John Lutz - Night Victims

Neither of them said anything as they took the concrete steps to tall oak doors that had to be original to the house. Bickerstaff pressed the faintly illuminated doorbell button.

There was no sound from inside, but within a few seconds the door to the left opened and a tall man with bulky shoulders and the beginning of a stomach paunch smiled out at them. He had a nice smile that crinkled his craggy features. He was wearing pinstriped gray suit pants and a white shirt, loosened red tie, and dark blue suspenders, but Paula thought he’d look good modeling hunting outfits in an outdoorsware catalog. It was something about his rangy if slightly paunchy build, and his marksman’s pale eyes. Your manly guide for hunting moose in the north country.

“Detectives Ramboquette and Bickerstaff,” he said, and shook both their hands with his left hand. His own hands were huge and rough as a stone mason’s but clean and with closely trimmed nails.

Paula managed to smile back at him, slightly irritated that he’d unnerved her with his size and presence. He wasn’t exactly what she’d expected, and his welcome and amiability seemed genuine.

Paula and Bickerstaff followed as Horn led them into the comfortably furnished living room with overstuffed chairs and sofa, an oriental rug on hardwood flooring, a fireplace that had a brass shovel and poker set alongside it but looked as if it was never used. On the mantel was an arrangement of elegant vases and framed photos of a young blond woman holding an infant, and an older blond woman who might be her mother.

“My wife, Anne, and our daughter and grandson,” Horn said, reading Paula’s mind. He glanced at the photos and held a trace of a smile when he looked back at Paula and Bicker-staff.

“He a relative, too?” Bickerstaff asked, pointing to a framed, wall-mounted black-and-white photograph of a distinguished looking man in coat and tie.

“No, that’s a signed photograph of George Hearn. He’s a great Broadway actor people who mostly go to movies don’t know about. My wife and I are avid theatergoers.”

“I have to admit I never heard of him,” Paula said. Jesus! Insert foot in mouth.

Horn motioned for both of them to sit on the sofa. “You’re officially off duty. Either of you want something to drink? I have some good single malt or blended scotch.”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Paula said. At least you won’t think I’m a drunk.

“I’ll try the single malt,” Bickerstaff said, settling into a corner of the sofa. He was a guy about to retire with nothing to lose. “Splash of water, no ice.”

“Done,” Horn said. He went to an old-fashioned mahogany credenza and worked for a few minutes with his broad back to them. There must have been an ice bucket there; when he turned around he was holding two drink glasses with cobbled bottoms, a couple of ice cubes in one of them. The scotch without ice was a much deeper amber than the other; Paula wondered if Horn had lightened up on his drink and gone heavy on Bickerstaff’s. “To our new working relationship,” Horn said, after handing over the glass to Bickerstaff.

The two men clinked glass rims, while Paula smiled and made a toasting motion with her hand. She felt suddenly out of place in a male world, sitting there alongside Bickerstaff and watching Horn settle his rangy bulk into a green leather armchair opposite them. She was the one wearing the wrong kind of underwear here.

“This,” Bickerstaff said, “is wonderful scotch.”

“And you,” Horn said, fixing his gray-green eyes on Paula, “are Cajun.”

“You have a good ear for accents,” Paula said.

“Ah, I do,” Horn said, “but the fact is I read it in your file. I learned as much as I could about the two of you before deciding if I wanted you with me on this case. I am sure. About both of you. I want you to be sure about me.”

“I’ve heard about you,” Bickerstaff said. “I am sure.”

“I heard from Roy,” Paula said.

“You left the New Orleans Police Department because of a personality clash with a superior who had a record that didn’t stack up against yours,” Horn said to Paula. “They gave you top recommendations so they could move you along out of town, and you had somebody influential in the NYPD to act as your angel.”

“My uncle, Captain Sean Boudine,” Paula said, figuring Horn would already know that but wanting to seem open and cooperative.

“Politics out, politics in.”

“Isn’t that the way it works?” Paula said.

Horn smiled. “‘Fraid so.”

Bickerstaff sipped his scotch and said nothing, obviously intrigued by their exchange.

“Boudine’s a fine man and a good cop,” Horn said. “And because of him you managed to move into plainclothes Homicide immediately, though in truth you’re in a probation period.”

“In truth,” Paula agreed.

“And I know you want to retire at the end of the month and go ice fishing in Minnesota,” Horn said to Bickerstaff. “I was retired myself and looking forward to deep-sea fishing in the Florida Keys, landing a blue marlin. What I’m proposing is we both push that off into the future, until this case is resolved. When we do get around to catching those fish, it’ll be all the sweeter for the both of us.”

“Agreed,” Bickerstaff said, amazing Paula.

“Have you got any plans that need putting aside?” Horn asked her.

“I’m a working cop,” she said. “I plan on being one a year from now. That’s about as far ahead as I want to look.” So here I am, sitting around with a guy who wants to squat in front of a hole in the ice and another one who wants to catch a fish with a sword on its nose. Is this a wise career move?

Horn sipped his drink, then rested the glass on his knee, holding it with the middle finger and thumb of his left hand. “I’ve read the murder files on all three dead women, as I’m sure you have. I don’t think I have to ask if there’s any disagreement on whether we have a serial killer at work here.”

“You don’t,” Bickerstaff said.

Horn looked at Paula, who nodded.

“I also see by your records that neither of you ever did any rock or mountain climbing. Neither have I. But it seems a certain degree of skill had to be involved for our perp to reach those bedroom windows. That’s something that needs looking into. He’s also got some skill with a glass cutter and masking tape. Two of the windows were locked, and he silently-almost had to be silently-cut a crescent in the glass at the latch, using tape so the section removed wouldn’t fall to the outside sill or ground. And it looks like some kind of wax or oil was put on the tracks before he raised the windows so they’d move easily and without making much noise.”

“An experienced B-and-E man,” Bickerstaff suggested.

“Cat burglar,” Paula said. “They climb.”

“Don’t usually kill,” Horn said. “Our man has a rare combination of skills.”

“The autopsy reports suggest he knows anatomy and how to use a knife,” Paula said. “He kept his victims alive so they’d suffer as long as possible.”

“Medical background, you think?”

“Maybe. But the postmortems suggest he doesn’t have skills at that level. More like a butcher or simple torturer with experience.”

“A cruel bastard!” Horn said, with a vehemence that surprised Paula.

“Which brings us to kinky sex,” Bickerstaff said. “You think the victims mighta known their killer? That they mighta wanted to be wrapped in their sheets that way for some kinda S-and-M thing, then he surprised them by going too far?”

“There’s nothing in their backgrounds to suggest that,” Horn said. “So for now, we can rule it out.”

Good enough for Paula.