“Thank you, my dear,” Rood breathed, smiling down at the corpse. “I hope it was good for you too.”
He’d shared something with Miss Kutzlow tonight, something so special it must be honored. Although she was not on his list, he wished he could leave a statuette with her; she deserved that tribute. But he had only one clay figure, and that one was for Miss Alden upstairs. Well, he could take her head, at least.
Rood shut off the stereo, grateful to hear the throbbing din finally subside, then reached into his bag and removed the hacksaw. He set to work, guiding the tungsten-carbide blade back and forth in swift, regular strokes. When the head was finally detached, he dropped it in the jumbo Baggie he’d brought with him, then tied the plastic bag shut with a wire tab.
He looked down fondly at Miss Kutzlow’s remains, lying in a tangle of limbs on the white carpet that was now a lake of blood. When he checked his watch, he saw that the time was nearly nine o’clock. He’d spent more than half an hour with Miss Kutzlow. At any moment Miss Alden might return home, if she hadn’t already, and the opportunity for the ambush would be lost.
Quickly he went around the living room, switching off all the lights. Normally, when leaving the scene of a kill, he left the lights on and the door open, proudly displaying his work to the timid, craven world of sheep and ants. But for the moment he wanted the apartment dark and uninviting, to discourage visitors. It would hardly do to have someone find Miss Kutzlow’s remains before Rood had taken care of her upstairs neighbor.
In darkness he returned to the front door, stepping carefully over the body in his path. He found the canvas bag and hefted it. The bag was heavy, bulging with the trophy he’d won.
Opening the door a crack, he peered out. He saw no one. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him, careful to leave it unlocked so he could return later to switch on the lights before he left.
The sack of garbage lay on the ground where Miss Kutzlow had dropped it. Afraid the sack might attract attention and curiosity. Rood picked it up, carried it around to the side of the building, and deposited it in a trash dumpster. Then swiftly he mounted the outside staircase and hurried to Miss Alden’s apartment. The side window was still dark; no sound was audible from within. As best Rood could tell, she wasn’t home yet. To make certain, he knocked loudly, rapping his gloved knuckles on the door. No answer.
Her door was protected by a common mortise lock with a spring-latch bolt and a dead bolt, both of the pin- tumbler type. Defeating the dead bolt would require a delicate touch. Rood took off his gloves and flexed his fingers rhythmically, then rummaged in his bag until he found a tension wrench and a homemade wire tool. The tool was a six-inch length of medium-gauge wire that he’d bent with pliers into a hooked shape. The design wasn’t original; he’d followed a diagram in a book on locksmithing he’d found in the public library, a book that had told him everything he needed to know about picking locks.
Carefully he inserted the tension wrench in the keyway of the dead bolt, applying gentle pressure with his index finger in the direction of the lock’s rotation. With his other hand he slid the wire tool into the keyway, then drew it back and forth in a rapid sawing motion.
In theory, what he was doing was quite simple. Inside the lock there was a row of pins set in tiny pin wells, holding the lock cylinder and the central plug together. The right key would nudge those pins up into the pin wells, liberating the plug from the cylinder and allowing it to turn independently, thus retracting the dead bolt. Rood, of course, had no key. But if his wire tool could bump the pins into the desired alignment just for an instant, the pressure of the tension wrench should be enough to turn the plug.
Yes, easy in theory. But although he’d practiced the technique on the locks in his own apartment for many hours, this was the first time he’d tried it in the field. Mrs. Julia Stern had not engaged the dead bolt before taking her shower. Miss Rebecca Morris had obligingly opened the garage door for him. And most recently he’d chosen to break Miss Elizabeth Osborn’s window rather than struggle to defeat the intimidating locks on her front door.
Rood was sweating now. His glasses slid down his nose. He jiggled the wire hook desperately. Nothing happened.
Suppose he couldn’t open the door. The only way he could then get inside would be to break the window, and that was no good; when his quarry saw the damage, she would never fall for his trap. No, he had to defeat the lock, simply had to.
With a click of tumblers, the plug rotated ninety degrees, and the dead bolt was released.
Rood smiled, expelling a shaky breath. He’d done it.
Now only the latch bolt remained.
From his bag he removed a small sheet-metal loid, which he slipped between the door and the strike plate. He pushed, exerting pressure on the bevel edge of the latch. The latch depressed, the doorknob turned, the door swung open.
He was in.
Before entering, he pulled on his gloves once more, then wiped off the doorknob and the locks, in case he’d inadvertently left prints. Then he crept into the darkness, closing the door behind him. The spring latch snicked into place automatically. Because he wanted to leave no sign that the locks had been tampered with, he turned the knob that slid the dead bolt back into its socket.
He didn’t dare turn on a lamp. If Miss Alden saw a light in her window, she would know someone was inside. Instead he removed the Micro-Lite miniature flash from his bag and switched it on, cupping the beam with his hand to narrow its focus.
He directed the flashlight at different parts of the living room. As best he could tell, the apartment’s layout was identical to that of the unit below. The same kitchenette, the same corner windows, the same hallway leading, presumably, to a bedroom and bath. He swept the faint funnel of light over a sofa, a coffee table, an armchair positioned beside a potted plant nearly as tall as he was. A man could easily hide behind that chair, concealed by its bulk and by the plant’s leaves. Perfect.
With nothing else to do while he waited, Rood prowled the apartment, examining the contents of closets and drawers, trying to get a sense of Miss Alden’s personal life. He noted few dates marked on the calendar in her bedroom, few scribbles on the notepad by her phone. Apparently she was not a very social person.
Returning to the living room, he observed a telephone answering machine on an end table by the sofa. The red LED was not blinking; no messages had been recorded since the machine had last been used. Still, there might be old messages on the tape, messages that had never been erased.
Curious, Rood pressed the button marked Playback. A man’s voice crackled over the speaker.
“Wendy, this is Jeffrey. Calling to see if you wanted to catch a movie tonight. There’s a Kurosawa film playing at the Nuart. I’ll be home all afternoon.” He gave his number, then hung up. The tape beeped. A prior message, partly recorded over, came on in midsentence. The same man’s voice “… thinking of checking out this Ethiopian place on Melrose.” As before, Jeffrey left his home number. Another beep, then the tail end of a still earlier message. “… not usually real big on these equity-waiver shows, but I’ve heard this one’s not bad.” Once more, his number, the click of a cradled handset, a beep.
Silence.
Rood wondered if it was only coincidence that all three messages had been left by this Jeffrey person. Didn’t Miss Alden have any other friends, any family?
He shook his head sadly. He had a feeling that the woman led a lonely life. Well, she would not be living it much longer.
The rumble of a car engine cut into his thoughts.
He padded across the living room to the corner windows. Pressing his face to the glass, he peered out. Through the scrim of the fig tree’s branches, he saw a blue Honda Civic park in a reserved space at the side of the building.
A moment later Miss Alden emerged from the car.
“You’re mine,” Rood told the distant figure. “All mine.”
Hastily he concealed himself behind the chair, shoving the potted plant out of the way to get into position, then pulling it back into place. With a stab of disgust he realized that the plant was fake, a plastic replica, a lifeless thing. Such artful imitations repelled him. He would no more have a phony plant in his home than take a mannequin’s head as his prize.
Crouching low on his haunches, hugging the drawstring bag close to him, running his hands over the lumpy shape inside, Rood waited.
Footsteps pattered up the stairs, then drummed on the gallery. A key rattled first in one keyhole, then the other, drawing back both bolts. The door opened. The lights came on.
