Night Victims

“Fuck you, anyway!”

New York.

As she entered the Home Away, she saw scrawled on the placard that tonight’s special was going to be veal parmesan, including roll and salad. Something to know, she thought, in case she was abducted by a motorcycle gang and dumped nearby.

At least it was cool in the diner. There were a few customers, despite the fact that it was the restaurant business void between lunch and dinner. An elderly couple sat in a window booth drinking milkshakes. A guy who looked like a bum was slouched on a stool at the end of the counter, sipping what appeared to be cola with a straw in it. Maybe too drunk to realize he wasn’t in a bar.

A man who looked like he was from the Middle East was perched on a high stool behind the counter, thumbing through a Sports Illustrated. He stood up when Nina walked in.

“Whatever he’s drinking,” she said, motioning with her head toward the homeless type using the straw.

The counterman smiled, put down his magazine, and went to the glasses and taps behind the counter.

Nina saw Horn sitting in a back booth. There was a woman with him, a fortyish, slender brunette, nice looking in a classy way, wearing a white blouse and what looked like Levis. White slip-on sandals showed beneath the booth’s table. The waitress on her day off. The waitress-psychologist. Jesus!

Horn had told her about the woman-Marla, was her name. He’d wanted Marla to be in on this because basically it was her idea. At least she’d given Horn the idea. What was going on here? Was Horn stepping out on that stuck-up blond wife of his? Screwing the waitress? Naughty, naughty, Horn! Lucky waitress!

With misgivings, Nina paid for her Pepsi and walked back to join them.

Toward the rear of the diner the mingled scents of lunch were still in the air: pastrami and overfried onions, maybe a spicy mustard somebody had spilled. After introductions, Nina sat down. Horn and Marla were on one side of the booth, Nina across from them. A souvenir American flag was tacked to the wall behind the counter. On the wall to Nina’s left was a large, framed black-and-white aerial photo of the Statue of Liberty. That was about it for motif.

Horn explained the plan. It was simple. Beginning with tonight’s six o’clock newscast, Nina, with occasional advice from Marla, was to step up her campaign of denigrating the Night Spider, heavier on direct insult and humiliation. Then she’d go about her business as usual, driving home after work, maybe stopping for a late snack as she often did, renting a video movie at Hollywoodland near her building, then spending the evening in her apartment and going to bed at her usual time.

The difference was she’d be protected, surreptitiously, by an army of NYPD undercover cops.

The difference was a world-class serial killer was going to try for her.

The difference was, she’d be bait.

“Bait,” she said, thinking aloud.

“That’s what you wanted,” Horn told her.

Nina forced a nervous smile. “I can’t deny it.”

“Are you having second thoughts?” Marla asked.

“Sure. Wouldn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t have had first thoughts, myself.”

“I’ll play the victim looking for victimizer,” Nina said. “I finish what I start.”

“Are you looking for a victimizer?” Marla asked, calm dark eyes fixed on Nina.

Nina laughed. Mind your own business, bitch. “Not hardly. Though I understand that’s how the Night Spider might see me. That is, if I’m playing the role well. The unattainable, therefore, more desirable. The haughty who thinks she’s superior. The eternal brat who needs a harsh lesson. The challenge.”

Marla was nodding. “You do understand.”

“Maybe not everything,” Nina said. “I haven’t spent a lot of time around serial killers. Not intimate time, anyway.”

Horn took a sip of coffee. “You won’t see us, but you’ll be as safe as possible. Even in your bedroom. Especially in your bedroom. The more unaware of us you are, the better. Nothing in your actions will tip off anyone that you’re being guarded. If he goes for you, he won’t get you.”

“Can you promise me that, Horn?”

He shook his head slowly. “You know I can’t.”

“All right. So we understand each other. We all know that sometimes the fish steals the bait.”

“Not this time,” Horn said. “Not if I can help it.”

“That’s all I ask,” Nina said.

Marla pushed aside her coffee cup and saucer and leaned toward Nina. “When you talk about him on the air, question his manhood, suggest he can’t find sex any other way, or that he’s impotent so he has to use a knife. Cowardly’s effective, too, with this kind of asshole. Make it clear you think he’s a coward, and that everyone else-all your viewers-think he’s yellow. And don’t hesitate to say he’s mentally ill. Use the word sick as often as possible.”

“I know how to get to him,” Nina said.

“But keep it as a mind-set so your words come naturally,” Marla said. “Don’t script it or make it too obvious. Remember, you’re trying to seduce him. You’re weaving a web.”

“Like his webs,” Nina said.

“Very much so.” Marla and Horn exchanged glances.

They both liked the web analogy. And Nina thought there might be something else in that glance. She was always looking for changes in relationships, chinks in armor, potential leverage.

“If everything’s done right,” Marla said, “this killer will try for you. He can’t ignore a dare.”

“Everything on my end will be done right,” Nina said.

“In a way, your job’s easy,” Horn told her. “Simply lean harder on the Night Spider and live your usual life.”

“There’s a distinction between simply and easy,” Nina said. She looked at Marla. “You were a psychologist?”

“Yes. A psychoanalyst.”

“It shows.”

“Now and then. Like old scars.”

Nina didn’t ask her why she was waiting tables instead of overcharging an endless line of neurotics by the hour. Nina would find out in her own time and way. Scars were part of her business. You had to find them in order to pick at old wounds. “Interesting work, psychoanalysis.”

“It can be too interesting.”

“That why you gave it up? It became too interesting?”

“Too personal.”

“Maybe after this you’ll have a career as a profiler.” Nina rotated her right wrist and glanced at the oversized watch she never wore on the air. “I’ve gotta go invent some news.”

“And make some,” Horn said.

“One way or the other, huh?”

“Not the other, Nina. And you don’t have to do this.”

“You know I have to finish doing it, Horn.” She smiled. “Or finish getting you to finish it.”

“You set it up that way, Nina. Practicing to deceive.”

“Jesus! Poetry from a homicide cop! That’s what I find fascinating about you, Horn.” She stood up from the booth and looked down at Marla. “Webs again, hey?”

“Hey,” Marla said.

“Men.”

“Men,” Marla agreed.

She and Horn watched Nina stride from the diner, tall even in her sneakers, hips switching and long arms swinging with each stride. Arie, the guy behind the counter, lowered his Sports Illustrated and looked. The homeless type at the counter even turned his shaggy head to watch her passing.