Darker Than Night (9 page)

“Whatever makes him sick,” Renz said. “That's for you to find out. Get in this motherfucker's mind, Quinn.”

“Before Egan does,” Quinn said.

“That's our game. How are Pearl and Fedderman working out?”

“They're both good ones. Fedderman's got bloodhound in him. Pearl's a terrier.”

“Just so they remember Egan wants to send them both to the pound.”

“It's always in their thoughts,” Quinn assured Renz.

“I was gonna call you,” Renz said, “seeing as cooperation runs both ways. We got a trace on that silencer used in the Elzner case, the Metzger eight hundred Sound Suppressor. In the past five years, one hundred thirty of that model was sold through two outlets: a biannual newsletter called ‘Handgun Nation,' and a magazine,
Mercenary Today.
”

“And you traced all hundred thirty?”

“It turned out to be easier than we thought. A militia group in Southwest Missouri bought a hundred of them, and they were all accounted for when the government shut down their operation two years ago and confiscated their weapons. The other thirty, we've tracked. They're all accounted for but one. It was bought mail order four years ago from
Mercenary Today
by a guy named Ed Smyth—that's with a
Y
—in Tacoma, Washington. He says he sold it at a gun show a year later to a bearded man in a pickup truck. No sales record because it wasn't a gun, just gun paraphernalia.”

Quinn didn't bother asking about the bearded man in the pickup. “What else do we know about Smyth with a
Y?
”

“That he bought a Russian revolver on that same date. He says he's a collector, and he lists his age as seventy-nine.”

“Not our guy.”

“Not unless he's the oldest psychosexual serial killer on record. And Tacoma police think he's telling the truth about the silencer. They know him because he's a gun nut, and they say he's honest.”

“So we need to track the bearded guy in a pickup who bought the silencer. That should be easy.”

“It should be,” Renz said, his tone suggesting he'd been waiting for Quinn's sarcasm. “Smyth is a straight shooter in more ways than one. He etched his Social Security number in the silencer. Now we have it, and it's being sent out to various pawnshops and gun dealers. If the beard sold it, we'll nail him.”

But Quinn knew he wouldn't be the killer. Whoever they were tracking was too smart to use anything as a weapon that might be traced to him. And there was something else. “Renz—”

“Harley.”

“Harley, you've traced silencers sold within the last five years, but what if the silencer was bought before that? There might be hundreds or thousands of them out there you don't know about.”

“It wasn't marketed in this country until five years ago.” Renz, ready for him again. Quinn could almost see his smirk. Irritating.

“Why didn't you tell me that earlier?”

“Wanted to see if you'd think of it. If you've retained your old sharpness. I've seen cops get old fast, once they retire. And I gotta tell you, Quinn, it took you a while.”

“Just keep me informed on the silencer,” Quinn said, and pressed the button to disconnect.

He thought he heard Renz laughing as the phone went dead. Quinn almost hoped the silencer they were after had been smuggled in from another country.

 

Egan sat in his office feeling that everything was pretty much under control. He'd figured double murder faster than anyone predicted, with Nift's help. Renz thought Nift was his man, but Nift was Nift's man only and was hedging his bet on who'd be the next chief. The arrogant little ME called and told Egan right away that the knife found in the husband's hand wasn't the murder weapon. The blades were close, but they didn't quite match the wounds.

The papers and TV had the story the next morning. Egan had seen to it. The New York media became frenetic and inflamed over few things more than a serial killer. Since both couples had been killed around three
A.M
., and the female victims had been of obvious erotic interest to the killer, the media dubbed him the Night Prowler.

Egan liked it. Leave it to the New York press. Now New Yorkers had a killer they knew by name—nickname, anyway. A killer they could visualize and hate and fear. A star in a city that fed on stars.

He leaned back in his desk chair and grinned at the way things were going. A nocturnal serial killer! Just what was needed to increase the pressure on Renz, Quinn, and that pocket-size bitch Pearl. Fedderman he saw as no problem.

Egan felt confident. This was the kind of fight he never lost.

 

The Night Prowler.

Okay, why not? He rather liked it.

“The Night Prowler” set his quarter-folded
Times
aside on the wrought iron table and smiled. He was having a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and a croissant at a West Side restaurant that had tables set up on the sidewalk outside. Someone driving past in the line of traffic was for some reason envious or offended by the smile and raised a middle finger at him, but he didn't mind. His thoughts were elsewhere, in a very special place the driver would never visit in his paltry, miserable life.

His gaze fell again on the folded newspaper.

The Night Prowler.

Yes, he approved!

And he knew himself well enough to realize that soon the Night Prowler would have to satisfy his special needs. The buzzing would begin again, softly at first, the cacophony and energy of discordant colors. He knew who the next one should be, but she was unmarried and lived alone. And she was apparently without a lover.

Not his type, as the incredibly inept police profilers would say.

Then why does she call to me so in the night?

He should make sure about her. Definitely he should make sure.

His waiter came by and the Night Prowler pointed to the half-eaten croissant on his plate.

“I believe I'll have another. They're delicious.”

Why does she call to me so…?

