Chill of Night (33 page)

“This isn't the usual thing,” Beam said, when Knee High approached him for their meeting in Grand Central Station.

The little man had phoned Beam personally and requested that they speak, and had chosen the place. The shuffling of hundreds of soles and heels was a constant echoing whisper, as if there were secrets in the stone and marble vastness.

“Knee High be short,” Knee High said. He moved over toward a wall where they'd be more or less separated from the throngs of train passengers and tourists. “This the most public place in New York, lotsa people all the time. Hard for anyone to follow Knee High, 'cause he get in amongst the masses and everybody be taller, shield him from prying eyes.”

“That makes sense,” Beam said. “But what I meant is, it's unusual that a murder suspect who's out of jail would phone a police detective so they can meet someplace and he can complain about being free.”

Knee High looked astounded. “Free? You call this free? Knee High got cops comin' out his ass, mornin' till night.”

“All night, too,” Beam said. “That's because they've been assigned to protect you.”

“Protect Knee High, shit. What they're hanging around for is a shot at the Justice Killer. You think Knee High don't know how you guys set up Knee High? Knee High ain't no fool. Weren't born yesterday, nor at night, neither.”

Beam wished Knee High weren't one of those people who habitually referred to themselves in the third person. It gave the impression there might be another Knee High here.

“You
want
that Justice Killer mother come after Knee High,” said Knee High. “You tell Knee High that ain't the truth.”

Beam felt no pity. “Whatever position you're in, you put yourself there,” he said.

“
Po
-sition? Knee High's
po
-sition is bent over, tha's what.”

“Why did you want to talk to me about it?”

“Knee High wanna be arrested. Then he want you to tell the media in this town, so the Justice mother know and won't be tryin' to shoot Knee High.”

“I can't arrest you,” Beam said. “The law doesn't work that way. You could sue me.”

“Knee High don't sue people. Way the law works, it's s'pose to protect the citizens. Knee High a citizen.”

“Edie Piaf was a citizen until you killed her.”

“So why don't you arrest Knee High?” He held his hands out, wrists together, as if waiting to be cuffed. “C'mon, do your job an' put Knee High back where that Justice mother can't get to him.”

“I can't do that unless there's a warrant out for you. You'll need to speak to a judge.”

“Yeah. Knee High do that next time we be lunchin' at Four Seasons. Uh-huh. You see that?”

“See what?”

“That big guy in camouflage fatigues, carryin' an automatic rifle.”

Beam peered across the teeming marble vastness to where Knee High was pointing. “He's in the military,” Beam said, “part of Homeland Security. They're stationed throughout Grand Central.”

“How you know what he is? What Knee High see's a man with a machine gun, might wanna shoot Knee High dead. You know tha's what he
ain't?
Anybody can go rent hisself a soldier suit, get hold of a gun, go walkin' 'round Grand Central, blast the damn eyeballs outta Knee High 'fore you can stop him.”

Beam knew Knee High had a point, but he wasn't about to concede it. “I think Knee High's got a case of the nerves.”

Knee High extended a stubby little leg and kicked the marble wall. Had to hurt his toes. “
Nerves?
Those cops you say s'pose to be protectin' Knee High—you know what their code name be for Knee High?”

“No.”

“They call Knee High ‘the cheese,' what they say to each other. Damn cop code.”

“That wasn't my idea,” Beam said, thinking da Vinci must have mentioned the cheese-in-rattrap analogy when assigning NYPD personnel to their tasks.

“Whoever's idea it be, Knee High don't like it even a little. What he wants is for you to use your considerable
in
-fluence and get Knee High back safe behind walls.”

“Well, I guess that makes a certain kind of sense.”

Knee High gave Beam a suspicious look. The cheese, Beam thought, wasn't very smart.

“And you'd like the media informed, so the Justice Killer will know you won't be available for…justice,” Beam said.

“That be good. Knee High don't like bein' on that Justice mother's mind.”

“Okay. I think I can get it done.”

Knee High backed up a step. “Say what?”

