Dudman was standing behind his desk, smiling slightly and looking curious. He was about five-foot nine and broad shouldered, his chalk-stripe, double-breasted suit buttoned across a flat stomach. He had a broad, handsome face with a shiny, protruding forehead, and the over-groomed, rested look of a man who ate well, slept in pajamas, wore a robe to breakfast, and had just stepped from a shower into clothes that had been laid out by a valet. Beam thought all of that might be true.
He shook Beam’s hand with a firm grip but didn’t make it a contest. “Effie said you were police.”
Beam smiled. “Effie was right. Detective Beam, Homicide, NYPD.” He reached for his shield, but Dudman waved a hand to stay the effort. He trusted Beam. Or knew about him.
“Captain Artemis Beam. Retired. Sort of.”
Beam almost winced. He didn’t like people using his given name. Few knew it. He was sure Dudman was letting him know he was one of the few. “You’re ahead of the game, Mr. Dudman.”
“Only way to play,” Dudman said. “It isn’t difficult to learn about you, Detective Beam. You’re getting a great deal of publicity right now because of the Justice Killer investigation.”
“Unfortunately,” Beam said. He was sure the name Artemis hadn’t been printed or mentioned on TV news. Well, not sure. How could he be?
“Why unfortunate? I would think you’d enjoy being a celebrity.”
“It can be inconvenient. I’d rather only the killer was a celebrity.”
“Why so?”
“It can be convenient.”
Dudman grinned. The guy was a game player who obviously relished verbal fencing.
“The investigation is what brings me here, Mr. Dudman.”
“Carl, please. I hope I’m not a suspect.”
“You know better, Carl.”
Dudman’s grin became a thin smile, letting Beam know their little joust was ended and it was time to get to the point, he was a busy man. “Yes. To the Justice Killer, I’m a prospective victim.” He motioned for Beam to sit down in an overstuffed black leather chair facing the desk. “Maybe even a tempting one, as I’ve done quite well with my business since the Bradley Aimes trial. It’s always more fun to kill somebody rich.”
Beam sat. The chair hissed and enveloped him like a creature that might devour his body slowly and at will. But the damned thing was sure comfortable. “So far,” he said, “the killer seems to be fairly democratic when it comes to victims. I wouldn’t let your wealth bother you, sir. But that doesn’t alter why I came here, which is to make certain you understand that you need to be cautious about your vulnerabilities.”
“I’ve considered that, Detective Beam, and I have few vulnerabilities. I’m one of the lucky potential victims who can afford tight security.”
“I got in easily to see you,” Beam said.
Dudman gave him a smug look, then pressed a button behind his desk.
A door opened on Beam’s left. A large man in a dark suit stepped into the office. He had a buzz cut but with a thatch of longer, gray-shot black hair in front, no nonsense brown eyes, a nose that had been broken a few times, and a balanced way of standing suggesting that despite his bulk he could be lightning in any direction.
“This is Chris Talbotson of Talbotson Security,” Dudman said. “He’s modest, so I’ll tell you he’s a former martial arts champion and Navy Seal, a decorated veteran. His two brothers are almost as qualified, as are all Talbotson employees.”
Beam nodded at Talbotson. “I’ve heard of your firm. It’s a good one.”
Talbotson didn’t smile, but said, “Thank you. Fifteen minutes after your phone call, we had you researched and entered in our data banks, sir. We have tape of you entering the building. Your identification was verified before you left the elevator. And I’ve been observing and listening to the conversation since you arrived.”
“Impressive,” Beam admitted. He looked at Dudman. “What about your family?”
“If I had one,” Dudman said, “I’d be terrified for them. It didn’t escape me that the late Tina Flitt was the wife of a jury foreman.”
“There’s no one?”
“A sister in England. Married to a poet, would you believe it?”
Beam smiled. “She should be safe, then. And the Justice Killer will likely confine his activities to New York. Of course, there’s no guarantee. This killer doesn’t necessarily run true to form.”
“I think we’re well prepared for anything he might attempt,” Talbotson said.
Dudman looked at Beam as if to say, There! See! “I appreciate your concern, Detective Beam, but I do feel that all necessary precautions have been taken.” He shifted his weight in his chair, not standing, but clearly signaling that Beam’s time would be more productively spent elsewhere.
Beam remained seated. “Why did you find Aimes innocent?”
Dudman looked as if he might make a tent of his fingers, then laced them together and squeezed hard enough to whiten his knuckles. “Reasonable doubt. We were pledged to follow the letter of the law.”
“Was it the letter of the law that got Aimes off?”
“Of course. Most of us thought he killed Genelle Dixon, but we weren’t absolutely sure. Believe me, we didn’t like him. And we didn’t like what we felt compelled to do.”
“All of you?”
“As a matter of record, yes. As foreperson, and considering the gravity of what we were deliberating, I felt it incumbent upon us to talk everything out until our verdict was unanimous.”
“Spreading around the guilt?”
“That was an unkind thing to say, Detective Beam, but accurate. Only it was more like spreading around the remorse we knew would follow. But perhaps less remorse than if it turned out we’d convicted an innocent man. It does happen.”
“Just often enough,” Beam admitted. He stood up from the chair, which hissed its relief and regret, and offered his hand across the desk.
Dudman stood and shook hands. “I hope you never get in the position we on the jury were in,” he said. “Are you going to interview the other jurors?”
“Yes. You were the first.”
“They must be very afraid. Give them my best. Tell them…”
Beam waited. Dudman hadn’t released his hand.
“Tell them I still think we did the right thing,” Dudman said.
“Right thing?”
“Only thing.” Dudman released Beam’s hand but remained standing. “Chris’ll walk you out.”
When Beam and Chris were at the office door, Dudman said, “You do understand, don’t you, Detective Beam?”
“I do,” Beam assured him. “I’ve had to do the only thing a few times myself.”
Dudman seemed relieved as he sat down and the two much larger men left his office.
Chris rode the elevator down with Beam and walked with him through the lobby and out to the sunny sidewalk. Beam considered warning him about the Justice Killer’s cold-bloodedness and capabilities, then decided it wasn’t necessary. Talbotson, like Beam, was a professional. He might know more about cold-blooded killers than Beam, even if they weren’t the serial kind.
“Take care of yourself and Dudman,” he said, shaking hands with Chris.
He thought Talbotson would assure him he would. Instead the younger man surprised him by saying, “I’ve published a few poems myself.”
Beam almost told him that was about the only way to get them published, then decided Talbotson wouldn’t think it was funny. He was nothing if not the serious type. “What about?”
“The things I’ve seen, what people can do to each other.”
“Good poems, I’ll bet,” Beam said, and patted the man’s bulky shoulder as they parted.
Back by his car, he unfolded the sheet of paper he’d brought and checked the other Aimes trial jurors’ last known addresses. His plan had been to save time and work his way uptown. Right now he was south. Not far from the Village.
From Nola Lima.
What people can do to each other.