It had rained lightly but persistently the morning of Raoul Caruso's funeral, but by the time many of the mourners and family arrived at Anna's father's modest frame house in Queens, the sun was shining. Food—ravioli, salad, and chocolate-chip cookies—had been prepared there by a neighbor who'd been a good friend of Anna's father.

Anna looked at the woman, a dark-eyed, onetime beautiful widow in her fifties who'd put on weight but was still attractive. She wondered if her father and his neighbor had had an affair. The woman, whose name was Lilitta, had certainly been deeply distressed at the funeral.

Anna's father's employer, a swarthy man named Stick, who looked cheap and disreputable even in his expensive suit, had stood next to her at the funeral but didn't drive to the house afterward. Anna's uncle Dale, her father's brother and Melba's father, whom she'd met only half a dozen times, came to the house. He was seated on the edge of the sofa with a paper plate full of ravioli balanced on his knee and listening to a woman Anna didn't recognize, who was sitting next to him. Melba, who was fifteen and made ill by the funeral, was curled in a chair looking as if she wanted to cry and make her eyes even more red and puffy.

With eyes almost as red from crying as Melba's, Anna's mother approached Dale and whispered in his ear. Dale nodded, set his plate aside on a lamp table, and stood up. Anna watched them climb the stairs to the second floor. Lilitta, standing over by a big steel coffee urn, also saw them, and put down her foam cup and followed.

Anna hesitated, then followed Lilitta. As she took the stairs, she looked over and saw that Melba hadn't noticed them and was seated with her head bowed and her eyes clenched shut, absently picking at a zit on her chin.

At the top of the stairs Anna heard voices and went to an open door at the end of the hall.

Her father's bedroom.

The three of them were standing at the foot of the bed, talking calmly, but Lilitta seemed to be holding in anger as well as grief. Anna looked at the bed, at Lilitta, and wondered.

“It's difficult but we oughta do it,” Dale was saying. “We're family, and from what Raoul told me”—a glance at Lilitta—“almost family.”

Anna's mother saw her and waved her in.

“We're going to look through some of your father's things,” she said, “and see what he might have wanted us to take to help us remember him. You should do this, too, Anna. It's posterity.”

Anna wondered if the three of them were being sentimental, or actually looking for items of value. Either way, she couldn't stop them, so she decided to play along.

Acting tentative and guilty, as if her father might still be alive, they began opening drawers. Dale went to the closet and yanked open its door, which was warped and stuck on the wood frame. He was about the same size as his late brother and began selectively removing clothes, a shirt, two pairs of slacks, a sport jacket.

“Isn't it a little soon to be doing this?” Anna asked.

Lilitta smiled at her.

“We need to be realistic,” Anna's mother said, looking up from the dresser drawer she was rooting through and shooting a glance at Dale.

Anna understood. Her mother feared that if given the opportunity, Dale would return to the house alone and confiscate anything of value.

Dale seemed oblivious of this as he held up the sport jacket to inspect it for wear or moth damage.

Anna's mother removed a wooden box from one of the dresser drawers and placed it on the bed next to the folded slacks. She opened the box and began spreading jewelry out on the tufted white spread.

Anna could see at a glance that all of it was cheap; she recognized the steel Timex watch her father had always worn and sworn by. Lilitta picked up the watch and held it as lovingly as if it were a $20,000 Rolex.

While the other three were occupied by the jewelry on the bed, Anna went to the closet. On the top shelf were stacks of old
Newsweek
magazines, a dusty rotary-style phone, and a shoe box. Anna slid the shoe box down and opened it to find that it contained what looked like a new pair of jogging shoes. As she was returning the box to where she'd found it, she noticed an old wooden cigar box that had been behind it on the shelf.

When she reached for the cigar box, she found it surprisingly heavy. With a backward glance to make sure no one was paying attention to her, she stepped deeper into the closet and lifted the box's lid. The scent of ancient tobacco wafted up to her.

Inside were about a dozen silver dollars with a thick rubber band around them to keep them in a neat stack, and a small revolver.

Fascinated, Anna looked at the revolver, then lifted it from the box and hefted it in her right hand. It felt good, as if it belonged there. It was blue steel with a checked walnut grip, and she could see the dull brass of the cartridge cases in the cylinder and knew it was loaded.

Her father's gun.

Her gun now. Posterity.

My gun.

Possessing it gave her a sense of secret power she didn't want to lose.

Barely hesitating, she slipped the revolver beneath her blouse and tucked its cool steel bulk into her waistband. Later she could go into the bathroom downstairs and transfer it to her purse.

“Anna?”

Her mother's voice.

Anna turned, still holding the open cigar box.

“Whatcha got, honey?”

“Money,” Anna said, and held out the box.

The cheap cuff links, rings, and tie clasps on the bed were forgotten as Anna's mother took the box from her hand.

“Not much,” Dale said, obviously disappointed. “Twelve dollars.”

“Silver ones, though,” said Anna's mother. “They might be worth something to a collector.”

“Kinda thing the people who'll auction off the household items will keep for themselves. I don't wanna sound greedy, but the fair thing'd be to divide them coins three ways and forget them.”

