Chill Of Night. John Lutz

Minskoff said.

      “Gonna mention that in the post-mortem?”

      Minskoff gave him a gnarly look.

      “Shot while putting on her lipstick?” Beam asked.

      “Or surprised by whoever she must have seen in the mirror. Caused her hand to jerk, then she was shot.”

      And almost immediately, Beam thought. It appeared that Beverly Baker hadn’t had time to stand up.

      Minskoff must have known what he was thinking. “Entry wound is about where it would have been if she’d been sitting all the way down on her little tush in her little chair, so maybe she did die while applying her lipstick. Could be she was so shocked by seeing her assailant in the mirror, her body gave a little start, then she was paralyzed.”

      “As if maybe she saw somebody she trusted standing there with a gun pointed at her,” Beam said. “Somebody like hubby.”

      “Hubby’s always enticing in these kinds of cases,” Minskoff agreed. “But then there’s that letter lipsticked on the mirror. My guess is the lipstick tube won’t reveal the fingerprints of the victim—or the killer, though I’m sure the killer wrote with it. This woman died instantly, but even if she had time to leave or begin a dying message, if it meant anything incriminating, the killer would have simply made it illegible or removed it from the mirror.”

      “So Detective Minskoff is sure it was the killer who wrote on the mirror.”

      Minskoff grinned, embarrassed. “Just trying to help, not play detective. But, yes, I am sure.”

      “Always the possibility of a copycat killer.”

      “I’ll keep an eye out for hairballs,” Minskoff said.

      Beam figured it was time to stop speculating and talk to Floyd Baker.

      10

      While Nell and Looper made the rounds of neighbors and doorman, Beam sat on the living room sofa with Floyd.

      At both ends of the sofa were low tables supporting ornate brass lamps with long, cream-colored fringed shades. While the rest of the furniture was unremarkable, the lamps looked like collectors’ pieces.

      “I know it’s an awkward time to talk,” Beam said to the slumping new widower who looked about to sob, “but the sooner we know some things, the better.”

      “I want the bastard who shot her caught,” Floyd said. “I want you to give him to me.”

      “If only the law allowed.”

      Floyd gave Beam a slightly surprised look.

      “Any idea who the bastard might be?” Beam asked.

      “None whatsoever. We had the perfect marriage. I know that sounds corny, but you can ask anybody who knows—knew—either one of us. Everybody liked Bev. She was outgoing.”

      “I don’t mean to be indelicate,” Beam said, “but keep in mind these questions are standard ones that have to be asked. And answered. Is it possible your wife was seeing someone else?”

      Floyd raised his head and looked over at Beam with a combination of grief and rage. “There was none of that shit in our marriage. We were happy together.”

      “Did you spend a lot of time together?”

      “Not as much as we would’ve liked, and that was my fault. Bev was a kind of golf widow. I mean, I retired and got interested in the game. Golf’s like a drug to some people. I could cut my wrists for it now, but I spent too much time on golf courses and not enough with my wife.”

      “And you were golfing today?”

      “Yesterday and today. Spent the night in Connecticut, in a motel near the Rolling Acres course. It’s a terrific course, got these big lakes and tricky greens. You gotta watch for the water and sand on damn near every hole. Three of my golfing buddies were with me.”

      “All the time?”

      “I don’t need a damned alibi!”

      “I’m sorry, but you do.”

      “Then I have one—them. We were on the course together, had our meals together.”

      “Separate motel rooms?”

      “No. There were only three rooms available. I doubled up with Alan Jones. Glad I did now.”

      “This Jones would know if you slipped out at night?”

      “And what? Drove or took a train into the city, killed my wife, then returned to bed at the Drowsy Ace motel?”

      “Doesn’t sound likely,” Beam admitted with a smile.

      “Way I snore, anyway, ask Alan Jones and he’ll tell you I was there all night. Poor bastard probably didn’t get a straight hour’s sleep. Upset his game, too.”

      “At this point you’re not really a suspect,” Beam assured Floyd.

      “Bullshit. Husband’s always a suspect. Should be.”

      “Would be,” Beam said honestly. “But I’m sure your alibi will check out. And lucky for you, the times don’t work out. Of course, you could always have hired someone to kill your wife.” No smile with the words.

      Floyd practically levitated with indignation, then he looked almost amused, so improbable was the notion. “Not my style, or my desire.”

      Beam believed him.

      “I wouldn’t even know how to get in touch with a hit man.”

      “Or hit woman. I asked about whether your wife might be having an extramarital affair. What about you, Mr. Baker?”

      Floyd glared at him with a kind of hopeless rage. Beam, so nice for a while, had turned on him. “You’re a cop I could learn to dislike.”

      “That’d be okay, if it would help me find your wife’s killer.”

      Floyd’s features danced with his inner conflict.

      Bull’s eye, Beam thought. “Time for the curtain to drop and all secrets to be revealed,” he told Floyd.

      “Poetic.”

      “Because it rings true. This is a homicide investigation, Mr. Baker. It’s all going to be known in the end. That’s my solemn pledge to you.”

      “Pledge?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      Floyd let out a long breath. “A couple of times when we were on golf outings, there were some women. Two of them. We paid for it.”

      “Happen this time in Connecticut?”

      “No! Hasn’t happened for over a year. And none if meant anything, not to us, or to the women. Hell they were just…”

      “Prostitutes.”

      “I guess you’d have to say that. We showed our gratitude with gifts or cash.”

      Beam, during his years in the NYPD, had become something of a human polygraph. He felt sure Floyd was telling the truth. He also was sure the man had loved and trusted his wife and was genuinely grief stricken. Add what would also doubtless turn out to be a tight alibi, and Floyd was pretty much out of the picture as a suspect.

      “It appears your wife was dressing up when she was killed, putting on her lipstick, in fact.”

      “She had a responsible job. She couldn’t go to work like some of these women do these days, no makeup, stringy hair. She was in sales, for Chrissakes!”

      “Just one more question, Mr. Baker. Did your wife ever serve on a jury in New York?”

      Floyd leaned far back as if to stare at the ceiling, but his eyes were closed.

      “She