thousand; the sculptures less because the artist isn’t as established. Will Lincoln’s still building an audience. That’s an interesting accent.”
“Cajun. He live in the Village?”
“No. Over in Queens. Will’s a straight-arrow family man. Got the wife and kids and house in the ‘burbs. I can’t believe he’s the asshole you’re looking for.”
“No,” Paula said. “But tell me about him. I like his work. Might buy something if it’s on a cop’s salary.”
“Which one do you like?”
“Lady Christ on the cross.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“My palms bleeding?”
Careen smiled. “A cop could afford that piece only if he or she were the wrong kind of cop.”
“Known Will long?”
“About three years. This isn’t his first exhibit here.”
“Can you tell me anything interesting about him?”
“He’s self-taught. Been sculpting since he got out of the service, he said.”
“Service?”
“Military. I don’t know what branch. Works out of a garage studio next to his house. If you’re looking for dirt on him, you’ll be disappointed. He’s about the most normal guy I know in this business of bullshit and ego and, sometimes, talent.”
“You think Will has talent?”
“I wouldn’t display his work if I didn’t.”
“That him over there?” Paula pointed to the photo from the Web site. It was framed and mounted on the wall near the door, along with information about the artist.
“That’s him. He’s better looking in person.”
“Really? Does he fool around on that wife of his, trapped in Queens with the little ones?”
“Why? You interested?”
“Maybe,” Paula said. “It’s that crucifixion piece.”
“I wouldn’t say Will’s kinky,” Careen said. She winked. “Or that he isn’t.”
Paula cocked her head and gave Careen a woman-to-woman look, then lowered her voice. “You know something juicy?”
“Nothing I’d tell a cop.”
Paula decided not to push. “Enough about handsome Will and back to business. Have you seen a man around here, might be homeless, the way he’s dressed? About sixty, red hair and beard?”
“Does he spray-paint?”
For the next fifteen minutes Paula made a show of asking questions and making notes about her fictitious redheaded man. She wasn’t sure if Careen was fooled, but maybe it didn’t matter. If Will Lincoln was the Night Spider, maybe a little pressure the other way wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it was about time he started worrying about being stepped on.
So nice-guy family-man Will might have a kinky extramarital sex life. Having done duty in the Quarter in New Orleans, Paula could envision it. Maybe he was into S amp;M, water sports, or bondage. Or worse. Much worse.
21
It hadn’t taken long for Horn to find out about Rett Jackson, the suspect in Philadelphia.
Horn’s source with the Philadelphia police called him back within an hour and told him Jackson had finally fallen victim to an old war wound. The previous year he’d had a steel rod inserted in his spine, as well as a complete knee replacement. All were delayed problems resulting from injuries sustained when the man in front of him stepped on a mine, blowing shrapnel and bone fragments into Jackson’s lower body. Horn was informed that Jackson had walked with the aid of a cane since his hospitalization.
Not a climber. Not nimble enough to dangle on a line and use tape and a glass cutter, then silently raise a window and steal into a victim’s bedroom without waking her.
So there were only two suspects left on the list Altman gave Horn. It seemed the CIA agent’s assurances that the Night Spider was unconnected to the secret Special Forces unit were correct.
Horn was sitting in the leather armchair in his living room contemplating this when the jangle of the phone broke into his thoughts. Not the cell phone, but the landline phone he’d used to talk to his source in Philadelphia. As he lifted the receiver, he wondered how long phones would still have cords in this rapidly changing world.
“This is Nina Count,” the caller said, after Horn had identified himself. “Do you remember me, Captain Horn?”
“I wouldn’t forget you, Nina. And I see you often on cable news.”
“Which is why I’m calling. To ask for confirmation, as you’ve been good enough to come out of retirement to ramrod the investigation into the Night Spider murders.”
“I’m not so sure ‘ramrod’ is the word.”
“Ah, the official line. You’re being modest, Captain Horn.”
“That you’ve consulted with the famous alpinist Royce Sayles.”
“Is ‘Alpinist’ a real word?”
“I don’t know. That’s not what I need confirmed.”
“Are you making any real progress on the case?” she asked in a confidential tone that meant nothing. “I mean, will you confide in me instead of handing out the usual media bullshit you give the other news hounds?”
“Why would I treat you differently?”
“You like me.”
That was true, Horn had to admit to himself. Nina had more daring and imagination than any of her competitors. She’d once crashed one of the mayor’s private dinner parties and sent back the wine. Horn thought she would have made a great cop. “I think you’re full of more piss and vinegar than the rest of them, Nina. Like a crazy aunt I was fond of as a kid. But you didn’t answer my question, and I’m going to be as persistent in asking it as you would.”
She laughed. “Okay, nephew. You should treat me differently and confide in me because I’ll confide in you. We should work together.”
“If you have something to confide and don’t, Nina, you might be guilty of concealing evidence of a crime. I wouldn’t want to see you get in trouble with the law.”
“I don’t have anything to confide yet, but I might. And you know us members of the news media, how we don’t have to divulge our sources or tip our hands.”
Horn thought about this. “Nina, are you planning on being up to something?”
“I am, Captain Horn. And when you see what it is, you’ll want to talk with me in the worst way.”
“To read you your rights?”
Again the laugh. “I know my rights. Watch my news reports. Tell your friends and relatives. I can always use the ratings.”
“Nina, ratings aren’t worth your life. This Night Spider psycho is more dangerous than you know.”
“You’re worried about my safety?”
“You bet I am.”
“When you’re ready,” she said in an amused voice, “let me know and we’ll cooperate and nail this sick