“I'll see to it you get your wish: jail, and an informed news media.”
Though not necessarily in that order.

“Minute ago you be sayin' it was impossible.”

Beam shrugged. “Things change.”

Knee High was obviously amazed. What he'd considered a futile, desperate effort was about to bear fruit. “You shittin' Knee High?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Knee High be safe then.” His relief was obvious.

“Knee High be safe then,” Beam confirmed.

But not until then.

 

Nell awoke to Terry kissing her bare breasts. She smiled and pulled him to her, cradling his head with both arms, and felt his tongue explore her right nipple.

They were in Nell's bedroom, after late-night drinks, then a midnight tumble in her bed.

It was certainly bright in the bedroom. She noticed the clock—almost eight thirty—and was alarmed for a moment about being late for work. Then she relaxed, remembering the team had agreed to sleep in this morning after working late last night. Except for Beam, who had an early meeting at Grand Central with Knee High.

This might work out well.

“I happen to have some spare time this morning,” she told Terry.

He answered unintelligibly, then kissed her left nipple, the hollow between her breasts, her stomach, lower.

And raised his head, then sat up.

“Something?” Nell asked.

“Yeah. 'Fraid I've got an early appointment. He smiled down at her. “Not that I wouldn't rather stay here for a while. It's been over eight hours since we've had sex.”

“I don't like that to happen,” Nell said, and gripped his arm to try pulling him back down on her.

Easily breaking her grasp, Terry stood up. “I really do have to run. There's a restaurant over on Amsterdam that needs its fridge looked at before things go bad.”

“I called you for days before you came over here to repair the air conditioner,” Nell said. “Now you're mine for a while.”

“More than awhile,” Terry said. “But this morning I've gotta hurry, really. I promised. And you know me and promises.”

“Do I ever.”

She watched the athletic litheness of his muscular body as he moved toward the bathroom to shower. Nell loved to watch Terry walk. There was something catlike about him, as if he were unconsciously luxuriating in simple motion.

He was in the shower less than five minutes, then quickly dressed in short-sleeved shirt, Levi's, and jogging shoes.

“Gotta go by my place and pick up my tools,” he said, then walked over to the bed, kissed her, and was gone, leaving behind his smile, a scent of soap, and a few drops of water from his wet hair on her pillow.

Here, then gone.

Men.

Nell lay in bed and closed her eyes, listening to the tick of the rotating ceiling fan. She moved her fingertips lightly over her nipples, then across her bare stomach. With a sigh, she rolled onto her side and found herself staring at the phone.

Alone in the silence, alone in her desire, she decided without really thinking about it to call Jack Selig.

He'd be glad to talk with her even if she woke him from a sound sleep. Jack would be up for phone sex, if she suggested it to him. Nell knew that despite his dominating personality, she could dominate him with his love for her. The thought was an aphrodisiac.

But what she got was Selig's machine, telling her to leave a message and he'd get back to her as soon as he returned home.

Nell didn't feel like leaving a message. Not now.

She replaced the receiver and fell back on the bed.

The hell with both of them, she thought, then set the alarm to sound in half an hour and went back to sleep.

“Cops everywhere,” Knee High muttered to himself.

He was out on his balcony, thirty-five stories above the street, and could barely make out the blue uniformed figures; might not have noticed them at all, except by now he knew where to look. He knew there were also plainclothes cops down there, and undercovers in the building. Asshole detective Beam wasn't kidding when he said the law would be where Knee High was, but Knee High knew they were more interested in capturing who shot Knee High than in protecting Knee High.

He wished the wheels of bureaucracy would turn faster and he could be safe in jail. Damn paper pushers took forever to do everything.

His skin began to crawl. He didn't like being out on the balcony more than a few seconds, but he had to come out now and then so he could actually
see some
of his protectors—so-called, anyway—and know for a fact they were on duty. There was no denying the Justice mother psycho was coming after Knee High, and Knee High had a better chance of survival with the cops than without.

