Night Victims

18

New York, 2003

Nina Count was here because it was Newsy’s day off, insofar as somebody like Newsy ever had a day off.

She goosed the accelerator of her Ford Expedition so the big SUV shot forward and nosed into a parking space about to be backed into by a blue minivan with commercial lettering on its door. The station would have provided her with a car and driver, but Nina preferred to jockey her big, heavy-duty SUV, with its roof rack, winch, and fog lights. It helped her to foster the image of a real, working journalist, not just another TV talking head. Trouble in the boondocks? Nina was ready.

The minivan jerked to a stop, blocking traffic. Horns began blaring, ripping whatever calm silence Manhattan traffic had left of the quiet morning. A bulky, T-shirted man with a dark, seriously receding hairline got out of the mini-van and began shouting at Nina, adding to the din. The morning belonged to the city now.

Nina placed her station logo and call letter plaque in the windshield and the man stopped shouting. She extended a nyloned leg, letting it linger, then climbed down from the SUV’s seat.

Mr. Receding Hairline saw who she was. It amused her to see his flush of recognition. His anger, his testosterone fit, passed from him before her eyes.

“Nina,” he said, almost actually grinning, “you oughta drive more careful. I’d hate to turn on the TV news and not see you.”

“Why, how kind of you to say!”

“We watch you-like, the whole family-just about every night.”

She smiled, walked over to the flustered man, and apologized for taking his parking space. “Press business,” she explained.

He assured her he understood, all the time rooting through his pockets for something she could write on. Finally, he extended a plastic ballpoint pen and a folded bill of lading so she could sign the blank back of the form. Next time, you get my parking space, she wrote, then scrawled her name. The guy absolutely loved it. He looked like he was going to have an orgasm.

He was still standing there, oblivious of the angrily blasting car and truck horns, as she strode into the deli where Newsy was waiting for her in a booth by the window. He’d phoned and asked her to meet him there. It always amazed Nina how much business and personal intrigue were talked in New York’s delis and coffee shops.

“You handled that neatly,” Newsy said, as she sat down opposite him. He’d only been drinking coffee, waiting for her before ordering breakfast.

“I don’t usually eat in hellholes like this,” she said, glancing around at the crowd pressing against the pastry display case in the warm deli. Men and women in business suits, tourists in denim and polyester, a few teenage kids stopping on their way to school, a couple of worn-down, cheaply dressed women who looked like weary hookers after a hard night, all pressed forward for bagels or Danish and coffee.

“It’s not a bad place at lunchtime, when you can sit and listen to conversation. It’s surprising what you hear. People let their guard down when they eat. It’s like they can’t chew and be careful at the same time.”

“Sound does carry well here,” Nina said, keeping her own voice low. “It’s like dining inside a drum. What have you got for me?”

“You want a cup of coffee? Maybe a cheese Danish. They’re great. Well, edible, at least.”

“I want out of here soon as possible.”

Newsy smiled. “Okay, Nina. Here’s what leaked my way. Ever hear of Royce Sayles?”

“I take it you don’t mean Rolls Royce automobile sales.”

“Nope. Sayles helped the cops here solve a series of murders about ten years ago.”

“Before my time as a New Yorker,” Nina said, thinking anyone in the TV news business who was here ten years ago would be in imminent danger of being fired. “Should I take notes?”

“Naw, I got it all written down for you.” Newsy pulled a quarter-folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and laid it on the table in front of her. It reminded Nina of the bill of lading she’d signed outside for the minivan driver. “You can read it when you get to the station. I know you’re rushed.”

“What am I going to read?”

“Ten years ago some fruitcake was killing people with what turned out to be an ice ax. The cops went to Sayles for help in finding the killer because he was a reasonably famous mountain climber.”

“There are only a few of those,” Nina said.

“Anyway, Sayles ID’d the weapon and helped the law track down the killer, who turned out to be an amateur rock climber.” Newsy took a long sip of coffee then placed his foam cup squarely before him. “Where this goes, Nina, is I learned Thomas Horn went to see Sayles a few days ago, spent a lot of time with him.”

Nina thought about that. She liked it. “So the police are consulting a mountain climber again. Makes sense, considering the killer has to be able to climb the sheer faces of buildings to get to his victims’ windows.”

Newsy leaned forward and spoke softly. “I figured maybe we show some mountaineering equipment, including an ice ax. Gives us an excuse to roll out the old tape on the ten-year-old killings. Juicy stuff, if I remember correctly.”

Nina was sure his memory would be accurate, if selective.

“Put something together on it when you come to the station tomorrow,” she said.

She stood up. “Thanks, Newsy.”

“I thought you might want it on the six o’clock,” he said. “If so, I can ride down to the station with you and get huffing.”

Nina thought that was a fine idea. “Bring your coffee, but put a lid on it so it doesn’t spill all over the upholstery. I’ve got a pad and pen in the glove compartment. We can write as we drive.”

Newsy liked that. News on the go, that was his life. Let the pretty faces and Nina, with her famous gams, do the on-camera work. He knew he was the guts of the station news. News on the go. That was Newsy’s dark religion.

After work, Marla walked from the Home Away down to Flicks and rented Hitchcock’s Vertigo. She’d already seen it several times but it still fascinated her. As a former psychoanalyst, she knew that its science was a bit improbable-the merging of necrophilia with fear of heights-but still it was sound enough.

Marla knew why she liked the movie so. It puzzled her, with its many layers of meaning, its star-crossed promise of love, and its fascination with death.

She had her evening planned. There was a Lean Cuisine in the freezer, which she’d prepare in the microwave in her apartment’s tiny kitchen. After dinner she’d settle down in front of the TV, plug in her movie, and switch on the VCR. Bernard Herrmann’s hypnotic score would take her away from her cramped, twentieth-floor apartment with its view of an air shaft, and its background noise of cooing and flapping pigeons that couldn’t be dislodged from the ledges outside her windows.

When she’d had supper and the movie was over, Marla sat slumped on the sofa and listened to the whir of the rewind. She thought about how much she’d love to have a drink. But she knew she wouldn’t. Not ever again, if she could help it.

No, not ever again! She could help herself. She’d been dry for the last two years.

She got up from the sofa. She went into the kitchen, refilled her glass of ice water, and got a wedge of lemon to squeeze into it. She plunked the rind into the glass with the cubes and clear liquid. It looked almost like a real drink now, the way the refracted light from the ice cubes played over the curved, clear glass. It looked like a lot of bars and nights that could have gone better, and some that couldn’t have gone much worse.

When Marla returned to the living room, Vertigo was still rewinding. The counter on the control panel was showing a blur of descending numbers, indicating the machine’s breathless speed.