Night Victims

The first two were in their early thirties, Nora in her early forties. All at least reasonably attractive. The first two were public figures. They were killed after Mandle dropped down like a spider from the roof and entered through their bedroom windows. The nurse was killed after her apartment was entered through the door.”

“Because Mandle wanted to send a message,” Paula reminded Bickerstaff.

He grunted again and nodded. “Thirty-seven stab wounds in the first and second victims, thirty-five in the nurse. All three with their heads bashed in.”

“He might simply have lost track of the number of stab wounds,” Horn said.

“Or was scared away,” Paula said.

“Or got bored.” Bickerstaff dropped his notepad on the table. “I could go on, but it looks like the same killer to me. The nurse’s death looks quite a bit different from the other two until you start listing similarities.”

“Different nonetheless,” Paula said. She yawned.

Made Bickerstaff yawn. He glared at her as if he resented it.

“Let’s catch up on some rest,” Horn said, “before we all drift off here in the diner.”

Bickerstaff said, “You think he knows we meet here?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to Horn or, apparently, to Paula, who was looking at him with a stunned expression.

“I mean,” Bickerstaff went on, “Mandle knows who’s working his case. And we’ve been using this diner like it was a squad room.”

“It’s always possible,” Horn said, watching Marla bring the impatient customer in the window booth a glass of orange juice. For a second, he thought about calling Larkin, getting protection for Marla. But he couldn’t do that. How many women could he insist the overworked NYPD protect? And Rollie would ask, what was Marla Winger to Horn?

Horn had no concrete answer.

“Let’s meet back here about two this afternoon,” he said, sliding out of the booth and standing. He tossed enough money on the table to cover breakfast and a tip.

Both men stood aside and let Paula lead the way toward the door. They all paused to say good-bye to Marla, who was now busy behind the counter.

At the door, Paula stopped and stood still. “Wait a minute!”

“You’re letting out the air-conditioning,” said Mr. Impatient with the orange juice.

She realized she was holding the door open and went the rest of the way outside. Horn and Bickerstaff followed. Heat and noise wrapped around them like a blanket.

“You said Letty Fonsetta’s first name was short for Nicole.”

“Nicolette,” Bickerstaff said.

“Think of the three victims in the order of their deaths,” Paula said, keeping her voice down and moving back against the building so passersby wouldn’t overhear. “Their first names.”

“Jesus!” Horn said.

Bickerstaff looked from one of them to the other.

“Alice, Nicolette, and Nora,” Horn said grimly. “The first letters of their names spell Ann.”

“Maybe a coincidence,” Bickerstaff said.

“They don’t exist,” Paula told him. Something she’d heard Horn say.

“It’s too much of a stretch not to be deliberate.” Horn had removed a cigar from his shirt pocket when they left the diner. Now he put it back.

“Remember the note Mandle sent her,” Paula said. “A-N-N-E, with the dashes between capital letters.”

“I’ll be damned!” Bickerstaff said. “The son of a bitch is leading up to Anne’s murder, spelling out her name with his victims’ first initials.”

“If that’s true,” Paula said, “there’ll be another Night Spider murder before he tries for Anne. The victim will be a woman whose first name begins with E.”

Bickerstaff gazed out at the traffic, at the endless stream of vehicles and countless pedestrians. The expression on his face suggested he was thinking about all the Ellens and Emmas out there. “At least we have the note he sent Anne, so we know we’ve got a little time.”

Paula stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bickerstaff turned to look at her. “We can be sure he knows how to spell her name.”

The two o’clock meeting with Paula and Bickerstaff had yielded nothing else new. Horn was wearing down. He didn’t bother undressing or going up to his bedroom. He merely removed his shirt and shoes and stretched out on the sofa in the living room. Planes of sunlight dancing with dust motes sliced in through the spaces between shades and window frames. The chaotic but muted sounds of the city found their way inside and were oddly relaxing. Four familiar walls, dimness, cracks of sunlight, sounds of human connection too distant to be threatening. .

Horn rested the back of his wrist on his forehead, blocking some of the light, and closed his eyes.

He woke in darkness.

Horn was hungry, but he was sure that wasn’t what had woken him.

He straightened his right arm and worked it back and forth until most of the soreness was gone. Then he sat up on the sofa, managed to stand, and switched on a table lamp. He saw by the grandfather clock that it was past 9:00 P.M.

Great! He’d intended to check and make sure Anne’s security had been increased and was in place. And he wanted to call Anne and reassure her. He rubbed the back of his hand across his lips. They seemed to be glued together.

As he staggered through the brownstone toward the bathroom, switching on lights as he went, he wondered if he should tell Anne about how Mandle was spelling out her name with victims before trying to kill her. A sadistic game played by an expert. If she knew about his latest gambit, she might feel all the more helpless.

By the time he’d relieved his bladder and was leaning over the washbasin splashing handfuls of cold water on his face, he decided Anne deserved to know. It was, after all, her life that was at stake. There might even be an odd comfort in the knowledge that probably another victim, whose first initial was E, stood between her and her encounter with the Night Spider.

But he’d also have to tell her that might be precisely what Mandle wanted the police to think, so he’d have an easier time getting to her.

After putting on his shoes and a clean shirt, Horn phoned Lieutenant Howard Burton, who’d been put in charge of Anne’s security detail. From Burton he learned that two more undercover cops disguised as hospital employees had been placed in the hospital on Anne’s floor, and another uniformed cop was stationed in the lobby. Good. More visibility. But the NYPD was aiming for an arrest, while Horn’s top priority was prevention. Anne was working in her office at the hospital now, he was told, with her uniformed guard outside her door.

When Horn had hung up on Burton, he phoned Anne’s direct line.

“You doing all right?” he asked.

“Only if you call worrying about getting sued and getting killed doing all right.” She sounded tired. Discouraged.

“You should leave the city, Anne. Go somewhere you know you’ll be safe until we find Mandle.”

“That sounds so much simpler than it is. And how do you know I would be safe? Or that you’ll ever find him? In the meantime, I’ve got a life to live.”

“Mandle sees you as a life to take. You’re running a big risk, choosing this as the time to assert yourself and prove your independence.”

“The time chose me, Thomas. And this isn’t political correctness or feminist dogma. I’m clear-eyed about the facts and who and what I am. And I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to be a victim of fear.”

“How about of murder?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t afraid. I said I wasn’t going to be a victim. Any kind of victim, including one who’s