Night Victims

then pointed out the doughnut crumbs on their clothes. There were only three coffee cups and saucers, a small cream pitcher, and sugar packets on the table now. Everyone knew where everyone else stood culinary-wise.

Horn said, “I didn’t want to drag Kray into this any further, so I contacted Altman and asked him about Mandle. Should have known it was a waste of time. Far as the government’s concerned, the SSF and its roster don’t exist and never did.”

“Not even to catch a killer?” Paula asked.

“Alleged killer. And according to Altman, SSF members’ military records are expunged to prevent any possible compromise even after they become civilians. He said he couldn’t help me if he tried.”

“And we know we can believe him,” Bickerstaff said disgustedly.

“Did he ask how we found out about Mandle?” Paula said. “Altman must know he wasn’t a name on the original list of SSF members.”

“The phony list,” Bickerstaff said.

“Useless, anyway,” Horn said. “And no, Altman didn’t ask. And I didn’t exactly use Mandle’s real name anyway. Sometimes it’s best to cast a lie to a liar.”

Paula stared at him. Fibbing to the Feds. You’re just like

Altman. Now and then Horn would do something that jolted her into realizing anew how devious and relentless he was. How he was so much more than a simple, by-the-book cop who’d put in his time, kissed ass, and gotten ahead in the department. She suspected Altman seriously underestimated him.

“Since we’re not even sure Mandle’s his real name,” Horn said, “we weren’t exactly lying to the federal government.”

“Good moral point,” Paula said with a smile. “And a relief to hear. If I were Catholic, I’d have an easier time going to confession Sunday.”

Horn looked at Bickerstaff.

“Botox for my brow, too,” Bickerstaff said.

“A unit like the SSF,” Paula said, “do you think the military might even have purged Mandle’s civilian criminal record?”

“I doubt it,” Horn said, “though it’s possible. I think we can work on the assumption that Mandle never had any brushes with the law.”

“Then why’s he so damned hard to find?” Bickerstaff asked.

“Running from family problems, maybe,” Paula suggested, burning her tongue on the coffee Marla the waitress had just topped off. “Ex-wife, child support, that kind of thing.”

Bickerstaff chewed on the inside of his cheek. A thinking gesture, Paula knew. More chewing. “Maybe he’s got an alias.”

Paula poured in more cream and cautiously tried her coffee again. Much better. “Or maybe Aaron Mandle’s an alias.”

“He has a Social Security number,” Horn told them. “Of course, by now he might have another, or one for every occasion.”

Paula looked across the table at Horn, trying to read him. It was like trying to read slate. “You really convinced Mandle’s our Night Spider?”

“He looks good for it to me.”

“We’ve gotta find this prick and shut him down,” Bicker-staff said. “If for no other reason than so I can go fishing.”

Paula didn’t comment. Trying to get a rise out of me.

“I told Larkin what we have,” Horn said. “He was thrilled, but he’s skeptical.”

“Can you be both those things at the same?” Paula asked.

Horn smiled. “It’s the very juggling act that gets you ahead in the NYPD.” He finished his coffee and rested the empty cup on the white paper napkin he’d folded and placed in his saucer. “Time to do the drone work,” he said. “Make more use of the department computers. I’m told nobody can walk, talk, and breathe on the planet these days without leaving a trail of some sort. We have to find that trail, then follow it.”

Bickerstaff had already stood up. Paula dabbed at her lips with her napkin and slid out of the booth. They’d learned that the emphatic draining of the coffee cup was Horn’s signal that strategy meetings at the Home Away were over.

As they strode from the diner, Bickerstaff waved goodbye to Marla, who was busy behind the counter. She gave him a smile and a nod. Friendly but not too personal. Paula thought that if Bickerstaff had any designs on Marla, he’d better go back to thinking about ice fishing.

Outside in the first clear morning in several days, Bickerstaff said, “You notice that waitress isn’t a bad- looking woman?”

“I’ve noticed,” Paula said. “Though not like you, I’m sure.” And Horn’s noticed.

Horn had drawn an El Laquito Especial cigar from his pocket when Marla approached the booth.

He smiled. “I’m not going to smoke this here. Just unwrapping it so I can enjoy it on the walk home.”

She was carrying a towel, drying her hands on it though they didn’t need drying. He waited for her to warn him about the evils, perils, and addiction of smoking, but she didn’t. “How’s the Night Spider case going?” she asked.

“You seem particularly interested in this one.”

“Sure. I guess I’m hooked.”

Horn found himself hoping that was a double entendre.

“Any closer to catching the creep?” Marla asked.

He could smell the fine Cuban cigar and felt like lighting it while he was right there in the booth. “As a psychologist, I would have thought you’d regard the killer as sick. Dangerous, but still a product of society’s ills.”

“Creep fits all right. And I’m speaking personally, not professionally. What I am now’s a professional food server.”

The strategy meeting had started late that morning, probably because of Paula and Bickerstaff stopping for doughnuts, so it had broken up late. The last of the breakfast crowd had left, and Horn and Marla were alone now, except for the cook and whoever else might be in back beyond the swinging doors to the kitchen.

“You don’t trust me, Horn?”

“You know better.”

He filled Marla in on the case’s progress, while she stood by the booth listening. As he talked, she absently wound the dry dish towel around one of her hands, as if she’d suffered a wound.

“Aaron Mandle,” she said, when Horn was finished. “So your suspect has a name.”

“It might not be his real name. And if it is, he’s very successfully erased any sign of himself and gone into hiding. Knowing a name he’s used is one thing. Finding him is quite another.”

“You’ll probably never find him.”

Horn put the unlit cigar back in his shirt pocket. He was surprised by such a definite statement from her, and he sensed there was something more coming. “The police are better at finding people than a lot of folks think, or do you have an insight you might want to share?”

“I do. Aside from what you’ve just told me, I’ve done a lot of reading on this case, given it a lot of thought and formed some opinions.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re involved. If something happened to you, what would we do with our year’s supply of corn muffins?”

“Enough about me and my vices,” Horn said, hoping he wasn’t revealing how pleased he was with the reason for her interest in the case. “Why do you say the killer will be so hard to find?”

“He’s a sadistic perfectionist,” Marla said, “who murders as an erotic art. And I don’t think that’s putting it too strongly. My assumption is he’s also that careful and detail-oriented in other matters, such as concealing his whereabouts.”

“For a careful man, he’s found himself a pretty risky pastime.”