Ladykiller (20 page)

“Nita isn’t herself today,” Tim said.
“She isn’t?” Megan said. “I haven’t noticed.”
“That business about the detective.We can’t let them in here like

that.”
“Like what?”
Tim told her. “It was such a scene. I wouldn’t have missed it for

the world. But we can’t have them giving our clients the third degree.”
“Oh.” After she had agreed to the date with Dave, Megan had
left the crisis center for a short walk to try to reconcile her growing
attraction to Dave with her fierce loyalty to Nita. It hadn’t worked. “I
guess I was out of the building.”
“I hate to say this,” Tim said, “but that detective is one gorgeous
hunk. He really starts my engine.” Tim giggled. “And I
know
he starts
yours.”
“Excuse me,” Megan said. “I have to go to the ladies’ room.” En
route, she encountered Nita at a clerk’s desk, listening to WCBS
Newsradio.
“How are you?” Nita asked brusquely.
“Terrific.” Megan mustered a smile.
“You seem a little frazzled.”
“Well, it’s been a tough day.”
“Tell me about it,” Nita said. “You heard about the encounter we
had with Sherlock Holmes?”
Megan nodded, perhaps too vigorously.
“No chance he’s going to disrupt our therapy,” Nita said. “And to
top it off, I just got off the phone with this obnoxious reporter, who
wants an interview.Who do those people think they are, anyway?”
“Are you going to talk to him?” Megan asked.
“Certainly not. I have more important things to do than to cater
to his prurient interests. The gall of him. He says he’s heard that the
murderer is one of our clients.”
“We don’t want that in the paper,” Megan said. “What does Dr.
Solomon say?”
“I’m not going to bother Dr. Solomon with this. He has enough
on his mind.”
“What about the reporter, Nita?”
“Ignore him. He’ll get sick of this and go off to do an article
about flying saucers or whatever people want to read about these
days. I hate reporters.There ought to be laws to control them. Other
societies are better at that than ours.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Megan said. “Why don’t I cook dinner for you
tonight?”
“That would be lovely,” Nita said. “However, I have something to
do right after work.”
“That’s okay. I can wait. It would be fun.”
“As long as you’re willing.” Nita favored her with a faint smile and
headed toward her next group session.
Megan made straight for the ladies’ room. She locked herself in a
stall and leaned against the wall, hugging herself. Maybe seeing Nita
and then Dave would let her sort out the jumble in her mind.

