36

“Who the hell is she?” da Vinci asked.

Beam was standing. Nell and Looper were seated before da Vinci’s desk. Helen Iman, the profiler, was sprawled in a chair over by the computer. The usually organized office was more cluttered than Beam had ever seen it. Papers were scattered over da Vinci’s desk, a stack of file folders leaned precariously on top of the computer monitor. A crumpled yellow slip of some sort had missed the wastebasket. It was almost as if the job were getting away from da Vinci. The Adelaide effect, Beam thought.

He said, “She’s an actress who lives in the Village.”

Da Vinci raised his eyebrows in that way that made him look more than ever like young Tony Curtis. “Successful?”

“Not unsuccessful,” Beam said. “Sings, dances, acts…the whole package.”

“And cute enough to top a dessert,” Looper said.

The others stared at him and he nervously tapped his breast pocket where he used to carry his cigarettes.

“She certainly stirred up some shit,” da Vinci said.

“The kind she wanted,” Beam said, standing with his arms crossed. “She’s front page and leads the news all over town. And out of town. The rest of the country’s getting more and more interested in our predicament, thinking it might happen to them.”

“Do you think she’s the sort who could start a popular movement?” Nell asked.

All three men looked at her disbelievingly.

“She could start things moving that have never moved before,” Looper said.

Da Vinci looked over at Helen. “What do you think of our Adelaide?”

“Not exactly my department,” she said. Her voice was throaty and, in a quiet way, commanded attention. “But I’ll try. She’s self-involved, narrowly focused, clever, and not as dumb as she looks. Or at least she’s got somebody with brains directing her. Don’t let the cute act fool you. Could she start a movement? Think Joan of Arc.”

Da Vinci looked disgusted. This was a turn in the case he hadn’t counted on.

“This city’s gonna have an even tougher time getting anyone to serve on a jury,” Beam said, “unless we get ahead of the curve on this.”

“I’ve heard that advice somewhere before,” da Vinci said. “It seems to have more to do with surfing than homicide investigations.”

“It’s more or less worked.”

“Mostly less. But what do you suggest this time?”

“When she doesn’t report for jury duty,” Beam said, “don’t charge her.”

Da Vinci shook his head. “We can’t let her get away with it and set an example, or nobody will even open their mail from the city unless they need something to wipe their ass.”

“Issue a statement saying she’s being excused because she’s a hardship case.”

“She’s an out-of-work actress,” Nell said. “She’s got nothing else to do, and the city does pay jurors a stipend.”

“Only a stipend,” Looper said. “When last I checked, it was forty dollars a day. That doesn’t take you far in New York.”

“She was in a show until six weeks ago,” Beam said, “a musical called Nuts and Bolts at the Herald Squared Theatre, Off-Off-Broadway. It was panned by the critics, but it ran for almost three months.”

Da Vinci moved an elbow that had been resting on his desk, almost sending a sheet of paper onto the floor. He absently weighted one corner of the paper under one of the wheels of his brass motorcycle sculpture. “And?”

“She’s almost certainly collecting unemployment. It’s a fact of life and a mainstay for most actors. And her jury pay would be deducted from what she draws, at least on a weekly basis. That means she wouldn’t actually be collecting anything for serving as a juror. Her jury service would mean she wouldn’t have time to look for work. We can call her, and theater people like her who are temporarily out of work, hardship cases and excuse them all from jury duty. The media would love it. New York’s supposed to be a friendly town for theatrical performers.”

Da Vinci leaned back in his desk chair. “You’re a devious bastard, Beam.”

Helen dug in a heel and began swiveling an inch back and forth in the swivel chair by the computer. “He really is,” she said, looking at Beam appraisingly.

“Do you think it’d work?” da Vinci asked her.

“Might.”

“Think it’d shut the little pest up?”

“Slow her down, at least.”

Da Vinci smiled. “I gotta say I like it.”

He was still smiling when his phone buzzed, but as he listened to what the caller had to say, the smile faded. His knuckles whitened on the receiver, and he looked at Beam. Away from Beam. Beam didn’t like it.

“Wait here just a minute,” da Vinci said when he hung up. He rose from his desk and left the office before anyone could reply.

“What the hell?” Nell said.

“Looks like it could be bad news,” Looper said, giving his shirt pocket a tap. When a minute or so passed and no one else commented on the obvious, he said, “You ever get your air conditioner fixed, Nell?”

Nell blushed.

She was about to stammer a reply when the door opened and da Vinci blustered back in. He went back behind his desk, sat down, and dropped a piece of red material on his green desk pad.

When he smoothed and straightened out the material, it was about five inches long and cut in the shape of a capital J.

“I wanted to make sure this was like the others,” da Vinci said. “We’ve got another JK victim, over on Third Avenue.”

“Shot?” Looper asked.

“No. Died on the street. Apparently he was made to jump or was pushed from a thirty-first floor balcony. He was an interior decorator who let himself into his client’s apartment and was waiting for her. It looked like it could be a simple accident or suicide until the CSU found the cloth letter tucked into one of his sport coat pockets.”

“Has anyone checked to see if he ever served on a jury?” Nell asked.

“He has,” da Vinci said. “Five years ago. A rape trial. The defendant walked on a technicality.”

“Not the jury’s fault,” Looper pointed out.

“Makes no difference,” da Vinci said. “The jury still could have found him guilty. In our system, a jury can do just about what it damn well pleases.”

“Was he foreman?” Nell asked.

“No, just one of the jurors.”

“Like Tina Flitt,” Nell said.

“We have another change of MO,” Beam said. “Death by falling.”

“A familiar one, though,” da Vinci said, looking at Beam the way he had when he was on the phone. “I think our killer might be trying to tell us something.”

Beam suddenly understood. He felt a chill. “You mean the way Lani died? You can’t think—”

“That he killed your wife to motivate you to become his opponent?” da Vinci said. “I’m afraid it’s possible.”

“But not likely,” Nell said. “If that were true, the killer would have made sure there was a letter J involved. Or he would have made sure some other way that Beam knew who was responsible.”

Da Vinci glanced over at Helen.

“I think she’s right,” Helen said.

“He could still be sending a message, though,” Looper said. “Taunting Beam.”

“Showing us he can get by with anything,” Nell said.

“Sounds more plausible,” Helen said.

Beam slipped his fingertips into his rear pants pockets and paced a few steps toward the file cabinets, then back. He was trying to figure out how he felt about this, sort through grief and anger, reason it out.

Finally he said, “I think Nell’s right. He couldn’t have had anything to do with Lani. And Loop’s right, too. The sick asshole deliberately mimicked Lani’s death to send a message, a taunt.”

Instead of turning to Helen this time, da Vinci seemed to think about it, then nodded. “Yeah, probably a taunt. The apartment with the balcony is a condo unit owned by a woman named Marge Caldwell. Crime scene unit’s over there now getting what they can, but the place got too contaminated when we thought it was accidental death or suicide to give up much in the way of admissible evidence. You can start there on this one. But it looks like our killer got away clean again.”