New York, the present
The blue-eyed guy could mambo. Jane Nixon had to give him that.
He never seemed to get tired. They’d been out on the dance floor at Salsa Caliente for almost half an hour. She got to rest a bit during a merengue, but not much.
He was wearing her out, and nobody would say Jane wasn’t in shape.
She spent most of her time at Davida’s restaurant down in the Village, on her feet and moving as she waited tables. Most of her money she spent on dance lessons, and dancing here at Salsa Caliente or at Move On. Both clubs were only blocks from her apartment, easy walks. Since she’d taken up dancing six months ago, she’d lost ten pounds, and her slender body had acquired muscular definition.
But the blue-eyed guy was too much.
She stopped dancing and stepped back, breathing hard. The backs of her legs ached. She actually said, “Whew!”
“You okay?” he asked, looking her in the eye. He was on the tall side and built like a museum statue, if you could imagine a statue dressed in pleated black slacks and a bright red tight T-shirt with
Salsa
spelled out in sequins across the chest.
“Tired, is all,” Jane said, smiling.
He walked with her back to a table where he’d been sitting with half a dozen of his friends. They were all up dancing now. The blue-eyed guy raised a hand to get the attention of a waiter and ordered them both Jack Daniel’s and water. Each knew what the other drank, yet they’d never asked each other their names. They were here to dance, that was all.
“I’m all in,” Jane said, after downing half her drink. “Time to go home and collapse.”
He smiled at her. “We could collapse together.”
“All I know about you,” Jane said, “is you’re a terrific dancer.”
“That isn’t enough?”
She laughed. “Maybe someday.” She glanced at her watch.
“I’m Martin,” he said, pronouncing it Mar
teen
. He raked his fingers through his sweat-damp blond hair.
Jane laughed harder. “You sure look Latin.”
“Gerhardt Martin,” he said.
“Yeah, so am I.”
She patted the back of his sweaty hand and stood up to leave.
“Gonna be dancing tomorrow night?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe that’ll be the someday. You know?”
She grinned. “See you, Gerhardt.”
“See you right back, Gerhardt.” He raised his glass to her as she walked away along the edge of the dance floor.
She’d checked her purse when she’d come in. After claiming it and glancing through it pretending to look for a tissue, but actually making sure nothing was missing, she went out into the lingering heat.
The streets were almost deserted, but she didn’t have far to go. There was just about enough strength left in her legs to make it up the steps to her third-floor walk-up apartment.
She’d keyed the dead bolt and opened the door when she sensed movement behind her. There was no time to react. A hand shoved her between her shoulder blades and she went stumbling into the dimly lit apartment.
Jane had been raised in a tough area of Detroit and was no pushover. She didn’t lose her head, and in an instant she was adrenaline fueled. Jane the dancer became Jane the fighter.
She heard the snick of the dead bolt. He was locking them in, not rushing, assuming she’d be disoriented and paralyzed with terror. Jane had been replacing her key in her purse when she was shoved. Her hand stayed in her purse as she stumbled across the room and fell.
She turned and he was coming for her, as she knew he would. A dark silhouette in the shadowy living room. There was something in his hand, a short, curved, and sharply pointed knife.
Christ!
She’d read the papers, watched the news, and she knew who this must be.
And for a split second she
was
paralyzed with terror.
The blue-eyed guy? Gerhardt?
No. Too small. And he didn’t move like Mr. Blue Eyes.
She wished now she’d accepted the blue-eyed guy’s suggestion that he come home with her.
As the dark form with the knife advanced on her, Jane made herself wait, made herself be still. Her hand that held the small aerosol canister of mace in her purse was perspiring. She slid the button forward to take the device off safety, and waited, waited…. The training she’d taken had made it clear that for this to work, her attacker had to be close. She hunched her shoulders, turned half away from him, as if cowering and helpless.
When he was almost close enough to slash with the knife, she whirled and rose with a strength that surprised even her and extended her right hand that was gripping the mace canister.
Work! Please work!
The canister was only about a foot away from his face when she depressed the top button and a strong spray of pungent liquid struck him square in the eyes.
Surprise! You sick bastard!
He gave a strangled growl and flailed with his arm, striking her hard in the wrist and causing the hissing mace canister to go flying. She felt an immediate burning sensation in her eyes and when she tried to breathe, her nose and throat contracted and tears came. She knew she’d inhaled some of the mace when he knocked the canister away.
