John Lutz - Night Victims

“I dunno,” Bickerstaff said dubiously, scratching his double chin. “Those marks don’t look all that recent to me.”

“But look at the tracks in the tar,” Horn said, “from where he overshot with the hook and dragged it back to catch on the vent pipe.” He pointed to long, parallel gouges in the blacktop that led to and then straddled the protruding pipe. Subway tracks, Horn thought, seeing Anne thinking deep thoughts.

“Lowering himself from the roof like that,” Paula said, “probably nobody’d notice him in the dark even if they did happen to glance up. Not if he wore dark clothes. I kind of like the theory. And I don’t see any other way he’d be able to get to this roof without risking coming and going through the lobby.”

“Let’s put off supper for a while,” Horn said, “and talk to doormen and neighbors in the adjacent buildings. See if anybody saw or heard anything suspicious the night of the murder.”

Neither Paula nor Bickerstaff objected. Paula wasn’t hungry anymore. Her heartbeat had picked up, the way it sometimes had when she went hunting long ago with her uncles, when they sensed they were closing on their prey.

Bickerstaff simply pulled a candy bar from his pocket and started peeling off the wrapper.

“Since we’re gonna eat supper late,” he said, “anybody else want one of these? It’s a high-energy sports bar.”

“Those things are about six hundred calories,” Paula said. “They’ll even put weight on your eyeballs while they petrify your arteries.”

“Maybe. But I carry them ‘cause I figure I might need energy when I least expect it.” He patted the bulging side pocket of his rumpled suitcoat. “I got chocolate peanut butter with almonds.”

Paula held out her hand.

Pattie Redmond had used her Styles and Smiles employees’ 20 percent discount to buy two of the 40-percent-off blouses, one of which-the gray one-she wore with her navy slacks, the ones that showed off her slender curves. Why not impress the hell out of Gary?

After get-acquainted drinks at the Village bar where they’d met, Gary suggested they have dinner at a Peruvian restaurant just a long walk or short cab ride from Pattie’s West Side apartment. Since Gary had never asked where she lived or even known her complete name before tonight, she knew that had to be a coincidence.

Or maybe fate.

Everything had gone wonderfully. Her hair had behaved and the summer breeze hadn’t mussed it. The conversation over drinks had been smooth. And she hadn’t drooled or spilled anything on her new blouse during dinner. Not only that, Pattie had caught Gary staring at her a few times in a way she knew and liked.

Gary Schnick was his name. He smiled and said that was why he hadn’t told her the first night they’d met; his name sounded kind of dirty or like an insult. Pattie told him she found nothing wrong with “Schnick” and he put on a puzzled look and said he’d meant “Gary.” So he had a sense of humor. That was essential in a man, especially one with the good looks that suggested he was vain, humorless, married, or gay.

By the time they took a cab to her apartment, she was satisfied he was none of those. She fought him off in the back of the cab, having to struggle exactly the right amount, keeping it all light even if serious. And he gave up at precisely the right time, letting her know he yearned for her but respected her and wasn’t some kind of rapist who couldn’t control his sexual appetite. Not Gary Schnick.

Still, Pattie didn’t invite him in. She wanted to string this out, test him a little. She felt strongly that Gary wasn’t one-night-stand material. He was a keeper.

He didn’t give her a lot of crap about not being invited in. Not any, in fact. He simply grinned, kissed her on the forehead, and said he’d call her. Then he climbed back into the cab and waved to her out of the rolled-down window as it pulled away from the curb.

Mrs. Ledbetter, the elderly widow who lived on the floor below Pattie and sometimes talked to her in the laundry room, happened to be leaving the building as Pattie arrived and saw the cab drive away.

“So who was that?” she asked. “Antonio Banderas?”

“I don’t know any Antonio Banderas,” Pattie said, playing dumb.

Mrs. Ledbetter, who knew she wasn’t dumb, grinned at her and wagged an arthritic finger. “I’m going to the grocery store to get one of those giant blueberry muffins for a late-night snack. You need anything?”

Pattie thanked her but said she didn’t, then punched in the tenants’ code and pushed open the door to the outer lobby. She used her key to unlock and open the door to the inner lobby, then crossed the stained marble floor to the elevator. For a building without a doorman, this one had good security. And where she lived, on the nineteenth floor, she didn’t have to worry about break-ins by junkies or weirdos. Safety was one of the things Pattie liked most about living here. That and the very reasonable rent.

The elevator smelled like somebody had smoked a cigar in it recently. Pattie tried to hold her breath all the way up but didn’t quite make it. The tobacco scent followed her most of the way down the hall as she strode toward her apartment door. Why on earth did people still smoke? She hoped the stench wouldn’t cling to her clothes and make her smell like an icky tobacco fiend if she wore the same slacks tomorrow.

The apartment was small but she didn’t mind. The landlord had recently refurnished it in a kind of modern style, with lots of pastel vinyl and light-colored wood, and while the colors didn’t quite match, that was okay with Pattie. At least everything was new or almost new, even if it might not be comfortable. She wasn’t mad about the stark wall hangings either, except for a big framed photograph of lightning striking far away on a dark plain. She liked that one.

She closed the door behind her and tugged at it to make sure the lock had caught. Then she keyed the dead bolt and fastened the brass chain. The lamp she’d left on had a 150-watt bulb and made the living room so glaringly bright that the blue vinyl sofa looked wet.

Pattie placed her purse on the table by the door, then kicked off her high-heeled shoes and padded into the tiny alcove kitchen. She wolfed down half of a Krispy Kreme glazed doughnut left over from breakfast, then opened the refrigerator and sipped some milk out of the carton.

She went into the bedroom, walked to the window, and switched on the air conditioner. It settled into a soft hum and started to cool the room while she washed off her makeup and brushed her teeth. She would shower in the morning, before work, she thought. Maybe get up early enough so she had time to wash her hair.

By the time Pattie left the bathroom and turned off the light in the living room, the bedroom was comfortably cool.

Her apartment was a corner unit, so the bedroom had two windows. She went to the one without the air conditioner in it and made sure it was locked. Though she was wearing only the oversized men’s Rangers shirt she slept in, she didn’t bother pulling the drapes shut. Whoever might be watching, let them look. What did she care? Give the poor lonely sickos a thrill. She was going to turn out the light soon anyway and go to bed. For a few seconds she contemplated getting her vibrator, which she kept hidden in the back of a dresser drawer. Then she decided against it. For all she knew, Gary might phone tomorrow and want to meet her for lunch, or immediately after she got off work.

She turned back the top sheet and light cover on the bed, then sat down on the edge of the mattress and switched off the lamp. In the abrupt blackness, before her eyes got used to the dark, Pattie swiveled on the mattress and lay down, adjusting her pillow beneath her head. The room wasn’t yet as cool as it was going to get, so she lay on her back on top of the thin blanket and sheet.