Chill Of Night. John Lutz

murder?”

      “I just talked to Looper. Looks like Floyd Baker’s in the clear. He was out on the links when his wife was killed.”

      “Links?”

      “You don’t golf?”

      “Never.”

      “Floyd was playing golf in Connecticut at the time of his wife’s murder, shot an eagle out of a sand trap, has witnesses.”

      Da Vinci was unmoved. “Ballistics says it was a steel-jacketed thirty-two caliber slug that killed Beverly Baker. It matches the others. Same gun that killed the previous victims.”

      “Killer doesn’t seem to care that we’re making a match,” Beam said. He braked to a stop for a traffic jam as they neared the bridge. “I mean, he’s careful enough he recovers his shell casings, and wears gloves so he doesn’t leave prints, but using the same gun and knowing we can match it doesn’t seem to concern him.”

      “Maybe he’s only got one gun,” da Vinci said.

      “Could be that simple.” Traffic was moving again, but barely; Beam’s foot came off the brake and the long-hooded Lincoln crept forward like a dark, chrome-festooned predator. “But a guy like this, you’d think he’d know where to get his hands on more than one gun.”

      “He doesn’t worry about getting caught,” da Vinci said.

      “None of them think they’ll get caught. At least not until they’re ready. They’re all smarter than we are. I think he wants to be sure we match the murders, just in case one of the letter Js blows away or isn’t noticed. The steel-jacketed slugs penetrate flesh and bone better and don’t get too misshapen, so the lab can pick up marks on them and ID the gun. The bullets are part of his signature. He wants to be sure he gets the notch when each of his victims dies.”

      “Not just for us, though,” da Vinci said. “The media’s starting to heat up on this, just as I feared. They’re zeroing in on the anti-Semitism angle.”

      “They’re wrong,” Beam said, and told da Vinci about Nell’s theory, along with the fact that Beverly Baker once served as a jury foreperson.

      “Impressive,” da Vinci said. “You buy it?”

      “Hard not to. The media’ll like this angle, too.”

      “You bet they will. That’s just what the asshole wants, I’m sure. You know how they are, in it for the notoriety, even if their name’s not in the papers.”

      “Not in the papers at first, anyway,” Beam said.

      Traffic was moving rapidly now. He had to concentrate to steer one-handed while talking on the phone. Breaking the law. Well, not technically, since he was the law. “I think we oughta let everything hang out,” Beam said. “Hold a press conference. Give the media what we know. The NYPD leaks anyway. You might as well get credit for being up front with the press, get them on our side. And the publicity might shake something loose.”

      “I was thinking we could hold back on the matching bullets, give them another red letter J to chew on.”

      “They’ll find out about the bullets anyway, if they don’t already know. And they’re dead certain to stumble across the jury foreperson tie-in.”

      “You’re right.” Da Vinci obviously didn’t like admitting it. “You’re also beginning to break up.”

      “Nell and I are in my car, approaching the bridge; that’s probably screwing up the signal. You want me with you for the press conference?”

      “I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, too.”

      The connection was broken. Beam flipped the phone closed and slid it back in his pocket so he could drive with both hands on the wheel.

      “Pressure getting to da Vinci?” Nell asked.

      “He’s still got his sense of humor,” Beam said. “So called.”

      12

      Lenny Rodman’s address belonged to a seriously rundown brick and stone building on Kloss Avenue in Brooklyn. The block was made up of almost identical buildings.

      Cloning gone bad, Nell thought.

      Except for a few that showed signs of being rehabbed, the buildings shared the same state of hopelessness. Small patches of grassless dirt on each side of the concrete stoops harbored only a hardy weed here and there, as well as rusted tricycles, empty soda bottles, and beer cans.

      Beam parked the Lincoln two buildings down from Lenny’s, placed the NYPD placard where it was visible on the dashboard, and hoped for the best. Under the casual scrutiny of half a dozen or so people sitting out on the stoops, he and Nell walked down the jaggedly sectioned, uneven sidewalk to Lenny’s building.

      There was a dirt-splattered red and yellow plastic car for a kid about five in the front yard, next to a leafless tree about three feet high that was surrounded by a low wire fence and supported by three pieces of twine wrapped round the spindly trunk and staked in a triangle. Nell stepped on an already shattered glass crack vial and thought the tree had about as much chance as a child born into this world on this block of Kloss Avenue. She knew that parts of Brooklyn were quite beautiful, desirable, and getting more expensive by the minute. This wasn’t one of them.

      No one sat on the steps of this stoop. And no one was in the small vestibule that reeked of stale urine. There were more crushed crack vials on the stained tile floor.

      A faded card slipped into the slot above one of the mailboxes confirmed that Lenny was in 2D. There was an intercom that probably didn’t work. Didn’t matter to Beam or Nell, anyway, as they quickly climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor, located apartment 2D, and stood on either side of the door.

      Beam rapped on the age-checkered door with his knuckles.

      He and Nell were both surprised when a voice promptly said, “Who is it?”

      Beam told himself to be careful. “Police. We’d like to talk to you, Mr. Rodman.”

      “Sure. Be right there.” Rodman’s voice exuded cheer and cooperation.

      Beam knew what that meant. He motioned for Nell to go back downstairs and check around back. Rodman might at that moment be descending the fire escape, if there was one.

      Nell ran down the stairs and outside, then headed for one of the narrow passageways that separated the buildings. It seemed there were more people on the sidewalks now or sitting outside their buildings, watching expectantly, as if there might be some entertainment in the offing.

      Something’s up, she thought, rounding the corner of the building.

      Something—

      The man running full tilt down the passageway slammed into her, but it was a glancing blow and he barely slowed down. She caught the reek of cheap cologne, a whiff of foul breath, and a lot of pain as the impact spun her and her shoulder bounced hard off a brick wall.

      Reeling like a drunk, she almost fell, then managed to fix her gaze on a running man in tight, faded jeans and a black T-shirt. He was picking up speed, swinging his long arms wide. Not a trained runner, but he could outdistance her, Nell was sure.

      Still disoriented, she tried to yell halt. Tried to yell police. But she couldn’t find her breath as she staggered after the man.

      Fumbling, she drew her weapon from its belt holster.

      Warning shot?

      What the hell was procedure?

      She couldn’t get her mind to work. Couldn’t get her legs to work.

      Tires screamed on concrete. At the corner she saw a small van skid past at an angle and bang over a mailbox. In the shadow beneath the van was a darker shadow shaped like a person tumbling, tumbling, arms and legs flailing in limited, crushing