Chill of Night (30 page)

St. Louis, Christmas, 2001

Time had healed nothing.

A brisk wind whipped across the cemetery, shaking the leafless trees and causing a lone crow to flap sideways into the gray sky and veer toward the shelter of the mausoleum that stood like a small Greek temple on the hill. The gusting wind drove particles of sleet that stung the eyes and anywhere skin was exposed.

Justice was wearing jeans, thick leather boots, a sweatshirt, fur-lined gloves, and a green parka with the hood up, but he was still cold. He bowed his head, staring at the dates on the modest tombstones.
Seventeen years since Will died. Thirteen since April died.

The pain was unabated.

There had been no escape from it. The doctors hadn't helped, the pretending to be other people hadn't helped, the fierce dedication to his perishable work, the drinking, the medication, the soul-searching, the loss of soul, it all seemed to feed rather than subdue the monster in the basement of his mind. He could restrain the monster no longer.

He'd become obsessed with those who killed, who placed no value on human life other than on their own destructive lives. Over the years he'd seen too many of them go free, or serve brief sentences only to return to the streets to murder again. Killers like the one who murdered Will. Killers who, in their own evil and indirect way, also killed people like April.

April herself. It had taken time, but finally they'd killed her, even if her death had been by her own hand.

There must be a reckoning.

Always one to plan carefully, he knew that if harm came to his son's killer, or to anyone connected with his acquittal, he, Justice, would be the prime suspect. So he'd decided to exact his revenge by executing those who were involved in the acquittals of other violent criminals who were obviously guilty—starting with the forepersons of the juries that set them free. It was the system that had failed and continued to fail, that bore responsibility, that would be the target of his revenge.

There would be nothing to connect him to those cases or to those victims. And there would be a wide pool of potential victims, making it impossible for the police to protect them all. He would be performing a public service. And because of him, April's death, and the death of their son, would mean something in the chaos that he now knew life to be.

There would be meaning and purpose to the rest of his own life.

Justice and balance and purpose.

He had access to a gun, and to a silencer, and he'd obtained both. What he needed now,
all
he needed now, was April's understanding, her approval.

The wind kicked up again, moaning through the columns of the mausoleum and driving the distant crow back up into the roiling gray sky. Justice was unmoving, his feet spread wide, his head bowed, staring steadily at his wife's tombstone.

And from the grave she gave him her blessing.

New York, the present

Not right…Not right…

Cold Cat sat hunched over the control panel, toying with the equalizer, raising the volume of the second track. He was in his home studio on the Upper East Side. Self-contained in a corner of the vast living room, it was a small room with sound baffles all around to appease complaining neighbors. The apartment was violently furnished, with Chinese red carpet, thick green drapes that puddled on the floor, orange leather chairs, and a fifteen-foot leopard-skin sofa. The walls were festooned with gold-framed oils of nude women in various lewd positions. Such bad taste had to be deliberate. Cold Cat called it In-Your-Face decorating, and had threatened to open a chain of shops. When Edie had been alive, she didn't like to spend time here.

Cold Cat had both tracks going now. He leaned toward the microphone and jumped in on the one beat:

 

I be on the hunt.

Gonna waste that cunt.

She say no, no more.

I say hit the floor.

 

Something still wasn't right. He rewound and sat back, removing his earphones. Needed something
tight
.

He licked his lips. Composing was hard work, and he'd been at it more than two hours. What he needed was a beer. Something. He'd made it a rule: no liquid in the studio. There was too much sensitive electronic crap in there to run the risk of something spilling and shorting the shit out of it.

He looked through the thick, soundproof glass to where his bodyguard Lenny was sitting in an orange easy chair, reading some tit-and-ass magazine or other. Lenny had an opened Miller can on the table beside him. Cold Cat regarded his bodyguard. Fat Lenny. He oughta be told not to put on any more weight. It wasn't like he was all muscle, the way he'd been when Cold Cat hired him. Lenny looked like he could walk through a wall then. Now he looked like the wall.

