looked dubious and said, “You ain't noticed we're trying a black rap artist?”

“Doesn't matter,” said Wilma. “The law's color blind.”

“He might as well be a Martian,” Mimi said.

“See what I'm sayin'?” Harvey said. “How many Martians been acquitted in New York courts?”

“I think you understand my meaning,” Mimi said imperiously.

“You some kinda diva?” Harvey asked, obviously pleased to have gotten under Mimi's skin.

“What we want to make sure we do,” said Wilma, “is not let the Justice Killer murders influence our judgment. If we really think we should acquit Richard Simms, we must do it.”

“Maybe you don't think the Justice Killer's guilty,” Pam said.

“I think he deserves all his constitutional rights and a fair trial even if he enjoys cutting people's throats.”

“Nicely put,” Smithers said. “What kind of writer are you?”

“Right now I'm doing book reviews.”

“We're getting off point,” Melanie said. “We're here to discuss a man's guilt or innocence. Race has nothing to do with it.”

“Amen,” said a lanky blond man with shoulder-length hair. Juror Number Two, Harold Evans. He was about forty, with narrow blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a long, pinched looking nose.

“You a preacher?” asked Harvey.

“Comedian.”

“You shittin' me?”

“Nope. I play the clubs, had an HBO special. Stage name's Happy Evans. Hap, offstage.”

“So say somethin' funny, Hap offstage.”

“That's not bad, Harvey. But comedians aren't necessarily funny offstage.”

“Robin Williams is.”

“He's got a point,” Pam said.

“Billy Crystal!” said Delahey. “I bet you could wake up that man at midnight and he'd tell you a joke.”

“I thought your name was Hap,” said Number Ten, a tax accountant named Hector Gomez. “So make us happy so we don't notice the Lemon Pledge.”

Everyone was staring at Hap.

Melanie was afraid she was losing control. She was supposed to be setting the agenda here, and her jurors were turning on each other. Her throat was dry.

Hap shrugged. “A guy goes into an apartment and shoots his wife.” He grinned. “That's it, folks.”

The Asian woman, Number Six, Marie Kim, held her nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Not funny,” Delahey said.

Hap shrugged again. “Then here's the punch line: he didn't do it.”

No one said anything.

“I abstained, but I'm a firm not guilty man,” Hap said. “I figure the more people I acquit, the better my chances if I ever get in trouble.”

“That one I liked,” Delahey said.

Melanie smiled, counting her allies. She'd need them if she was going to save Richard Simms from people like Walter Smithers.

 

Manfred Byrd told the woman from Detroit that what she needed was a patterned sofa that contained all the colors of the room.

The woman, whose name was Marge Caldwell, looked angry and waved her flabby arms about. She'd confided to Byrd that she'd been on a severe diet and had lost over fifty pounds. Byrd thought fifty more might be in order. “I paid a fortune to move all this stuff here from Michigan,” she said. “I was hoping you could tell me how to arrange it, not advise me to sell it.”

“Keep all the stuff, dear. Only not the sofa. It's Early American. Nothing else is.”
Except for you, dear.
“It's a solid drab brown. Everything else you have is solid colored like the sofa. The room is static. You need something,
one
thing, that is busy, busy, busy.”

Marge looked around. The expensive Third Avenue apartment was a puzzle to her, as was how to spend her money. She didn't mind that Manfred Byrd was one of the most expensive interior decorators in the city, anymore than she minded the exorbitant rent she was going to pay. Marge, while in the middle of her divorce from a Detroit Dodge dealer, had won the state lottery and managed to come away with all the money. The Dodge dealer was angry and had run out of appeals. She didn't want the Dodge dealer to find her. She wanted to start a new life in a new city she could lose herself in. What better place than New York? And if the Dodge dealer did locate her, the doorman wouldn't let the bastard in the building. Manfred Byrd loved clients like this. She would put complete trust in him.

