John Lutz - Chill of Night

“It’s surprising to me how that night’s coming back.” He settled down again on the white sofa, on the leg of the L, seated at a slight angle so they were facing each other. He seemed calmer now, even relaxed. Nell had to admire the drape of his gray slacks as he crossed his legs.

She said, “After you found your wife’s body…”

Selig took a sip of water. “I phoned the police, of course.”

“911?”

“No. It didn’t occur to me. But the police notified somebody, and an ambulance and paramedics arrived the same time they did.”

“When you found Iris’s body, did you notice the red letter J scrawled with lipstick on the bathroom mirror?”

“No. The police asked me about it later. I told them I knew nothing about it, but I-we-thought at the time that maybe Iris had been trying to write something to me, beginning to spell out Jack when she died. Later, they told me that wouldn’t have been possible. She’d died instantly. There were no fingerprints on the lipstick tube. The killer had either wiped them off or worn gloves. The police said he wouldn’t have bothered if he hadn’t touched the lipstick, so they figured he was the one who wrote on the mirror.”

Nell glanced around at all the opulence. “How did he get in here? I mean, you need to have the doorman use his key to get the elevator to go all the way to the penthouse. I’m assuming his key and yours are the same.”

“As was Iris’s key.”

“According to the file, the killer might have come up here with Iris.” Nell moderated her tone so Selig wouldn’t get the wrong-or the obvious-idea. Had Iris brought home a lover?

“The doorman remembers her coming up alone,” he said.

“Eddie?”

“A different doorman.” Selig chewed the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, thinking, then said, “I do remember there’d been a series of burglaries in the building that same year. Some without signs of forced entry. The police checked all the keys, everyone’s in the building. There weren’t a lot of spare keys floating around after that. I’m sure there still aren’t. It’s still a mystery as to how the killer got in here.”

“Have you changed the locks?”

“Of course.”

“You were a suspect for a while,” Nell said, not liking it but knowing she should push here.

No sign of guilt or uneasiness on Selig’s face. “I know. That’s natural, since I was the victim’s husband. But my alibi, my presence at the office, was well established.”

“They considered the possibility you might have hired someone to kill your wife, and provided him with a key.”

“It’s still a possibility,” Selig said calmly. “But I didn’t do that. I loved my wife. I wish she were still alive. I had no motive. Iris had money when I married her, and I made plenty of money in New York real estate. We had no children. Either of us could have walked away from the marriage clean. Neither of us dreamed of doing so.”

Nell believed him. Not only that, she felt sorry for him. Not very professional. Her eyes threatened to tear up, so she pretended to concentrate on the notepad in her lap until she gained control. Working girl. Not me!

“The past two years have been lonely ones,” Selig said. “I’d give every penny I have if there were some way to get Iris back.” His chest heaved beneath the neatly pressed white shirt. “Impossible, and masochistic to keep thinking about it. And of course,” he added, “I don’t think about it all the time. Two years ago isn’t yesterday.”

Nell didn’t know quite how to phrase this next question. “Is there anyone in your life now?”

“Another woman? No. There’ve been a few minor attachments, that’s all.” A shadow of sadness passed over his features, this handsome, mature man who looked as if he should be carefree on the bridge of his yacht, who for all Nell knew might very well own a yacht. “I’ve made my fortune. Fortune enough, anyway. Now I manage my investments out of my home office, take most meals alone, and travel by myself.”

Minor attachments, Nell thought. Maybe for him, but she bet not for the women. This guy was quite a catch for an older woman. In fact…

“Have I been of any help?”

Nell refocused her attention. “I’m sorry?”

“I thought you were finished with the interview. You were quiet, and you closed your notepad.”

Nell glanced down again at her lap. She had absently closed the notepad. It didn’t matter, as she hadn’t taken any notes. What Selig had told her coincided precisely with what was in the two-year-old murder file.

“I was thinking,” she said. “The doorman at the time of Iris’s death, do you know where he might be found?”

“He was struck and killed by a bus a year ago,” Selig said. “I sent flowers to his family where he was buried, somewhere in Louisiana.”

Alexandria. Nell had already known the answer to her question. Selig had answered accurately again, volunteering information, not seeming in any way guilty of anything. Seeming, in fact, to be just as he described himself-rich and lonely. That could be a dangerous combination for a man. It would be terrible if some fortune-hunting bitch glommed onto this guy.

Of course, there were women other than fortune hunters who might be interested in him. Wealthy widows who frequented the same yacht club.

Nell stood up.

“Will there be more questions later?”

“I’m sure there will be,” Nell said, though she could find no reason for more questions.

“Good,” Selig said, smiling as he ushered her back to the elevator. He watched over her as if the thing might explode before it began its descent.

“Good,” she heard him say again, as she dropped.

When Nell was gone, Selig went to his desk in the penthouse’s den that had been converted to his office. He opened a drawer and withdrew several framed photographs and laid them out on the desk.

He hadn’t looked at them in months. He’d tried, in fact, to forget they existed. But he could never have thrown them away.

For the next five minutes, in the hushed, lonely silence, he studied the photos.

It was amazing how much Nell the detective resembled the younger Iris Selig.

Tina left the car in short-term parking and went into the terminal with Martin. If it were possible, she would have accompanied him down the concourse and watched him board. She was becoming more and more uneasy about his safety and wanted him free and clear of the city as soon as possible. She needed reassurance.

Martin had forty minutes before his flight left, so he bought a Newsweek to read on the plane, and he and Tina sat and watched people stream past, some of whom would be Martin’s fellow passengers. It was slight comfort for Tina to know that none of JK’s victims had been killed on a plane. Silly, she knew, but she wondered if Martin also had considered it. Serial killers were supposedly programmed to follow certain patterns, so maybe you were safe on a plane.

“Once you’re on board, we can breath easier,” she said.

He glanced over at her and smiled. “I suppose you’re right, but I still have my doubts about running away from what might only be my imagination.”

Tina was a little irritated, especially since, as he spoke, Martin couldn’t resist eyeing a long-legged blonde with exceptionally large breasts flounce past. Machismo kicking in, now that fear had partially retreated. “That’s not how you were talking earlier.”

“This is later,” Martin said. “And I’m boarding the plane anyway, so relax.”

“I’ll relax when you’re up, up, and away.” She watched every male head along the concourse turn to observe the tall blonde. Pathetic, thought tiny Tina, then wondered if the tall blonde would be on Martin’s flight.