Cold Cat contemplated leaving the studio for a few minutes to finish whatever beer was left in Lenny's Miller can. Show the potato brain who was boss.

But the beer can had given Cold Cat an idea.
Taste.

Yeah, that'd work better. He put his ear phones back on and edged his chair up closer to the control panel.

Lenny must have sensed he was being stared at. He looked up from the magazine and glanced toward the studio's thick rectangular window.

But Cold Cat was already hard at work.

He ran the tape again, this time jumping in over the last lyric line:

I say taste the floor.

Much better.

The phone must have been ringing. He saw through the thick window that Lenny had put down his magazine and was standing near the desk, the receiver pressed to his fat head.

He hung up the phone, looking like something had scared him shitless, the whites showing all around his dark eyes. Then he marched right over and yanked open the studio door.

“What the shit you doin'?” Cold Cat said, peeling off the earphones. “Can't you see I'm workin'?”

“Building's on fire, Cold.” Lenny was puffing with excitement, making his cheeks flutter. “Fire down in the garage.”

“Parking garage is concrete,” Cold Cat said. “Whole goddamn building is. There's a fire way down in the garage, fire department'll put it out. I hope whoever called you wasn't dumb-ass enough not to call the fire department first.”

But even as Cold Cat finished talking, he could hear sirens below in the street. Some of them had to be right outside.

“Cold, listen—”

“You listen, Lenny. The brave firemen and women are on top of the situation. Fire's way below us, don't matter a bit 'less they tell us to evacuate. Which they ain't gonna do, because the garage is concrete and concrete don't burn. Meantime, shut the damned door so I can get back to work.”

“You don't understand, Cold.” Lenny was bobbing, waving his arms. “The super called here 'cause it's
my
car that's on fire! My brand new BMW!”

Cold Cat shrugged. “Ain't brand new, Lenny. Last year's model.”

“I love that car, Cold!”

“So go to it. Help 'em put out the fire. Just don't bother me 'less we get the order to go. Fire's forty stories down in a concrete garage. BMW probably got some kinda self-fire-extinguishing feature, anyway.”

Lenny looked thoughtful. “Maybe it does, Cold.”

Cold Cat shook his head. “So get your ass down there and see to it. What I'd be doin' if it was my car. Fire Department's here, so are the police. I can spare you for a while, so go tend to your wheels.”

“Thanks, Cold. I mean, really!”

“Shut the door,” Cold Cat said, and settled down again behind the microphone and sound controls.

Lenny complied, and Cold Cat was sealed in and soundproofed again. Cold Cat was pleased to note that even the piercing sirens below were completely inaudible once the padded studio door was closed.

He didn't bother watching Lenny sprint from the apartment and almost yank the door off its hinges opening and closing it. Cold Cat was unconcerned. He didn't see how a fire could spread in the concrete parking garage; no way it could get to the upper floors. And all the civil servants in uniform were down there with hoses and axes and whatever the hell else they used to put out car fires. Can openers, maybe.

A lyric in that?

No. Let it go. Not easy to rhyme “opener.”

Hey, wait a minute—“open-her.”

He put his earphones back on and skillfully worked the control board again. Maybe he could add a line:

I say taste the floor.

Gonna open her.

No, no…

Gonna open whore.

Yeah! Gettin' it on!

It was glorious when the creative juices were flowing.

Now if he could get the blend down, raise the volume on “whore.” Uh-
huh!
This one was going to work. He could
feel
it.

He manipulated the control board and ran though the number again, then played it back, all the tracks.

Needed more drum, be okay. Better'n okay.

In the isolation of his soundproof room, with his earphones on, his head bowed, and concentrating so intensely, Cold Cat didn't notice the figure, armed with a handgun and bulky sound suppressor, enter the apartment beyond the studio's window.