She could still see enough to find the bedroom door. She ran for it, got inside the bedroom, and slammed and locked the door with the knob latch. That should keep him away for about five seconds.
There was a lot of noise from the living room, and something—sounded like a lamp—fell to the floor.
The door to the hall opened and slammed. Footsteps like crazy descended the wooden stairs. Not rhythmically, but as if he was bouncing off the walls and banister.
He’s not coming after me! Thank God!
Coughing and gagging, Jane crawled to the phone by the bed and yanked it by the cord down to the floor where she could reach it. That was when she noticed blood on her skirt. Her left forearm, which she must have unconsciously used to block the knife, was bleeding.
She saw immediately that the blood was coming from a small nick, a minor injury that probably wouldn’t even require stitches. Looking at it, imagining what might have happened, sickened her. She sat leaning with her back against the wall, gasping for oxygen, and placed the phone in her lap.
Squinting to focus tear-blurred eyes, she tried to punch out 911 but kept getting it wrong.
The Skinner’s eyes were still watering. He remained seated on a park bench, where he’d been for almost two hours.
Fortunately he had his sunglasses with him. Unless someone noticed the tear tracks on his cheeks, he wouldn’t draw much attention. He was simply another New Yorker basking in a beautiful morning.
Last night had become a horror. How he’d even gotten to the park was a marvel of luck and ingenuity. Since the pepper spray or mace, or whatever it was, had struck him squarely in the eyes, he could barely see, and there was no way he could stop his eyes from watering.
At first he
could
still see, at least slightly, but once he was outside the building, he soon became blinded by the intensity of his tears. They were like acid.
He’d moved fast initially, bumping into things. He had to get as far away as possible from the screaming that was sure to follow.
And Jane Nixon did find her way outside and screamed. She screamed over and over. But by then he was almost a block away and barely heard. The lucky punch he’d gotten in before running must have dazed her for a while. Good luck to go with the bad.
Though he didn’t remember actually working out the idea in his mind, he’d almost immediately dug the sunglasses from his pocket and pretended to be blind—legally blind. Why else would someone be wearing dark glasses on a New York street at two in the morning?
He’d managed to wave and attract the attention of a compassionate cabby, who pulled his taxi to the curb and talked him into the backseat step by step, like an air controller instructing a novice pilot how to land.
The Skinner put on a smile and thanked him, then gave him an intersection by Central Park as a destination.
After a few blocks, the cabby said, “How’d you come to be out wandering by yourself…I mean, not being able to see and all?”
“I’ve been blind since I was ten years old,” the Skinner said, “but my eyes are the only parts of me that don’t work well. Believe it or not, my girlfriend threw me out of her apartment.”
“In the middle of the night? Morning? Whatever? Hell of a thing to do to someone sight impaired.”
“It was mostly my fault. I picked a bad time to confess that once, in a moment of weakness, I made love to her … I’m almost ashamed to say this.”
“Go ahead,” the cabbie said. “I’ve heard everything. Taxis are like confessionals.”
“I had sex with her mother.”
The cabbie shook his head and laughed. “Pardon me. I know it ain’t funny. But I can see how it could happen. I mean, my mother-in-law had a body made me wish my wife took after her and not her father. Why the hell did you tell her?”
“Conscience,” said the Skinner. “I’ve always been plagued by my conscience. Don’t make the same mistake. You can see where it gets you.”
“Not to worry about me,” the cabbie said. They drove in silence for a while. “I gotta ask …”
“The mother,” the Skinner said.
The cabbie laughed again. “Makes sense. More experience.” He made a left turn and headed toward the park. “I guess you won’t make that mistake again, huh?”
“Neither mistake,” the Skinner said, easing over to where the cabbie couldn’t see him in the rearview mirror. He raised his tinted glasses and dabbed at his watering eyes with his shirtsleeve.
If he could make it into the park and stay out of sight, hide in the bushes or woods for a while, he should be able to wait until whatever Jane Nixon had sprayed in his eyes had worn off, at least to the point where he could see clearly and his eyes weren’t so itchy and watery. It wouldn’t hurt for it to be daylight out, either.
When the cab came to a stop and the cabbie called out the fare, the Skinner handed him what he thought was a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
“You sure?” the cabbie asked.