Sweeney hauled himself to his feet and adopted an eager expression.“How can I help?”
“Detective Dillon has been to see me professionally about his
problems.With the prostitute and the pimp he killed.”
“Wow.” Sweeney’s eyes widened and he ran his big hand over his
face, as if to wash it.
“But he’s a little on edge and won’t tell me about his difficulties
right now on the police force. I want to help him, but it’s difficult. I
felt that, as a fellow officer —”
Looking delighted to be told some dirt about a detective,
Sweeney said, “Is it okay for you to talk about him to me?”
“Perfectly acceptable. I’m not going into the details of his
therapy, of course. Sometimes, however, a trained therapist needs to
reach out to others concerning treatment.”
“Well, it’s no secret that the Ladykiller task force has until Friday
to find the perp. If not, Chief Mancuso folds it.”
“Ah, that’s the pressure he’s been under.”
“Yeah. And if the task force goes, Mancuso will nail Dillon. He
may bounce him off the force.”
“Thank you, Officer Sweeney.”
Nita donned her sunglasses and head kerchief, and slipped down
to the Deuce. Even through the tinted lenses, she could make out
every face she passed in the 42nd Street glare. She had to be thorough
— as thorough as she had been disposing of Billy Ray’s body.
Passing the Foxy Lady, she saw the bloated slug of a man who she
had seen inside the bar on Sunday. He was braying come-ons to male
pedestrians.
“Our girls got the biggest hooters this side of the New York Philharmonic,” he cried. “Check it out.” He was wearing a disgusting
Hawaiian shirt.
“Excuse me, sir. Have you seen Ace lately?”
The fellow leered at her. “What’s with the shades, honey? Afraid
I’ll fall in love with your beautiful eyes?”
“I need to find Ace.”
“I seen you before, baby.You was in there yesterday.”
Nita peered into the bar’s darkness. “Where’s Ace now?”
“Heard about Billy Ray?”
Nita forced herself not to flinch. “Who?”
“Friend of Ace got stabbed and unloaded over in Jersey.”
“Really?” Nita remained composed.
The man laughed until the phelgm collected in his throat. He
spat an oyster-size wad onto the sidewalk. “Humps like Billy Ray get
iced every day.” He shrugged philosophically.
“Where’s Ace?”
“Oh, I seen the little bastard all right. Said he needed money ’cuz
he had to get out of town quick. So what does he do? He grabbed a
couple hundred from my cash register when my back was turned.
Wasn’t too long ago. I imagine he already hopped a bus.”
“Really?”The Port Authority bus terminal lay a mere block away.
She felt the lump of the .45 in her bag.
“What you want with Ace, anyway? Don’t tell me he knocked
you up.” He guffawed evilly.
“Hardly.” Nita strode along the sidewalk to the bus depot. Port
Authority was a remarkably clean palace of ramps and concessions,
despite the riffraff that slithered all around her. And then Nita saw
him.
Ace saw her, too. He swung his game leg around and hobbled
into the crowd.
Think now.Think. Nita went after him. She slid a hand in her bag
and gripped the reassuring steel cool of the gun butt. Think. She had
to get him alone, but the terminal was packed with humanity. Any
cops around? No. Think. If she shot Ace in public, people probably
would be shocked enough that she could get away before the police
showed up. Maybe.Yet she was on unfamiliar turf. What if she fled in
the wrong direction and trapped herself in some cul-de-sac corridor,
as the cops swarmed behind? Think.
With everyone up to Reuben and Billy Ray, she had had time to
plan.With Reuben and Billy Ray, she had improvised out of necessity.
And it had worked. Maybe she should trust her instincts now.
Ace’s head bobbed ahead. She was closing on him, threading
through the baggage-laden crowd. She bumped her knees on luggage
and kept gripping the .45 in her bag. Then Ace, five people ahead,
broke free and dodged to the left. Nita swiveled to follow, and a soft,
huge mountain of flesh sent her staggering against someone else’s back.
“Watch where you going, girl,” said the mountainous woman
who had bumped into Nita.
Over there. Ace had mounted an escalator crammed with people. Nita stepped onto the rising grillwork. She and Ace watched each
other, unable to move. When the escalator disgorged him at the top,
Ace disappeared.
When she reached the top, Nita turned about in a helpless circle,
trying to find him. Ah. She spotted his narrow shoulders popping
through a doorway.
Nita sprinted over to the door. On the other side was a loading
platform and a bus bearing the legend, NJ Transit. A last passenger —
a feeble old man — was climbing onto the bus. A conductor helped
him up.
Nita impatiently waited behind the old codger, craning her neck
to see past the dark glass of the bus. When at last the old man had
negotiated the bus stairs, she tried to follow.
“Excuse me, m’am,” the conductor said. “Ticket?”
“I don’t have one,” she said, striving to maintain control when she
wanted to scream at him to get out of the way. “I’ll buy one on the bus.”
“I’m sorry,” the conductor said. “This run is sold out. Next bus
leaves in an hour.”
“I’ll stand.”
“Not allowed. Sorry.” He started to get aboard the bus.
“I have to get on the damn bus,” Nita shouted at him.
The conductor paused. “If you have a problem, why don’t you
discuss the matter with them.” He gestured at two cops who lounged
against a nearby wall.
Frustrated and furious, Nita stood on the concrete platform as
the door sighed shut and the bus rumbled away.
At the rear window, Ace’s face swam. The tinted glass removed
the sallow cast of his skin. And pain showed on his bony face. He
looked like a lonely youth whose only love had left him.
If the cops weren’t there, Nita could have put a bullet right
through his maggot-filled skull. She went back into the terminal.The
sign beside the door to the loading platform said the bus was bound
for Rahway.That’s where Ace came from, she remembered. Rahway.

Nita, adrift in thought, headed for home through the darkened spring
streets. A few others flitted past, flying empty flags of faces and hair,
living their mundane lives.Think.

Face it. Not every contingency could be planned for. Nita adjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder. Perhaps she was better off
than she thought. There was no chance the cops could connect Billy
Ray to the Ladykiller series. And Ace — well, he had left town, likely
for good. His haunted expression in the bus window of thwarted love
seemed like solid insurance he would stay silent, wherever he went.
So she had time to track him down and take appropriate action.

The steps sounded behind her. Right behind her. Just a few paces
behind. Clip, clip, clip — in tandem with her gait. She speeded up.
The steps increased their pace.

Nita yanked the .45 out of her bag and whirled around.
No one.
She squinted into the shadows collected in the nearby doorways.
No one.
But someone
had
been there. She had always thought Ace was

trailing her. He was on a bus to Rahway, though.
Uneasily, she resumed walking. No steps now.
At her apartment, the answering machine flashed one message. It

was Megan: “Hi, it’s me. It’s about seven. I’ve got everything ready.
Tell me when you’re coming over. Can’t wait.” Her good humor
seemed forced.

Nita considered backing out after the day she had had. But she
smiled at the sound of Megan’s voice. She turned on the shower and
stripped off her clothes.

Nita had dressed up and put on make-up and a skirt. Megan greeted
her at the door with a nervous smile. Her small table was set romantically, with roses and a candle. Megan was dressed up herself, and her
strawberry hair shone in the candle’s moody flicker.

“Wine?” Megan offered.
“Please.This day has been hell.”
Megan nodded, “I seldom hear you complain —” She cut herself

As Megan busied herself with the cork, Nita glanced around the
small apartment. Nita noted with distaste the many stuffed animals on
this grown woman’s bed. “You appear to have even more teddy bears
than I remember.”

“Oh, this guy at the doughnut shop down the street gave me the
white one. Out of the blue, tonight when I was going past. I go in
there a lot for coffee.” As she poured the wine, Nita noticed that
Megan’s hands were trembling, and she missed the glass. Red wine
stained the tablecloth like blood.