Justice mother might be sighting in on Knee High right now with a rifle, so Knee High hurried back inside and pulled the sliding glass door shut, then closed the drape.

Maybe he oughta call Beam, see if he could use his pull to hurry things along. Clerks and various ass kissers, even judges, take it seriously when a bad mother like Beam puts the eye on 'em and makes a suggestion.

But he'd already called Beam several times, and Beam either gave him a line of bullshit or didn't call back. Seemed nobody gave a shit about Knee High.

The apartment was cool and shaded by thick drapes, sparsely furnished except for black box speakers larger than most of the furniture. Alongside the door was the only wall hanging, a five-by-five blow up of Cold Cat, photographed from behind, performing at a jammed concert, people on their feet, yelling, Knee High down in the right-hand corner, waving his arms and urging them on. Knee High couldn't look at the poster without getting pissed at Edie Piaf.

Part of a kitchen was visible through a pass-through, white cabinets, refrigerator, a corner of a stove. On the pass-through's shelf sat several white foam takeout containers and some empty beer cans. Similar containers were stacked on a low coffee table with more empty cans. There were more containers and cans on the floor. Knee High hadn't left the apartment for days, and had all his food delivered from the Great Wall Restaurant over in the next block. Egg foo yung, usually beef, sometimes chicken or pork for variety, made up almost all of Knee High's diet. Sometimes he wished he had some cold or room-temperature pizza for breakfast, but for lunch or dinner he never chose it over egg foo yung. Knee High considered ordering a pizza this evening to go along with his regular order and not eating it, just putting it up someplace so he could have it cold tomorrow morning.

He looked at his watch, a TAG Heuer given to him a few years ago by Cold Cat. Food should be here soon. He'd phoned the order in twenty minutes ago. The restaurant always used the same delivery guy, Hispanic dude with tattoos all over him. The cops would recognize him and not get excited. Delivery guy didn't like all the cops around at first, maybe thinking they'd ask for his green card or something. But it wasn't him the cops were interested in, so by now he'd relaxed and enjoyed the fact that Knee High tipped tall.

“Notice the cops on your way up here?” Knee High would always ask him.

“Was nothing but,” the guy would always answer with a smile. It made Knee High feel better, knowing his new friends in blue were present in such numbers.

Delivery guy would hand over the takeout, and Knee High would give him three ten-dollar bills even though the check was always for eighteen dollars. Guy would always tell him
gracias
and give him a big smile. Knee High would smile back, just for the human contact. He was a people person, had always loved being around people.

In anticipation, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and got out three tens, slipped them folded over in his shirt pocket so he'd be ready for the delivery guy. Returned wallet to pocket.

His heart was hammering and he stood still, breathing deeply. This was getting to him, knowing the Justice mother was out there wanting to kill him. True, he had security, NYPD style, but security could only go so far. That Dudman guy, he'd had professional bodyguards, and Justice still got to him, shot him dead as John Lennon.

Dead as Cold Cat.

That whole thing was Edie's fault. Nobody should ever trust that kind of bitch. Knee High knew now, when it was too late, that he'd made a horrible mistake. But
damn!
she was fine-looking that day she'd come to him and lifted her blouse, gave him a wide smile, and asked if he'd help her with the clasp on her brassiere. When she'd turned around, he saw her brassiere was fastened and told her so. She said she wanted him to help her
un
fasten it, then leaned back against him and kind of rubbed herself against him, rotating that tight little rump.

That had been it for Knee High.
Whew!
Woman like that…

The intercom buzzed, jolting Knee High out of his thoughts.

He went over and pressed the button, asked who was downstairs.

“Great Wall,” came the answer. Not the doorman, or the cop who was pretending to be the doorman, but a familiar voice. Hispanic guy.

Knee High buzzed him into the building.

In less than half a minute there was a knock on the door. Egg foo yung on his mind, Knee High absently reached into his pocket for the three tens as he worked the dead bolt then jingle-jangled the chain lock with his free hand and opened the door.

“You fast tonight,” he said.

And was shot between his widening eyes.