His first and only view of the intruder was when he glanced up an instant before the first bullet shattered the thick glass, and the second slammed through his right eye and into his brain.

 

When Lenny returned to tell Cold Cat the fire had totaled the BMW and had been deliberately set, he immediately saw the damaged studio window and stood still in the center of the living room.

Holy shit!

The glass in the window had gone milky. There were two jagged holes in it, close together, spiderwebbed. He was pretty sure what had made them.

“Cold? Cold? You in there?”

Foolish to call. The studio door was closed. Lenny rushed over and yanked at the door, but it was locked. He hadn't locked it when he'd run out to get to the basement garage. But it locked automatically sometimes. Or maybe Cold had locked it.

He knew he'd better force the door open, but he shouldn't touch anything other than his cell phone, and use it to call the police.

Other hand, Cold might be in there bleeding to death.

Lenny went to the ruined window and peered in through one of what he was certain now were bullet holes.

Cold was slumped over the control panel, his head turned to the side. He was looking back at Lenny with an empty eye socket. Lying flat in the center of his back was a red letter
J
cut from some kind of cloth.

Lenny reeled backward.

Justice Killer!

He found himself sitting on top of his magazine in the orange easy chair. It was difficult for him to breathe. He was squeezing the chair's arms hard enough to leave permanent indentations. This was badder'n bad.

Bodyguard career's all over. Nobody gonna hire me now.

In a dark dream, he fumbled with his cell phone and called the police.

It didn't take them long to get there.

They were right downstairs.

Beam stood next to da Vinci as they watched Richard Simms's body being removed, Cold Cat leaving his expensive, tastelessly furnished Manhattan apartment for the last time. The paramedics tending the gurney craned their necks, taking a final, lasting look around, as they guided their burden through the door. They knew they'd never see anything like this again.

“Dizzy modern,” one of them said.

“Martha Stewart's nightmare,” said the other.

“We've been had,” da Vinci said.

Beam couldn't disagree, so he said nothing.

Nell was sitting over on the leopard-skin sofa, running Lenny the bodyguard through his story again. Beam knew it would be essentially the same as the first time. Lenny was telling the truth, just not adding that there would have been more police nearby, outside and in the building, if they hadn't been redeployed to protect Melanie Taylor. Everyone had assumed she would be the Justice Killer's next target.

Looper entered the crowded apartment, sidestepped some busy crime scene unit techs, and made his way over to where Beam and da Vinci stood. He'd been talking to neighbors and double-checking what the doorman had told the uniforms who'd been first to arrive on the scene.

“Nobody saw or heard anything unusual,” Looper said. “The doorman noticed no one suspicious entering or leaving the building either before or after Cold Cat's death.”

“The usual professional, clean job,” Beam said.

“And the public'll be delighted this piece of shit was flushed away.”

“He was shot from outside his recording room,” da Vinci said. “So if the killer didn't use a sound suppressor, folks in the next unit might have heard.”

“He used one,” Looper said. “Nobody heard a thing. And the medical examiner says it looks like a .32 slug did the work.”

“We'll know soon enough if it's a match with the other slugs fired by the Justice Killer,” Beam said.

“Do you really have any doubt?” da Vinci asked.

“No.” Beam looked at Looper. “You check out the parking garage, Loop?”

“Yes, sir.” Very formal in front of da Vinci. “Tenants drive in and out with a plastic card they insert in a machine that raises and lowers a gate. Code's changed once a month.”

“The kind of gate somebody can walk around?” Beam asked.

“No, a genuine gate. All fancy iron or steel. Like a see-through overhead door.”

Beam looked thoughtful. Somebody had sure as hell gotten into the parking garage. “They set the bodyguard's BMW on fire, took the elevator up, and shot Cold Cat.”

“You make it sound simpler than it must have been,” da Vinci said. “This had to be carefully planned.” He looked at Looper. “Did anyone in the building notice somebody slip into the parking garage when they drove in or out?”

