ruin the hospital and ruin her. For revenge.”
Marla crossed her arms and thought for a moment. “She might be right. You have to remember, they think she’s responsible.”
“I don’t see how they could really believe that. They must have seen the medical reports.”
“Probably think they’ve been doctored, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Horn finished the first triangular quarter of his sandwich. “Yeah, could be. They’re not exactly full of trust at this point, and I guess I can’t blame them. Four-year-old kid in a coma he might not come out of. That’s a damned hard thing.”
“So revenge isn’t out of the question, right?”
“I don’t know. You’re the psychologist.”
“You’re a cop. Cops know people as well as any psychologist.”
“Was a cop.”
“Was a psychologist.”
He laughed and sipped his Diet Pepsi.
“Let’s get to your problems,” she said. “Any developments in the Night Spider case other than the new victim I read about in the papers? Neva?. . ”
“Taylor.”
“Was she killed like the others?”
“With only the minor variation you’d expect. There isn’t any doubt it’s the work of the Night Spider.”
“What about a copycat?”
“Not likely. He wouldn’t know enough about the murder scenes from the news reports to recreate one so faithfully. But why do you ask about a copycat? Does the psychoanalyst in you sense something?”
She smiled. “It’s the waitress in me asking the questions, Horn. What’s the police profiler tell you?”
“Exactly what you’d think. The killer’s between twenty and forty-five years old, organized, intelligent, hates women and probably his mother, and stalks his victims before killing them. Yearns for fame and anonymity simultaneously. A sadist who relishes what he’s doing even though he’s driven to it and knows it might destroy him eventually.”
“You buy into all that?”
“Only some of it.”
“Good.”
“This the psychoanalyst talking now?”
“Yes. And a woman who lives alone. I’d like to see this dangerous sociopath caught.”
“We’ve got a fresh list of suspects, some of them in the New York area. Detectives are checking the names now.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because we have enough cops on the case to check on and interview suspects in and around New York City.”
“No, I meant
“I don’t know. Not for sure. Do you?” He smiled when he asked, signaling to her that he might have been joking.
Might have been.
Marla drew a deep breath, then sighed and straightened up from where she’d been leaning back against the table. “Think it’ll ever stop raining?”
28
The windshield wipers made a regular, rhythmic thumping sound that would have reminded Paula of sex if she’d let it. She sat in the unmarked and peered through the fogged-up windshield at the West Village building where the next to last name on her list, a former SSF trooper named Harold Linnert, resided. According to the list given to Horn by Kray, Linnert was fifteen months out of the army, single, and thirty-seven years old.
He lived in a brownstone that reminded Paula a little of Horn’s, only it wasn’t as well kept. The red front door needed paint and the geraniums in the window boxes were dead, though live ferns hung down in long green tendrils that directed twisting rivulets of rainwater. On the foundation wall behind a row of blue plastic trash cans was some elaborate but indecipherable graffiti sprayed on with faded black paint.
When she’d left the car and reached the brownstone’s stoop, Paula saw that the building had been made into a duplex. H. Linnert was on the second floor. Paula pushed the buzzer button and stood waiting beneath her umbrella, watching rainwater run from it and puddle on the concrete near a rubber doormat.
A tinny voice from the intercom said something she couldn’t understand. She identified herself as the police, playing by the rules.
A buzzer like a Louisiana locust grated and she pushed open the door.
A small foyer with a door to the left, steep wooden stairs straight ahead. The walls in the foyer and stairwell were a glossy green enamel that could be wiped down. The dampness made them smell as if they’d just been painted. Music was on too loud in one of the units, a Gershwin show tune Paula couldn’t place.
She closed her umbrella and trudged up the steps, listening to them creak. No sneaking up on Mr. Linnert. Gershwin had been playing in the downstairs unit and faded to silence halfway up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, a handsome man with mussed black hair stood waiting for her. He was wearing pleated brown pants and a gray T-shirt. Even standing still he projected a kind of effortless grace, as if he’d just completed a dance step and was poised for another. Paula thought if he had a physical flaw it was that his ears stuck out too far. He had lots of muscle, a waist smaller than hers, and he was smiling.
“I’ll take that,” he said.
At first she didn’t understand what he meant. Then she handed him her wet and folded umbrella. He stepped aside and let her in, placing the umbrella in a stand made from an old metal milk can. He moved with easy precision. Not a drop from the umbrella got on the waxed hardwood floor.
The living room she found herself in was orderly and surprisingly well furnished. Lots of prints-in the sofa, chairs, wallpaper, even lampshades. Here and there were solid-colored red and gray throw pillows. A blue carpet was a shade darker than the walls. It all went together.
“Very nice,” Paula heard herself say admiringly. “Obviously you have a good decorator.”
“My sister. She watches all those decorator shows on cable and practices on my place. I wouldn’t give up my dogs playing poker, though.” He motioned with his head to his left.
My God, there they were! Hanging near the door to a hall Paula saw the same hideous print of dogs seated around a table and playing poker that had hung in the home of one of her uncles in Louisiana.
Linnert limped past her, surprising her with his uneven yet still graceful gait, and motioned for her to sit down on the sofa. She did, finding it as comfortable as it appeared. She noticed a fireplace with artificial gas logs burning in it.
He offered her a cup of hot chocolate, which she made herself refuse.
Linnert sat down in a chair near the sofa. She noticed how blue his eyes were. Shooter’s eyes. He said, “You mentioned questions.”
“Did I?”
“Over the intercom.”
“Oh. Yes.” This guy had her flustered for some reason- she knew the reason-and she didn’t like it.
She gathered her wits and explained to him why she was there, not mentioning, of course, how she’d gotten the information about the Secret Special Forces. Horn had told them Kray was probably risking his career to help them catch this killer.
Harold Linnert leaned back and crossed his legs, then folded his muscular tanned arms across his chest. “A part of my life that’s over,” he said.
