Darker Than Night

65

Jubal and Dalia showered together to cool down and relax, but wound up having sex again in the tiled shower stall of their Chicago hotel room.

When finally they were soaped, satiated, rinsed, and dried, they decided there was another atavistic desire to appease—hunger. Jubal phoned down to room service for a late supper of club sandwiches and French fries, a beer for him, an iced tea for Dalia, who was worried about her weight.

By the time they were dressed, the food had arrived. The bellhop set everything up on the table by the window that looked out over downtown, and Jubal tipped him and ignored the way he glanced sideways at Dalia, who had a kind of glow about her.

Since there wasn’t much to see out the window at night unless they switched off the room lights, and they didn’t particularly want anyone to see in, Dalia closed the drapes before they sat down to eat.

“Claire called my cell phone number again a few minutes before you got here,” Jubal said, and took a huge bite of his sandwich. Plenty of mayonnaise. Good!

Dalia looked a bit surprised. It wasn’t like him to bring up the subject of his wife during meals. She simply stared at him, slowly stirring her tea, until he was finished chewing and could continue.

“She’s got things stirred up in New York. Called the cops. For some reason she thinks the Night Prowler’s after her.”

Dalia looked blank for a moment. “The serial killer who’s got every woman in New York scared shitless?” It was a rhetorical question. “Why would she think that?”

“A few objects she can’t explain—probably because she doesn’t remember—have turned up around the apartment. This Night Prowler jerk leaves his intended victims anonymous gifts before he kills them, like he’s courting them or something.”

“Can you explain the gifts?”

“Not other than Claire’s hormones are running wild with the pregnancy. Her mind’s fucked up.”

Dalia, who’d never been pregnant, mulled that over and came to no conclusion.

“She does say when she called the cops, she found an extra teddy bear in the room she’s got decorated for the baby. Said she bought four and now there’s five, and the new bear was holding a yellow rose.”

“Is that significant?”

“According to the news, the Night Prowler likes to leave his victims-to-be yellow roses.”

Dalia delicately placed a few fries on her sandwich plate, then pushed the rest of them away, where they wouldn’t tempt. She sipped her iced tea and sat back. “Sounds creepy.”

“Sure. She’s probably imagining it. That’s all I can think of.”

“And she wants you to come home so she’ll feel safe?”

“No, she told me I should stay here and do my work. She said the cops’ll be looking out for her.”

Dalia gave him a level, questioning look. “You worried about her?”

“Sure. I don’t want some crazy killer to carve her up.”

“I mean really worried?”

Loaded question. Jubal wished now he hadn’t mentioned Claire’s phone call. Women were…women. Careful here….“Not really worried,” he said, “because I don’t think anything’s really going to happen to her.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I know Claire. And I know Claire pregnant. She could let her imagination get the best of her and one thing would lead to another. Right now, it’s how she is.”

It wasn’t how she was, not really, and Jubal knew it. It was probably the ruby necklace that had started Claire’s mind whirring. She might not have entirely believed his lie, and he didn’t like the cops involved. He knew how to handle her. She needed reassurance. He should bolster his story, maybe surprise her, and soon, with a matching ring or bracelet.

His explanation was good enough for Dalia. She opened her mouth wide, cocking her head sideways in a way that reminded Jubal of a shark about to close on its prey, and attacked her club sandwich.

Jubal thought there was something wonderfully carnal about her.

The next night that the stakeout was in place, Quinn ran it from the vestibule of an apartment building across the street that had a clear view of the entrance to Claire Briggs’s building. They were going on the assumption the Night Prowler hadn’t noticed Pearl starting to follow him last night in the unmarked car. Or if he had seen the car, as far as he knew, it had been innocently parked down the street, or was accelerating after turning a corner.

Fedderman was inside the building across the street, Claire’s building, positioned in a storage room with its door propped open a crack so he had a view of the lobby. He had a hard wooden chair to sit on, which would help keep him awake, and a thermos full of strong coffee. He’d been on a lot of stakeouts during his years as a cop, and he knew how to maintain a kind of not-quite-asleep awareness that allowed him to survey an area for hours effectively without moving and without missing anything. He thought when he retired, he might find a job as a human security camera.

Pearl was parked in the unmarked half a block down, near where she’d been last night, using binoculars to help her keep an eye on Claire’s apartment windows. It was warmer than last night, without much of a breeze, and she was uncomfortable even with the windows down. She knew she couldn’t start the engine and switch on the air conditioner; noise and exhaust fumes might give her away. She, too, had a thermos full of coffee, and also her portable plastic potty. She’d considered telling Fedderman about the device, then figured it wouldn’t be worth the grief.

A couple of undercover cops were nearby, one in a closed dry cleaners a few doors down the street, another dressed as a homeless person in a doorway. In Claire’s living room, reading by one of those lights you clip on a book, was a tough, reliable cop named Ryan Campbell. Quinn knew him from the old days, when Campbell had once taken two bullets in the arm and still hauled down a stickup artist who’d just shot a bartender. Campbell had held the man in the iron vise of his uninjured arm until help arrived.

Claire had shown herself several times at her apartment windows so it would be evident she was home. Home and vulnerable. She was being brave about this. Or acting brave.

Quinn checked with his two-way to make sure everyone was in position; then he settled down and smoked a cigar, making sure its glowing ember was shielded from sight by his cupped hand.

Stakeout mode. One of the things about police work he hadn’t missed. Wait, wait, wait…and almost always nothing happened until the next night, or the next, or the next.

Then suddenly everything might happen.