“We've checked just about everyone who has an entry card. Nobody saw anyone on foot coming or going as they used the gate.”

“We've diverted a lot of human assets to protect the Taylor woman,” da Vinci said, “but this building was still pretty much crawling with cops. You'd think at least one of them would have noticed something worth mentioning.”

“Two, sir,” Beam said.

“What's that?”

“There were only two undercovers in the building at the time of the shooting. Two more outside.”

“Okay,” da Vinci said, “not exactly crawling. Our killer still ran a hell of a risk, getting in here and taking down Cold Cat. How'd he even know the apartment door would be unlocked?”

“It wasn't unlocked. Latches automatically when it closes. He either picked the lock or slipped it. Wouldn't have been much of a problem, since it wasn't dead bolted or chained from the inside, after the bodyguard shagged ass outta here to try to save his car.”

“Any doubt the car was deliberately set on fire?”

“Arson investigator says there's no doubt about it. Somebody shoved some rags under it and put a match or lighter to them.”

“Then waited for all the action that would eliminate the bodyguard and serve as a distraction, so he could make his way upstairs and do his thing.”

“Why'd he risk the car fire business?” Looper asked. “Why didn't he just shoot the bodyguard, then go on in and take out Cold Cat?”

“He has ethics,” da Vinci said. “Morals. He doesn't want to harm innocent people.”

“He's a goddamn psycho,” Looper said.

Da Vinci looked as if he might want to argue, then seemed to relax. “I'm only going by what Helen the profiler says. This is a basically moral man.”

“For a nut case.”

“For a nut case,” da Vinci agreed. He looked over at Beam. “Too bad you didn't get a better look at this sicko when you were chasing him the other night. If it was really him.”

“It was,” Beam said.

“Then one thing we learned,” da Vinci said, “is he can run like a striped ape.”

Beam wandered over and looked into the recording room through the open padded door. There was blood on the control panel, the chair, the floor. While the rest of the apartment was extravagantly decorated, the recording room looked high tech and all business. Cold Cat, with his backup, could spend a few hours in here and make a million dollars. Beam thought it was amazing.

He saw that Nell was finished with Lenny the bodyguard. She was slipping her notepad into her purse, coming over to join him. Behind her, Lenny was sitting with his bowed head in his hands, staring through spread fingers at the floor.

“Some bodyguard,” Nell said.

“Probably not very experienced,” Beam told her. “Cold Cat must've seen all the bulk and figured Lenny was a tough guy.”

“Tough he might be. Smart he's not.”

“A man who loved his car too much.”

“There you go,” Nell said.

“Aw,
damn!
”

Everyone looked to see who'd spoken.

They saw an African American man about five feet tall who would have looked even more diminutive if it weren't for his built-up boots. He was wearing an electric blue suit that was tailored tight at the waist and had exaggerated shoulders. His drastically upcombed hairdo was probably supposed to make him appear taller but simply made it look as if his head were exploding. He'd ignored the yellow crime scene tape across the door and plowed on in.

“Aw, damn!” he said again, grinding the heel of his hand into his right temple. “Damn, damn, damn!”

“Who the hell are you?” da Vinci asked.

The little man looked astounded that da Vinci would ask. “I be Knee High.”

“To what?” Looper asked.

“That's my name, man!”

“We want your
real
name,” da Vinci insisted.

“That be it! I had it legally changed. You all can check, you wanna take this farther. I'm—I was—Cold Cat's right hand.”

Beam saw that Lenny had his head up and was staring glumly at the little man.

“You know this guy?” Beam asked.

Lenny waited a while before answering, as if still numbed by shock and grief. “He's Knee High. He hangs around Cold Cat all the time.”

“Hung around,” Looper corrected.

Lenny buried his face in his hands again.

“Okay, Knee High,” da Vinci said. “What is it you want?”

“Knee High wants to confess.”