He knew how to dress for this sort of client, too. Clothes made the man, and sometimes made the deal. He was still young, only forty-two and a half, and he exercised regularly to keep his slender body youthful. His suits were tailored and he favored silk in blacks and grays. His regular features were the sort that would always be boyish—he'd heard that said about him more than once. And it showed that he used a variety of skin conditioners. His hair was buzz cut and he sported no facial hair other than a tiny dark beard on the very tip of his chin. He wore one conservative diamond stud earring, and a silver bracelet. Byrd was intentionally obviously gay, but not too gay for a straight woman from Michigan.

“I suppose you're right,” Marge said.

“Of course I'm right, dear. I'd better be. You're paying me to be right.” Byrd laughed. “I'm right all the time.” He touched her flabby arm and smiled. “Sometimes I get so sick of myself.”

Marge smiled along with him. “We lived in the suburbs in Detroit. This is so different. I'm not used to being so high.”

“I won't get into your personal life, dear.”

Marge laughed and waved a ring-laden hand. “I meant high above the street.”

“I know, and it's good that you chose this place. High above the street is safer, even in a good part of town like this. You
are
an attractive woman alone.”

Marge wasn't buying into that one, but she seemed to consider what he'd said about being safer on a high floor. “Is New York really that dangerous?”

“Not after you learn to take a few precautions. And not for someone from Detroit.”

“The suburbs,” she reminded him.

“Uh-huh. Where John Wayne Gacy murdered and buried all those boys.”

“That was Chicago.”

“Ah, you're right! Well, Chicago!”

“I get your point, though. New York's no more dangerous than anyplace else.”

Huh?
“Exactly, dear. Well, Mayberry perhaps.”

Marge pressed a finger to her dimpled chin and looked around, a thinking pose to let him know she was weighing his advice. “Pattern…”

“Pattern, dear. Fewer solids and unbroken surfaces, less blah. More busy, busy.” He raised a cautioning forefinger. “But not too much. Only the sofa. And with a throw in an accent color.”

“Yes, I do think I see what you mean. I wouldn't have realized it myself.”

Byrd sent an offhand wave the way of the drab sofa. “I'll make arrangements for you to have
that
removed, then you and I will go shopping for a divine divan. It will be fun.”

Marge put on another smile, waging the ongoing battle to push away her past and fit into her new life. “It
will
be,” she agreed. “There's no reason for it
not
to be.”

“What I like about you, dear,” Byrd said, “is you got the spirit!”

As he left the apartment, he was already planning their shopping expedition, a series of specialty furniture stores that wouldn't have what they needed, then Niki's Nook on Second Avenue, where there was plenty of pattern and he received twenty percent of markup for furniture sold to his clients. Furniture was such fun merchandise. Even after Marge's special discount, Byrd's finder's fee would be considerable.

Down on the sidewalk, he was waiting while the doorman tried to hail a cab, when he glanced across the street and saw the same man—he was sure it was the same one—he'd noticed twice during the last few days watching him in the Village. He was wearing a blue or black T-shirt with an eagle on its chest, dark sunglasses, tight Levi's tucked into black boots. Going for the Harley Davidson look, not so noticeable in the Village, but here on this block of Third Avenue, he stood out the way Marge's old sofa would. Though his eyes were concealed behind the dark lenses, Byrd was certain the man was staring directly at him. He could
feel
it.

The Dodge dealer? Had the Dodge dealer found Marge? Byrd had been spending a great deal of time in her apartment; might the man think he was Marge's new lover, moving in on her money that her ex-husband believed should be half his?

Me and Marge? Hah!

But everybody loved somebody, if they were lucky, and Marge
had
been the Dodge dealer's wife.

Or maybe the Dodge dealer's interested in me!

Am I insane? Maybe it isn't even the same man.

“Heads up, sir!”

Brakes
eeped
and tires scraped on concrete. Byrd had to leap back from where he'd wandered off the curb while lost in thought. The vehicle's right front fender had barely missed him.

His heart hammering, Byrd tipped the doorman and hurriedly got into the cab and blurted out his destination. He was determined to get hold of his imagination. His analyst had cautioned him about flights of paranoia that could lead to panic attacks.