“A lawyer. On Wall Street. He’s very nice.” Megan finished pouring and clasped the bottle to her chest.
“A lawyer,” Nita said. “That’s a higher rung than a cop on the
social scale, I grant you.” Nita drank half her glass in one swallow.
“A lawyer, eh? Of course, they’re all parasites. Feasting off human
disorder. Doing nothing to make society function smoothly, to iron
out the kinks.They create kinks. And make money doing it.”
Megan’s laughter had a strangled quality. “Uh, yes, well, uh, he
hasn’t exactly asked me out.”
“He will, he will.You’re edgy. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong.” Megan’s pleading look was painful to
witness.
“You’re seeing him again?”
“Maybe. It’s not a big deal.” Megan rubbed the neck of the wine
bottle. “I’d better check the pasta.”
She retreated into the tiny kitchen.
Over dinner, they rapidly drank the first bottle and were well
into the second as they ate their pasta. Megan rattled on about her upcoming courses at Hunter. As the wine took hold, she behaved less
nervously.
Rhythmic noises started overhead.
Nita pointed toward the ceiling with her fork. “Who are the love
birds?”
“My neighbors.They’re a sweet couple.”
The bed upstairs creaked savagely.
Megan emptied the last of the second bottle into their glasses.
“Nita, don’t you ever want . . .”
“Want what?”
The candlelight played over Megan’s awkward smile. “Want, like,
you know, a man?”
The thumping overhead speeded up.
Nita took a long drink of wine. “Whenever the term ‘man’ comes
into your head, think instead: ‘unneeded distraction.’ You’ll be a lot
better for it.”
“I guess,” Megan said, and poked at her pasta.
The noise stopped overhead. Nita and Megan ate and drank
without saying a word. Megan fetched the veal and uncorked a third
bottle.
“Delicious,” Nita said, tasting the veal. “Actually, lust is an urge
that we can control.”
“Love too?” Megan asked, feeling a little tipsy.
Nita, while buzzed, had hardly lost her head. Bergstroms, her
father had said, could drink when they had to. “Doesn’t exist. An
illusion conjured up by weak minds.”
At least Megan was too drunk to be nervous. “Nothing like a
good man, with a nice smile and a nice bod and —” She took a drink.
“Haven’t you ever wanted someone?”
Nita reached across the table, took Megan’s wineglass from her,
and held both the younger woman’s hands firmly. “Yes,” she said softly,
“I have.”

The next morning, with a boiling black mass of spring storms gathering, Jimmy Conlon ambushed Nita as she approached the crisis center.
“Looks like rain,” he said.
“Who are you?” Nita snapped, still walking.
Jimmy smiled at her, captivated by her dark beauty. “Jimmy Conlon.We spoke yesterday.”
“And I have no more to say today than I did then.” She had terrific
legs and an amazing figure. “Goodbye.”
“My sources tell me all the Ladykiller victims had a connection
to your crisis center,” Jimmy said, keeping up with her. He had out his
notepad and pen.
“Do they? How inventive.”
“And one of your, uh, psychologically challenged clientele is
probably the killer, but you won’t let the cops interview anybody.”
Nita stopped and faced him. “Who told you this?”
“I can’t say.”
“You can’t?” Nita was taller than Jimmy by half a head. “How very
convenient. Didn’t people do this in Stalin’s time? Unnamed accusers?”
“You’re denying it?” Jimmy asked politely.
“I’m not giving you the courtesy of affirmation or denial because
you don’t deserve either,” Nita said.
“It’s not a question of what I do or don’t deserve,” Jimmy said. “I
think the people of this city have a right to know what’s going on with
this case.”
“Right to know? Spare me. You wave that around and hope to
compromise the therapy of our clients. You obviously know nothing
about counseling. All you’ve done is scare the people of this city needlessly with all this baloney about a serial killer. But I suppose it sells
newspapers.”
“And you obviously know nothing about newspapers. Newspapers make their money from advertising, not newstand sales.”
“I couldn’t care the least bit how you grub for your change,” Nita
said. “You people are the scourge of society.You do no one any good.
Someone should bring you under firm control.” Nita seemed to be in
danger of losing some of her own control now.
“Talk about Stalin,” Jimmy said. “That’s what he did. And his pal
Hitler, too.”
“The only heirs to Hitler and Stalin I see around here are Detective Dillon and his scurvy crew,” Nita said. “And certainly, you reporters are their propaganda arm.”
“Lady,” Jimmy said, “the reality train just left the station and you
weren’t on it.”
“Oh, no? You used to write all the articles about this case, didn’t
you? Suddenly, I notice another name on the latest story. I bet you’ve
been bumped aside. I bet you are in trouble, like Dillon.”
Flummoxed, Jimmy’s mind blinked off. All he could manage to
say was: “What’s going on at the crisis center?”
“I have no comment.” Nita began to walk away.
“Hey, what’s that gun doing in your purse?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In your bag,” Jimmy said. “I plainly saw the butt of a pistol.Why
are you packing? I bet it’s for protection. I bet it’s because you’re
scared of your own clients.”
“Now you’re imagining things,” Nita said icily. “Have you people
no shame?”