“Everyone, even the remaining techs, stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

“This all Knee High's fault,” Knee High said. Then he began wailing again. “Damn, damn, damn!”

“You're saying you killed Cold Cat?” Beam asked.

Knee High's eyes widened and he wore his astounded look again. “Cold Cat? Naw, Knee High loved that man. But this still all Knee High's fault. Knee High killed Edie.”

It took Beam a few seconds to realize what the little man was saying, and not just because he was one of those people who referred to himself in the third person. “Edie Piaf? Cold Cat's wife?”

“She weren't no kinda decent wife,” Knee High said. “Knee High did just what the jury said Cold Cat didn't have no time to do, left my apartment a minute after him and got a cab 'cross town, killed Edie, then ran most of the way back. Couldn't get no cab. Didn't matter then, anyways, 'cause Edie was dead. Knee High never thought you guys'd nail Cold Cat for it. Then, when you did, it figured he'd get off, him bein' innocent. Knee High was gonna say something if he didn't. That Merv Clark gave testimony got him off. Me, Clark, we both lied our asses off on the stand. Clark was our insurance. Cold Cat was gonna get some green to him. Don't know if he ever did.” Knee High looked from da Vinci to Beam with anguished eyes. “One thing's sure, though. Knee High killed Edie cause she an' Knee High were gettin' it on behind Cold Cat's back. We was at each other for a while. She was gonna tell Cold. Imagine that cunt! It ain't that Knee High was scared of Cold if he found out, but it woulda killed Cold. Cold, he loved that bitch, but she took no notice of him 'cept he could help her career. Knee High had to kill her so she wouldn't talk and ruin ever'thing.” He began to cry. “Ever'thing ruined now anyways. It all Knee High's fault.”

There was a roar from the other side of the room that startled everyone, and the huge form of Lenny came rocketing at Knee High.

Looper and Beam intercepted him but could only slow him down. Looper had him around the waist. Beam caught an elbow in the stomach and sank to the floor. He could only hang on to one of Lenny's ankles. Da Vinci jumped in and wrapped an arm around Lenny's bull neck.

Lenny wouldn't be deterred. Dragging the three men, he continued to move toward the cornered, terrified Knee High. Nell hurled herself on the slowly moving pile of humanity but was brushed aside. She rushed to the door and summoned one of the uniforms on duty in the hall.

He was a man almost as large as Lenny, and he had a weighted baton, which he brought down over and over on Lenny's head. Hard wood bouncing off Lenny's skull made a hollow, thumping sound, as if a melon were being struck.

It seemed to dawn on Lenny only gradually that he was being clubbed. He finally slowed and stopped his forward motion, but he didn't go down, merely slouched. The uniform from the hall kept pounding him, as if angry at Lenny's lack of reaction.

Beam reached out a hand and caught the uniform's wrist. “Okay, okay, he's gonna cooperate.”

The uniform nodded and moved away, still gripping the baton in his right hand, tapping it in the palm of his left. His chest was heaving and his adrenaline was pumping. He still saw Lenny as unfinished business.

Lenny stood with his head bowed, seeming to have suffered nothing other than a change of attitude.

Looper and Nell led him back to the sofa, where he sat morosely and gave no indication that he knew his head was beginning to bleed.

Knee High was still squatting in the corner, back on his heels, trembling. “You shoulda let him kill Knee High! You shoulda!”

“We can leave you two alone,” da Vinci offered.

Lenny shook his head violently from side to side. “No, no! I jus' wanna do what I gots to do. Thas' all what's left for me. I jus' wanna—”

“We know,” da Vinci said. He trudged over and sat down hard in an orange armchair. Beam was already sitting in the matching chair. Looper was standing bent over with his hands on his knees. The uniform was leaning back against a wall. Down from his adrenaline high, he'd stopped tapping his baton in the palm of his hand.

Nell read Knee High his rights. She was the only one in the room not out of breath.