was the short straw, which cards would turn up.
“Maybe you really should play poker,” he said. “It’s only a game, but these days there’s big money in it to go with the risk.”
“Life’s only a game, and it contains all the risk we need.”
Beam raised his water glass and drank to that.
After the waiter brought them coffee, and bread pudding (was that a Latin dish?) for dessert, Cassie said, “You need to be careful.”
“Of the bread pudding?”
“I’m serious.”
“You think something bad is about to happen?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I have no idea, bro. I’d tell you if I could. I’m not God.”
“You’re his messenger,” Beam said.
“Trouble is,” Cassie told him, “the message is always in code.”
Despite the ordinariness of the rest of the food, the bread pudding was delicious. Better than Cassie’s. Who would have guessed?
The next morning the Times ran a feature about Adelaide Starr being mistreated in jail. Beam sliced, toasted, and buttered a poppy seed bagel for breakfast, then poured a cup of coffee and sat at his kitchen table with the paper. He chewed, sipped, read.
Adelaide was a pest, but she sure had charisma, not to mention chutzpah. She was awaiting trial, like many of the other prisoners in the Bayview women’s correctional facility, but her treatment was actually better. The food she complained was causing her to waste away was the same as the other prisoners’, but because of her special status, she had a private cell. Under media pressure, she’d even been supplied with an electric typewriter. A hardship, she proclaimed, because she didn’t know how to type. Why couldn’t she have a computer she could talk to, like other writers? Or a tape recorder, so she could express her thoughts more completely to her editor, who had to type a lot of Adelaide’s story herself, from interview notes and memory? The truth was getting lost here, Adelaide said. The truth was a victim again. And the place where they held her was noisy. It was heck for a creative person. How could she possibly write with such distractions?
On its editorial page, the Times suggested that Adelaide might be confined to a hotel room and wear an electronic anklet. Beam had to smile.
After breakfast, he went into the living room and switched on the TV, and there was Adelaide, being interviewed in her cell by a blond woman he recognized from local cable television.
Adelaide had apparently gotten permission to wear a frilly blouse, and dangling pearl earrings. Her bright red hair looked professionally mussed. She didn’t appear to Beam in any way malnourished.
She twisted her lipsticked mouth into a sexy moue, her head cocked to the side, listening intently to her interviewer’s questions.
I-Do you think justice is in any way being served by your confinement, Adelaide?
A-Oh, not at all. There’s justice on both sides of the law. I think we’ve all learned that.
I-Could you explain that statement?
A-I mean, look at the statistics I saw in the papers. Since the Justice Killer has come to our city, it’s become much safer. Women and majorities no longer have to fear for their lives every day.
I-You mean women and minorities?
A-Them, too. (Big smile.) I love everybody!
I-Do you even have love for the Justice Killer?
A-In a way, yes I do. I was taught as a child to hate the sin and love the singer.
I-“Sinner,” you mean?
A-Of course. I’m sorry. (Sheepish grin. Cute.) I guess I’ve been in too many musicals.
I-Then you hate what the Justice Killer is doing, but for the killer himself, you do harbor some compassion?.
A-(Huge grin. Toss of hair. Darling.) I try, I really do, but I can’t hate anyone.
I-How’s the book coming?
A-Of course, it’s a struggle. But I-
Beam had had enough. He aimed the remote like a gun and switched off the TV. The silence and blank screen were an immediate relief.
Some world, especially the New York part of it.
He balanced the remote on the arm of his easy chair, shrugged into his suit coat, and left to meet Nell and Looper in da Vinci’s office. Maybe Helen would be there.
Helen was.
She looked as if she’d gone to the same beautician as Adelaide, only her red hair wasn’t as brilliant, and she wasn’t Adelaide cute. She was much taller and more the serious type, but not unattractive. If da Vinci was involved with her, Beam could understand how it might have happened. Beam, sleeping with his late snitch’s widow.
They took the positions that had become habit-da Vinci behind his desk, Beam and Nell in the chairs angled toward it, Helen in the wooden chair used to work on the computer, off to the side. Looper pacing and patting his pockets.
“Anything new on the Aimes postmortem?” Beam asked.
“He was shot just behind the ear at point blank range,” da Vinci said. “His hair was singed.”
“I wonder if a sound suppressor could make for singed hair,” Nell said, “even held close.”
“I asked the ME that,” da Vinci said. “He said it depends.” Da Vinci glanced at the light breaking through the blind slats. He made a face as if it hurt his eyes.
Helen had on gray slacks today and was sitting with her chair turned around, straddling the seat and resting her bare forearms on the top of the wooden back. She had graceful but strong looking arms, as if she might play a lot of tennis or racquet ball. She was looking at da Vinci with a concerned expression. Then she looked at Nell in a way that puzzled Beam. Back to da Vinci.
“We’ve got a new development,” da Vinci said. “A note from the killer. It came in the morning mail. The envelope was sent care of the NYPD, addressed to Beam.”
68
“You opened the envelope?” Beam asked da Vinci.
“Yes. Only because it was from the killer”
“How did you know that beforehand?”
“I held it up to the light.”
“But you were going to open it anyway.”
“You were going to keep the contents secret?”
Leaning forward in her chair, Helen rested her chin on her muscular forearms and smiled.
Beam knew da Vinci was right to have opened the envelope. The Killer and his deadly games had them all edgy enough to play gotcha with each other, rather than with him.
“As you might expect,” da Vinci continued, “paper and envelope are the common sort, not easily traced. The message was brief and printed in such a rudimentary way it doesn’t provide much of a handwriting sample. No prints on any of this, of course, and no DNA sample on the stamp or flap. Our killer’s as careful as he is vicious.”
“He’ll get careless,” Helen said. No one seemed to have heard her. She was looking at Nell.
Da Vinci handed the folded note to Beam. It was plain white typing paper, twenty weight, not quite transparent. Printed on it was a simple message:
For whom the bell tolls its death (k)Nell.
Justice
