Night Victims. John Lutz

      Horn had made the call from a public phone rather than his brownstone. Everyone had caller ID these days.

      Caller ID probably would have designated that his call had come from a public phone. Yet, when Goesling told Horn he’d call him back at some point, he hadn’t asked for a number. He probably already knew Horn’s number.

      This stirred the hair on the back of Horn’s neck.

      Neva Taylor stood brushing her hair and staring out her apartment window. At last she had something she’d always wanted: a view of Central Park.

      The apartment itself was smaller than she’d imagined for herself. Her promotion after landing the Massmann Container advertising account hadn’t come with a commensurate salary that allowed for the penthouse she was certain was her eventual destination. Neva, a tall redhead who’d been a cheerleader as well as president of the Women’s Political Forum in college, was long on ambition and knew how to attain her goals. It didn’t hurt that she had large green eyes, a film-star figure, and was stunningly attractive even without the minimal makeup she wore. Her 147 IQ didn’t hurt her chances, either. Add to that artistic talent and a marketing degree, and here she was, a rising star in one of the biggest advertising agencies in the country.

      So she was only temporarily satisfied with this fortieth floor, one-bedroom co-op in the Weldon Tower, one of the most desirable addresses on the Upper East Side. She wouldn’t have been satisfied with it at all except for the Central Park view. In fact, she’d purchased it because she knew she’d have an inside track in the future when one of the penthouse apartments came on the market. She figured that in less than two years she’d be able to afford one. She already had the unit she wanted picked out. It was a spacious three-bedroom, and it had the same view as the smaller, lower unit she’d bought. Sooner or later the present owner, a man who managed a chain of exclusive jewelry stores in New York and Philadelphia, would move. And Neva was prepared to make him an irresistible offer if he wasn’t inclined to move. She’d be able to afford it. Neva planned early and with confidence.

      She turned away from the sweeping green rectangular vista below and surveyed her living room, then the view over a serving counter into the modern kitchen. Neva had moved in only six busy weeks ago, but still the place had a comfortable lived-in look. The living room had a sofa and chair, dark blue to contrast with the soft gray carpeting, an asymmetrical mahogany coffee table from Bloomingdale’s, brass lamps with fluted white shades, red throw pillows, and accent pieces that included a large Bingham print mounted on the wall behind the sofa.

      Near the table in the entry hall hung an unlettered rendering of the Massmann Container Industry full-page ad, a succession of foam cups, each larger than the other, about to collapse together in the manner of subsequently larger fish following and about to devour each other simultaneously. It didn’t match the rest of the expensive decor, but Neva didn’t mind. The advertising artwork did, after all, represent what was responsible for that decor and the co-op unit itself.

      She leaned forward slightly so her forehead rested against the cool glass of the window. This was like a dream, the way her career had unfolded since she’d arrived in New York. Maybe it was true what the gas-bag politicians kept saying, that if you played by the rules, good things could happen. She gazed down at the street that seemed miles below. She was moving higher in the world. She felt herself ascending even as she stood there motionless.

      She gave herself a mental jolt of reality. She didn’t need the penthouse. Not quite yet. This was a suitably comfortable and impressive apartment. And a safe one. The first three floors of the Weldon Tower featured elaborate stonework and curlicued iron bars over the windows. Then the building stair-stepped upward in three soaring, offset planes, with gleaming windows set like a pattern of rectangular jewels. At least they’d seemed that way when Neva had first laid eyes on the building in the bright morning sunlight.

      No need for bars on her windows to distract from the view. Here she was high above the rest of the city. Here she was secure.

      The Night Spider sat on the park bench in the dusk and studied the Weldon Tower through small but high-powered Leica binoculars. What was the woman doing, standing so close to the window, leaning out as if there were no glass between her and the outside world, as if she might be about to take flight? It appeared that her forehead was actually touching the smooth glass pane. Light from a lamp somewhere behind her shone through her flaming red hair, setting it aglow like the lowering sun.

      Moving the binoculars only slightly, the figure on the bench took in the buildings on each side of the Weldon Tower. They were considerably smaller, falling short of the Tower’s height by about ten stories. That was all right. The Night Spider knew that the back of the Weldon, facing the opposite block, was only thirty-five stories, and within reach from the roof of the building behind it. The lower building was snugged up to the Weldon to form a completely enclosed air shaft that was sheer brick wall above the fourth floor.

      To reach the Weldon’s roof, the Night Spider would have to scale ten stories of that wall above the air shaft, avoiding windows overlooking the shaft. Ascent before descent and the prize—the confection to be wrapped and consumed from the inside out. He would not let this one lose consciousness except for brief periods; he would patiently, painfully, draw her out through her eyes. Until…

      He moved the binoculars back to the fortieth-floor window.

      The prize was no longer visible.

      The Night Spider studied the building a while longer, counting windows horizontally and vertically, occasionally making notes in a small pad on his lap.

      “Wacha lookin’ at, Mister?”

      A blond boy about ten, in jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, was stooped down and tying his shoe near the bench.

      “You should get out of the park,” the Night Spider said. “It’s going to be dark soon. Not a safe place.”

      A wide, confident grin. “It’s okay, I’m with my mom.”

      Trudging along the path about a hundred feet away was a large, lumpish woman pushing a blue baby stroller. She was moving slowly and looked tired.

      “So wacha doin’, spyin’on people?” There seemed no hostility or disapproval in the boy’s question.

      “Peregrine falcons,” said the Night Spider.

      “So what’re those?”

      “Birds that hunt other birds. They live in angles and on ledges of buildings high up and snatch other birds right out of the air.”

      “Sounds neat.”

      “It is neat. That’s why I’m a bird watcher. In case your mother asks what the stranger you were talking to was doing. Bird watching. It’s my hobby. I especially like peregrine falcons.”

      The boy raised his eyebrows curiously. “So these falcons just fly over an’ grab the other birds, like pigeons or somethin’ just flyin’ along, an’ then eat them?”

      “That’s pretty much it. They do it fast. Things flying along up high aren’t as safe as they think.”

      “And you watch it?”

      “That’s why I’m here. I watch it and write down what happens.”

      The boy started to say something more, but his mother called sharply and he waved a hand and bolted away to join her. His sneakered feet made soft slapping sounds on the paved path.

      The Night Spider watched the slight, receding figure for a while, then raised the binoculars back to his eyes.

      Found the correct window. …aren’t as safe as they think.