Anna's mother looked at Lilitta.

“He means family,” Lilitta said. “Dale, you, and Anna.” She held up the Timex. “I'll keep Raoul's watch, if nobody minds.”

“No objections,” Dale said, and carried the box over to the bed.

“You take my share,” Anna said to her mother.

She watched as Dale and her mother carefully meted out the twelve silver dollars, four for Dale, eight for Anna's mother, taking them from the top of the stack in order, one by one, and making it a point not to look at the dates. Lilitta observed the process closely, her face impassive.

Everyone was involved with the money and uninterested in whatever else might have been in the cigar box.

Like the gun tucked firmly against Anna's hip.

 

Lars Svenson emerged from the Hades Portal Club in the East Village and drew a deep breath of cool night air. He was dressed in black leather from the toes up—black Doc Marten boots, tight black pants, and a studded black vest over a sleeveless black T-shirt.

He hadn't been completely satisfied inside the club, where he was a regular patron. The woman he'd attempted to pick up belonged to somebody bigger and probably meaner. That was actually okay with Lars, as he'd gotten close enough to see that the bruises on her face were dark makeup. So he hadn't scored sexually tonight, and he hadn't scored for dope. Lars still needed relief from his barely contained guilt and rage, which meant he was still looking for meth or cocaine, and for somebody to hurt.

From the time he was a teenager, Lars's relationships with women always led to violence. At first he tried to deny that was what he wanted, what he truly needed, but always the yearning was there, the compulsion only sometimes held in check. Gradually his willpower and his denial eroded, and during the past few years he accepted his need and learned how to lure his victims with feigned concern and kindness.

He soon found that it was like baiting a trap, a contest of wits his opponents had little chance of winning. He learned to enjoy it. It was like the hunting he used to do in the Minnesota woods—find the game, flush it, and make it yours. The only real difference he could see was that now he was in New York and it was women he hunted. And between hunts he enjoyed going directly to willing victims who endured pain for pay. It was like hunting birds in cages.

Just last week, even after moving furniture all day, he still felt the energy and the need, so he'd gone to a club and used his blond good looks and his pickup skills to get a young woman named Tina to invite him to her apartment.

Lars smiled, remembering Tina's trusting, round face and zaftig body, even fleshier than he'd imagined when she'd stripped off her bra and panty hose. Tina liked to play rough. Or at least she thought she did. Lars had shown her what rough was, once she was tied and gagged and his for the rest of the night.

His smile had become such a wide grin that a passing couple of guys,
faggots,
stared at him as he strode along the sidewalk. He was recalling Tina's futile struggles and muted cries for help, the terror and pain in her eyes, and then the resignation. After all, she'd gotten herself into this, said her eyes, after Lars had patiently explained it to her over and over. It wasn't difficult to get her to believe it; she came with guilt built in, part of the package.

She'd welcomed his advances in the club and even told him she enjoyed bondage and discipline, rough sex with a little pain. Verbal commands and the whip were okay, if used sparingly. B&D and S&M. She hadn't mentioned which she enjoyed more. Her oversight.

In the morning he untied Tina and asked if she wanted to go out for breakfast, but she awkwardly crept from the bed with sore and stiffened limbs and cowered in a corner, staring at him in mute disbelief.

Lars laughed, and as he got dressed, he told her what a stupid bitch she was. He didn't glance back at her when he left the apartment. He wouldn't be surprised to see her again; she might even come looking for him. They were like that, some of them, once you took them to a higher level. They needed to go higher and higher, and Lars was willing to fly them all the way to heaven so they could escape their hell. They'd beg him to, after a while. They'd plead and pledge their souls. What they wanted, they loathed, but their problem was they loved it even more. It was like a drug addiction.

Speaking of which…Lars was going to go out of his gourd if he didn't score some dope pretty soon.

He tried to think of something else as he roamed the gray morning streets, watching for possibilities.

The something else was Claire Briggs.

She was the type Lars liked, slender and helpless, fems all the way, natural submissives once they were shown the path, once they were kicked in the ass and shoved along the path. And she lived alone, some kind of actress, probably with a rich family that might come across once he taught her how to mooch.

Claire Briggs. Definitely worthwhile.

Lars spotted a guy he recognized standing outside the entrance to a diner, a gigantic black dude with dreadlocks, looked like a former NFL linebacker who'd taken up reggae. While bigger than Lars, he wasn't as solid. The soft life was making him vulnerable. He was talking to a woman with straight blond hair that hung almost to her ass. The guy's name was Handy and he dealt.

The woman said something about pancakes, then sashayed her ass inside the diner, making the long hair swish. Handy stayed outside, leaning back against the brick wall and smoking a cigarette like it was an art.

“Handy,” Lars said when he was about twenty feet away; he didn't want the dealer to miss seeing him and go inside after the woman. “Remember me, my man?”

Handy flicked away his cigarette and gave Lars a wide, gleaming smile. “I remember your money.”

“I wanna reintroduce you,” Lars said, forgetting all about Claire Briggs.

For the moment.