Chill of Night

38

“I hardly knew the man,” Marge Caldwell said, obviously tired of Beam’s questions after she’d already given a statement to the police-and less than an hour after Manfred Byrd had died.

“You knew him well enough that he died in your apartment,” Beam said.

Except for Nell, they were seated in the unfurnished living room on imitation Chippendale chairs that Beam and Looper had dragged in from the dining room. Nell was out on the balcony, looking around again to see if the crime scene unit had missed anything, thinking this was an apartment most New Yorkers would die for.

“Well, not exactly in my apartment, thank God,” Marge said. “He was a decorator who was recommended to me by my hair stylist.”

“Who is?”

“Terra. I don’t know her last name. She owns Terra’s Do’s and Don’ts, over on First Avenue.”

“How long have you been going there?” Beam asked. Looper was silent; on the drive over, they’d agreed to let Beam do the questioning.

“I’ve been there exactly once,” Marge said. “I’ve only been in New York a little over a month, and I wasn’t crazy about Terra.” She unconsciously raised a hand to touch her permed, graying hair. “She insisted on doing my hair her way. She’s like a lot of hair stylists-she doesn’t listen.”

Beam had read the preliminary report on Marge; it briefly described a markedly ordinary woman except for one thing.

“You won the Michigan lottery?” he asked, making sure.

“Three point nine million dollars,” Marge said, with an expression suggesting she’d answered the question many times before and it annoyed her.

“Congratulations,” Looper said.

Marge looked over at him and smiled. He was a nice man, not like Beam.

“Why did you decide to move to New York?” Beam asked.

“To be somewhere my ex-husband isn’t. We’d just been divorced when I was notified of my winnings. He’s had a change of heart.”

“I’ll bet,” Nell said, having just wandered back in from the balcony. She looked at Beam and Looper. “Nothing out there except for the fantastic view,” she said. “Not so much as a scuff mark.”

Beam wasn’t surprised.

Marge’s patience seemed to be wearing thin. “Look,” she said, “it’s not as if I don’t want to help, but I really don’t know anything. I talked to the police right after I came home and learned what happened. The officer took notes.”

“I’m sorry to bother you again,” Beam said, “but there’ve been developments that make it necessary we talk with you again.”

“The Justice Killer?”

“He’s the main development.”

“Is the news right? Did the Justice Killer push Manfred off my balcony?”

“It looks that way.”

“Then I can’t see what you want with me. I was ten blocks away when it happened.” Marge seemed upset and was obviously getting uncomfortable in her chair. She didn’t want to be unpleasant, but they were pressing her.

“We need to be thorough,” Beam said, “so I’ll have to ask your indulgence. Did anyone other than you and Byrd have a key to get in here?”

“No. Look, I hardly even know anyone in New York. Like a lot of other people, I came here for anonymity.”

“Did you ever see Manfred Byrd socially?”

“Look,” Marge said again, as if she actually had something to show Beam, “Manfred was simply somebody I hired to help me decorate this place. He was…flighty. We weren’t about to see each other socially, but I think we liked each other okay. I could tell he was very good at what he did. And, I think if he was still alive, he’d say I was one of his clients that actually listened to him and took his advice.”

“Did he complain about any other clients?”

“Not specifically. He only mentioned a few times that it was frustrating when people paid for his advice then refused to take it.”

Like with Terra the beautician, Beam thought. He said, “Do you remember ever seeing Mr. Byrd in anyone else’s company?”

“I only saw him when he came here,” Marge said, “other than when we went shopping together for decorators’ materials or furniture.”

“And how often was that?”

“Three-no, four times. Once for paint and wallpaper, and three times for furniture.”

“When was the last time?”

“Two days ago. We bought a sofa to go in this room. It will be the only furniture in here with a pattern.”

“I don’t see a sofa.”

“We’re-I’m still waiting for delivery, on the sofa and several other pieces of furniture. We didn’t want any of it here until the painters were finished.” Marge’s body gave a quick little start, as if experiencing a tiny shock. “Look,” she said, “I didn’t lie to you, but I was wrong. I do think I remember something I haven’t mentioned. Manfred told me once he kept getting the feeling he was being followed.”

“Did he have any idea by whom?”

“No. He did think it was a man.”

“Then he’d seen this person?”

“I don’t know. If he did, I don’t believe he described him.” She clasped her hands in her lap and appeared pained, thinking. “His exact words-exact as I can recall them-were, ‘This can be a dangerous city, Marge. Sometimes I think there’s a man following me. But maybe I’m getting paranoid.’”

“He said that, about being paranoid?”

“Yes, I remember the conversation because I thought it was odd he’d be upset. I mean, a man following him. I should think he might have been pleased. You know, a man…”

“Got it,” Beam said. “And when was this conversation about being followed?”

“Oh, three or four days ago, I believe. We were measuring for drapes.”

“Was that the only time he mentioned this man?”

“Yes. And to tell you the truth he didn’t seem terrifically upset about it. I mean, it was just idle conversation. That’s why I didn’t remember it before.”

