Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

“Have a good night, honey. You’d better take an umbrella. They’re calling for rain.”

Danny was leaning up against the Town Car when Nikki emerged from the building. He took her in with an approving look. “Boss man’s going to be one happy camper to see you. He’s been a real pain in the ass the whole week.”

Nikki found Fox in a black mood when she arrived. No surprise. He looked haggard. She handed him the sympathy card. “Maybe it’s stupid.” Fox didn’t say a word about it. He set the card on a small table in the hallway. He seemed distracted, but he tried to pretend that he was fine.

He made them martinis, and they took them out on the balcony. There was a slight rain falling. They remained under the overhang of the balcony above. From up this high-the apartment was on the twenty-sixth floor-the shadowy silhouette of Cleopatra’s Needle was just visible. Fox said nothing but stood sipping his martini, looking out across the tops of the trees toward the stone obelisk. Nikki wanted to touch him, to set her fingers on his arm, but she didn’t dare. His face was impassive, a granite frown. After nearly a minute, he spoke.

“Believe it or not, it’s not Cynthia that’s got me all cranked out. It’s my wife. It’s Rosemary.” He drained his martini. Nikki took the empty glass from his hand. Fox’s gaze stayed aimed toward the far side of the park. “I spent the afternoon with her before heading off to the studio. It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a pretty afternoon. That woman…I should give her that dog tag of yours. You’ve got no idea.”

Nikki’s hand went to her memento. “She’ll have to fight me for it. It’s mine.”

Fox’s expression loosened. “Listen. Whatever you do, don’t ever challenge Rosemary. I’m serious. You’re a sweet kid. Rosemary’d rip you to pieces.”

Nikki remained on the balcony while Fox went back in to put together another martini. She couldn’t imagine how he must feel. He’d never said anything to her before about his former producer, though she knew from some stuff she’d read somewhere that the professional relationship had ended on a kind of ugly note. That has to hurt, she thought. You work closely with someone, things end badly, and then she’s killed. No chance to patch things up. She looked out across the park again, over toward where the body of Cynthia Blair had been discovered nine days before. A shudder went through her as she imagined the woman vainly battling off her attacker. Did she see it coming? Did she have time to call for help, to let out a scream? Jesus, Nikki thought. In the middle of the night, this part of the city can get pretty quiet. She thought of Marshall lying in his bed asleep. Or no-awake. Lying awake and hearing a faint distant scream coming in on the night air. You hear that kind of thing all the time and don’t really think anything about it. City noise. You don’t think that someone you know is making the last sound they’re ever going to make or that-

“Hey.”

A splash from her drink ploinked onto her wrist. Fox stepped up behind her. Nikki turned around and looked up at him. Backlit from the living room, Fox’s face was in shadow, his eyes black and absent in their deep sockets.

“That’s a nice skirt, little girl.” There was something absent as well from his voice. His tone was low. Robotic.

Nikki tried a curtsy. “You like it?”

Fox lifted the glass from her hand and finished off the drink, then casually tossed the glass aside. It shattered on impact.

“Little girl like jewelry?”

He pulled something shiny from his pocket and held it up. Light from the apartment glinted off its surface.

Nikki took the handcuffs from him and gave him a coy smile. “Aw. You shouldn’t have.”

Minutes later, Nikki was lying on the bed, faceup, with both wrists handcuffed to the bars of the antique wire headboard. Her V-neck sweater was bunched on the floor. The dog tag rested just between her perfect breasts. Fox was pulling off his shirt.

“That skirt’s got to go, little girl. We’ve got to get that thing off you.”

He picked up something shiny from beside the alarm clock as he climbed onto the bed. A pair of scissors. When he came down on top of her, Nikki imagined the warmth of her own torso melting him. Melting them both. Like hard rubber going soft. She imagined the two of them as warm melting liquid. That was it. Nothing but liquid. Everywhere. Warm liquid all over the damn place. Crazy with liquid.

“Cut it,” she murmured into his ear, giving it a sharp bite. “Go ahead. Cut it.”

MEGAN STOOD in the drizzle at the base of the Obelisk and read the translation of the inscribed plaques.

Ramesses, Beloved-of-Amun, who came forth

from the womb in order to receive the crowns

of Ra, who created him to be sole lord the

Lord of the Two Lands…

Okay, she thought. So we’re looking for Ramesses, beloved of Amun. This’ll be a piece of cake.

The roof of the museum was visible beyond the trees. Megan’s dulled mind whirred. The rooftop garden. Mount an infrared camera. Bastard tries for number three, we nail him. She looked over at the sheet-covered body, and the bile rose in her throat. The canopy had been set up to protect the immediate crime scene from any additional rain intrusion. The scene’s likeness to a funeral was unavoidable. The body, the canopy, the world’s tallest gravestone. Megan’s new partner, Ryan Pope-a decent stand-in for the priest-was standing near the edge of the canopy, looking up at the tip of the Needle.

Megan wanted to crawl into a hole and gather the loose dirt in behind her.

A uniformed cop made his way to her. Raindrops beaded like balls of mercury on the protective plastic of his cap. “Found something you’ll want to see.”

“Show me.”

She followed the policeman down the slight slope north of the monument. A copse of cherry trees stood at the base of the slope, some twenty feet from the roadway. Another uniformed cop was crouched in an area where the branches of several trees created a low canopy.

“We found tracks,” the cop said.

“Tire tracks?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Megan gave the officer a sharp look. Old women were ma’ams. Old women and southerners. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Tell me about your tire tracks.”

He pointed toward the roadway. “They come in over the curb. Looks like they stop where my partner is.”

Megan nodded. “You mean where your partner is tromping all over the wet ground?”

“No, ma’am. John’s the one who spotted the tracks right where he’s squatting. He hasn’t moved.”

She looked at the cop again to make sure he wasn’t being a wise guy. “Tell your partner to stay where he is. I’ll send down the photographer. Make sure he gets everything.”

“If we’re lucky, we might get some footprints leading up to the body.”

“If we’re lucky, I’ll buy your partner a cigar.”

“John doesn’t smoke, ma’am.”

Megan started to respond, then changed her mind. She retraced her steps up the slope and directed the crime-scene photographer to go shoot the tracks. Pope asked her, “What’ve you got?”

“Possibility our package was delivered by car. There’s a clump of trees down there just off the road. At night you could pull in there, your car’d be fairly hidden.”

“No evidence last time of a car.”

“The last time he also didn’t have a hammer and nail ready, either. Not to mention the knife to cut open her throat.”

“He’s refining his method.”

Megan shrugged. “Using more hardware. That’s not necessarily refining.”

The ambulance had arrived to transport the body to the medical examiner’s office. Megan asked that the area beneath the canopy be cleared. At a signal from her, Ryan Pope pulled the sheet back from the victim’s face, paused, then removed it altogether. He stepped back as Megan came forward for a final look.