John Lutz - Night Victims

“Stabbed.”

“You got any idea who did it?”

“We’re trying to get an idea,” Paula said. “That’s why we’re talking with you.”

Lightfinger went to the shelves of bottles on the back bar, poured himself a Jameson, and tossed it down straight as if he needed it in the worst way. Sensitive guy.

When he returned to the bar he looked pale but steadier. “Yeah, Pattie was no hooker. She just came in and had a margarita or two, listened to the music, maybe danced.” Lightfinger saw no reason to mention the woman Pattie was with the first time, Ellen something. Not unless he was asked. Why spread trouble like a germ?

Paula tried to imagine the Patricia Redmond she’d seen, alive and smiling and gyrating on the dance floor. She found it impossible.

“She sounds lonely,” Bickerstaff said in a tone that suggested he was lonely himself. Maybe he was, Paula thought with a twinge of sympathy. No wife or family to speak of, looking forward to a lonesome retirement.

“I wouldn’t know if she was lonely,” Lightfinger said. “I think she just didn’t know losers when she saw them.”

“Your customers a lot of losers?” Bickerstaff asked.

“No, but a lot of my customers are losers.”

While Bickerstaff was struggling to make the distinction, Paula said, “Can you recall if she left with anyone?”

“She might’ve.” Giving away nothing.

“Ever see her with a guy named Gary?”

Uh-oh! Gotta avoid being an accessory here. Lightfinger pretended to brighten with recollection and stood straighter behind the bar. “Yeah! Sure! Gary Schnick. I know his name because he’s always flashing business cards around. He and Pattie were drinking together last night over in that corner booth.” He motioned with a stringy, muscular arm, revealing a coiled snake tattooed on his inner right biceps. “But I can’t say I saw them walk outta here together.” Might not have seen them.

“Could they have left together without you noticing?” Bickerstaff asked.

“Sure. I’d hate to think what happens around here without me noticing.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have one of Gary’s business cards, would you?”

“Naw, I throw that kinda stuff away when I close up. But I remember he’s an accountant works out of his apartment. Freelance accountant, he calls himself. Not a bad guy, but tell you the truth he’s a pain in the ass around tax time, comes in here mostly to drum up business instead of pussy.”

“Accountants.” Bickerstaff smiled philosophically and shook his head, the way some people do when they hear the word lawyer.

“Gary ever pick up any other women in here?” Paula asked.

“Not as I can recall. But it wasn’t from lack of trying.”

“Yet attractive Pattie Redmond went for him.”

“Like I said, she wasn’t a regular. Could be she just didn’t see enough of the guy to judge him.”

“I’m sure you remember the address on his business cards,” Bickerstaff said hopefully.

“No, but maybe he’s in the book.” Lightfinger turned around and got a Manhattan phone directory from a shelf beneath the beer taps. He laid it on the bar, flopped it open, leafed through some pages, then turned it around for Paula and Bickerstaff to see. As he’d swiveled the directory on the bar, he’d kept his forefinger in the same spot. There was Gary Schnick’s address and phone number, halfway down the page.

Paula got out her notepad and copied it.

“He’s not a suspect, is he?”

“I dunno,” Bickerstaff said. “Why do you ask?”

“I can tell you Gary’d never kill anyone. I mean, I know the guy some from seeing him around here. In my job, you can just tell about people. Guy’s probably got the balls of a field mouse.”

“We won’t tell him where we got his name and address,” Paula said, figuring Lightfinger might be afraid of Gary, whatever the size of his testicles. “While I’m writing things down, what’s your real name, Lightfinger?”

Lightfinger looked confused. “Lightfinger. Ethan Light-finger. I’m from Canada.”

“Ah!” Paula said, and wrote.

“And I’m not worried you’ll tell Gary where you got his name. I’m just trying to help out by letting you know he’s not the kinda guy who’d kill somebody. For Chrissake, I told you the guy’s an accountant!”

“You think accountants never kill?” Bickerstaff asked.

“Can you name me one?”

Bickerstaff was stumped.

“What about bartenders?” Paula asked. “Can they be killers?”

“Never,” Lightfinger said. He swallowed hard. Had to ask. “Can they be suspects?”

“All the time,” Bickerstaff said.

They thanked Lightfinger for his cooperation and left. Paula tried hard not to glance back.

Horn read the name Sayles had given him: Goesling. No first name. Horn sighed. Maybe Goesling was one of those people like Sting or Bono who had only one name. But then, would he have chosen Goesling?

Whatever, Horn stood closer to the phone and punched out the number after the name. It had an unfamiliar area code.

Only two rings, then a man’s voice said hello.

“Er, Mr. Goesling?” Horn asked.

A pause. “Who is this?”

Horn explained who he was. Then: “Royce Sayles suggested I call you. You do know Royce Sayles.”

“Know of him.”

“He said you might be able to give me some information about a secret Special Forces unit. It’s a police matter, Mr. Goesling. Homicide. More human life might be at stake.”

“A secret Special Forces unit? Shouldn’t you be calling the military?”

“I thought maybe I was.”

“No.”

“But you do know what I’m talking about? A top secret elite combat unit that engages in black operations?”

Again a pause. Longer.

“Tell you what,” Goesling said, “I’ll call you back. Not right away, maybe.”

“Sure. Listen, I understand you have to be-”

But the connection was broken, the empty line droning in Horn’s ear.

Goesling had been cryptic, all right. And maybe not much help. His weren’t the loose lips that might sink ships.

Horn replaced the receiver harder than was necessary. Not military, my ass!

He hadn’t asked what Horn meant by black operations.

Horn had made the call from a public phone rather than his brownstone. Everyone had caller ID these days.

Caller ID probably would have designated that his call had come from a public phone. Yet, when Goesling told Horn he’d call him back at some point, he hadn’t asked for a number. He probably already knew Horn’s number.

This stirred the hair on the back of Horn’s neck.

Neva Taylor stood brushing her hair and staring out her apartment window. At last she had something she’d always wanted: a view of Central Park.

The apartment itself was smaller than she’d imagined for herself. Her promotion after landing the Massmann Container advertising account hadn’t come with a commensurate salary that allowed for the penthouse she was certain was her eventual destination. Neva, a tall redhead who’d been a cheerleader as well as president of the Women’s Political Forum in college, was long on ambition and knew how to attain her goals. It didn’t hurt that she had large green eyes, a film-star figure, and was stunningly attractive even without the minimal makeup she wore. Her 147 IQ didn’t hurt her chances, either. Add to that artistic talent and a marketing degree, and here she was, a rising star in one of the biggest advertising agencies in the country.

So she was only temporarily satisfied with this fortieth floor, one-bedroom co-op in the Weldon Tower, one of the most desirable addresses on the Upper East Side. She wouldn’t have been satisfied with it at all except for the Central Park view. In fact, she’d purchased it because she knew she’d have an inside track in the future when one of the penthouse apartments came on the market. She figured that in less than two years she’d be able to afford one. She already had the unit she wanted picked out. It was a spacious three-bedroom, and it had the same view as the smaller, lower unit she’d bought. Sooner or later the present owner, a man who managed a chain of exclusive jewelry stores in New York and Philadelphia, would move. And Neva was prepared to make him an irresistible offer if he wasn’t inclined to move. She’d be able to afford it. Neva planned early and with confidence.