Looper and Nell were looking at Beam. Tina Flitt’s husband had said the same thing not long before his wife was murdered; he had the feeling he was being followed. The Justice Killer stalking his prey while he was being stalked. The dangerous game he’d chosen to play.

Beam closed his notebook and stood up. His right leg felt weak and almost gave at the knee. Had it fallen asleep while he was perched uncomfortably on the hard chair, or was it suffering some sort of delayed reaction to his having been shot?

Whatever. The leg seemed to be regaining feeling and strength.

Beam made himself smile. “We appreciate your help, Ms. Caldwell, and we apologize for the inconvenience.”

Marge stood also, a little stiffly like Beam. She smiled. “That’s okay. You’re only doing your job. And I like the way you don’t call me missus. It makes me feel unmarried.”

“No trouble at all. If you remember anything else, Ms. Caldwell…” He handed her a card.

“Of course.” Marge slipped the card into a pocket of her skirt.

“Are you going to hire another decorator to complete the work?” Nell asked.

“No. Manfred and I were finished with the choices. Now it’s only a matter of execution. I think I can handle that.”

She showed them to the door like a dutiful hostess.

“Don’t worry,” Looper told her as they were leaving, “it’s going to look great.”

On the elevator ride down, Beam said, “Except for the remark about Byrd thinking he was being followed by a strange man, she knows just about zilch.”

“Our killer works clean every time,” Looper said.

“Byrd spotted him,” Nell pointed out.

“Maybe you didn’t notice,” Looper said, “but Byrd had an eye.”

Nell glanced at him from the corner of her own eye, marveling once again how the world was full of surprises large and small.

Reggie was a piece of work. He was only about five-foot six or seven, but the way he carried himself you just knew he was strong. When he approached Gina the next morning near the statue in Columbus Circle he was wearing baggy chinos, a tan shirt with lots of pockets, comfortable-looking brown hiking shoes, and a beat up gray backpack. His dark hair was long and greasy, and he wore a weathered slouch hat that had at one time been white. He was passably handsome, with a strong jaw, blue eyes, and a mouth that looked as if it smiled easily and often. All in all, he looked like an American student just back from bumming around a foreign land on the cheap. A youth hostel user and a drug user maybe, but not a dealer.

Gina pretended not to notice him. The morning was already too warm, and her palms were sweating.

“You Gina?” he asked. She could barely hear him over the noise of the traffic, and thought that might be why he chose this as a meeting place. Conversations here would be difficult to tape.

“I am if you’re Reggie.”

“I’m the Reggie you seek. Van didn’t say you were so pretty.” He did a little shuffle, as if her unexpected attractiveness made him nervous.

“She wouldn’t.”

“She did say I could trust you.”

“Can I trust you?” Gina asked, not liking all the exhaust fumes she was breathing in.

“Hell, no. But you can always count on me to act in my self-interest.”

“Are you in love with Vanessa?”

He laughed. “She thinks so. I like that.”

“And you use it. Use her.”

“Hey, I’m a user of people. I’d like to use you.”

“It wouldn’t be in your self-interest or mine. Do you confide in Vanessa?”

“Hah! I don’t confide in no one.” The shuffle again; he might have been shaking out a sudden cramp in one leg. He adjusted his soiled slouch hat so it sat far back on his head and made him look jaunty and younger. “You’re certainly ballsy for one of Van’s friends.”

“Oh, maybe you don’t know them well enough.”

“I know ’em. They only act ballsy. You ain’t acting.” He smiled. He really wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Gina could understand what Vanessa saw in him. But then sharks were, in their own way, beautiful. “We gonna get to the point?”

“Vanessa said you were a businessman.”

“She’s got that right.”

“And you’re a burglar.”

He gave her a hard look that chilled. Now he wasn’t so good looking. Momentarily, the shark had bared its teeth. “Van tell you that?”

“It isn’t any secret,” Gina said. “You did your time, and now you’re out and a productive member of society.”

“You must watch a lotta TV.”

“Hardly any.”

“The point,” he reminded her. He actually glanced at his watch, letting her know he had more important things to do and didn’t want to waste much more time here. “You wanna score some dope, right?”

“Wrong. I’m more interested in the burglary part.”

He scratched his scalp beneath the greasy hair near his hat brim and grinned, showing he was learning to like her and was interested. “You want me to steal something?”

“Have you broken into any pawn shops since you got out of prison?”

“Since and before,” Reggie said. “I like pawn shops. They got a lotta stuff in ’em I can turn into money.” He did his little shuffle and glanced around at the ongoing maelstrom of traffic. Gina thought again he might have chosen this meeting place because the constant noise would make electronic eavesdropping on their conversation difficult, if not impossible.

She hesitated, wondering if she should simply call this off and walk away, if this was one of those crucial moments in life that would change everything that came after.

No, she decided, it didn’t have to be. But hadn’t somebody or other said the forks in life’s road are usually only visible in the rearview mirror?

“You interested in something that might be in a pawn shop?” Reggie asked.

“A gun,” Gina said.