“Sure,” said the Skinner, and opened the cab door on what he figured was the sidewalk side.
“You want some help?” the cabbie asked.
“No. I’ll just lean on that wall a little while and I’ll be fine. This is my neighborhood, so it’s familiar to me. I’ll be able to figure out enough to make my way on my own.”
“You positive?”
“Positive,” the Skinner confirmed. “I don’t want to seem stubborn, but I like to think I’m not completely helpless.”
“Okay. I can understand that. Good luck to you, friend.”
The Skinner waited until he heard the cab drive away; then he made his way not toward one of the apartment buildings behind him, but toward the park. Through his tears he could see oncoming headlights. They were some distance up the street, so he knew he’d be able to cross safely enough.
As for Central Park at night, that could be dangerous.
The Skinner had to smile.
Fedderman didn’t feel like getting out of bed and going to work. Mostly, he didn’t feel like leaving Penny. He looked over at her across the white plain of his pillow. It felt so natural waking up next to her, smelling her perfume, feeling the warmth of her. As if they’d been doing this for decades instead of days.
Penny was breathing deeply and evenly, her lips slightly parted. Fedderman couldn’t know for sure, but he thought she might be smiling in her sleep.
It was ironic, Fedderman thought, how something so tragic could be the source of something as wonderful as his relationship with Penny. It would seem, since he was part of the investigation into her sister’s murder, that the gruesome crime would be a barrier between them. Instead, it seemed to make them closer, as if sharing the knowledge of such a thing had created a bond. They understood intimately the fickle nature of death and appreciated each other all the more. That the death was so vivid and real made life all the more so.
His cell phone on the table by the bed began vibrating and buzzing loudly, bouncing on the smooth wood surface. Fedderman knew that if he didn’t grab it fast it would dance off the table. If it missed the throw rug, it might shatter on the hardwood floor.
He located the phone by touch almost immediately, closed his hand around it, and drew it close to him. It pulsed again, like a live bird cupped in his hand. He was aware of Penny, a pair of sleep-puffed eyes. She was up on one elbow, curious to know who was calling.
Fedderman looked at caller ID and pressed the talk button, silently mouthing
work
to Penny. She let her head fall back on the pillow.
“Where are you, Feds?” Quinn’s voice asked on the phone.
“Whaddya mean, where am I?”
Not that it’s anybody’s business.
Fedderman felt the light touch of Penny’s fingertips on his bare stomach, then his thigh.
“Never mind,” Quinn said. “Where you need to be is what concerns me. Come in to the office ASAP. Something interesting’s going on.”
Something interesting here, too
. “What is it?” Fedderman asked.
But Quinn was no longer on the phone.
“Damn it!”
“Something wrong?” Penny asked.
“The only thing I know for sure is wrong is that I have to get dressed and leave.”
Fedderman wouldn’t mention it to Penny, but as he came more awake he felt a growing eagerness to learn the reason for Quinn’s call. There’d been something in Quinn’s voice, the controlled urgency of a predator closing in on its prey. Signaling the rest of the pack. Fedderman the predator had heard the message and caught the mood. Penny couldn’t be expected to understand that, when Fedderman didn’t himself.
He did know that over a week had passed since Tanya Moody’s body was discovered. It was about time for the Skinner to take another victim, spill more blood. He was following a classic serial-killer pattern, striking more often and with increasing viciousness.
Fedderman climbed out of bed, stood on the cool hardwood floor, and looked around. He even stooped to glance under the bed.
Where the hell…?
“What’s going on?” Penny asked, propped back up on her elbow.
“Jockey shorts,” Fedderman said, “if I can find them.”
“Go ahead and take your shower,” Penny said, getting out of bed. “I’ll find your shorts. If I don’t, you can wear something of mine.”
It took Fedderman a few seconds to realize she was joking.
Out on the sidewalk, he felt an exhilarating disconnection from the people around him. They were on their way to work, maybe some of them with night jobs coming home from work, doing normal things, thinking everyday thoughts.
Fedderman knew he looked like one of them, but this morning he was different.
Behind him lay the woman he loved, sexually sated and alone, and he was on the hunt. Ancient blood ruled his thinking. If the tone of Quinn’s voice was any indication, they were closing in on a killer.
Fedderman’s wrist brushed his thigh, and his shirt cuff came unbuttoned. He didn’t notice. He quickened his pace.