In for the Kill Read online

  Praise for John Lutz

  "Lutz can deliver a hard-boiled P.I. novel or a bloody thriller with equal ease.... The ingenuity of the plot shows that Lutz is in rare form."

  --The New York Times Book Review on Chill of Night

  "Lutz keeps the suspense high and populates his story with a collection of unique characters...an ideal beach read."

  --Publishers Weekly on Chill of Night

  "John Lutz knows how to make you shiver."

  --Harlan Coben

  "John Lutz is one of the masters of the police novel."

  --Ridley Pearson

  "A major talent."

  --John Lescroart

  "I've been a fan for years."

  --T. Jefferson Parker

  "John Lutz just keeps getting better and better."

  --Tony Hillerman

  "Lutz ranks with such vintage masters of big-city murder as Lawrence Block and the late Ed McBain."

  --St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  "Lutz is among the best."

  --San Diego Union

  "Some writers just have a flair for imaginative suspense, and we all should be glad that John Lutz is one of them. The Night Spider features elegant writing enveloping exotic murder and solid police work.... A truly superb example of the 'new breed' of mystery thrillers."

  --Jeremiah Healy

  "Lutz juggles multiple storylines with such mastery that it's easy to see how he won so many mystery awards. Darker Than Night is a can't-put-it-down thriller, beautifully paced and executed, with enough twists and turns to keep it from ever getting too predictable."

  --reviewingtheevidence.com

  "Readers will believe that they just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl after reading this action-packed police procedural...John Lutz places Serpico in a serial killer venue with his blue knights still after him."

  --The Midwest Book Review on Darker Than Night

  "John Lutz knows how to ratchet up the terror.... [He]propels the story with effective twists and a fast pace."

  --Sun-Sentinel (Ft. Lauderdale) on The Night Spider

  "Compelling...a gritty psychological thriller...Lutz's details concerning police procedure, firefighting techniques, and FDNY policy ring true, and his clever use of flashbacks draws the reader deep into the killer's troubled psyche."

  --Publishers Weekly on The Night Watcher

  "John Lutz is the new Lawrence Sanders. The Night Watcher is a very smooth and civilized novel about a very uncivilized snuff artist, told with passion, wit, carnality, and relentless vigor. I loved it."

  --Ed Gorman in Mystery Scene

  "A gripping thriller...extremely taut scenes, great descriptions, nicely depicted supporting players...Lutz is good with characterization."

  --reviewingtheevidence.com on The Night Watcher

  "For a good scare and a well-paced story, Lutz delivers."

  --San Antonio Express News

  "Lutz knows how to seize and hold the reader's imagination."

  --Cleveland Plain Dealer

  "SWF Seeks Same is a complex, riveting, and chilling portrayal of urban terror, as well as a wonderful novel of New York City. Echoes of Rosemary's Baby, but this one's scarier because it could happen."

  --Jonathan Kellerman

  "A psychological thriller that few readers will be able to put down."

  --Publishers Weekly on SWF Seeks Same

  "Lutz is a fine craftsman."

  --Booklist on The Ex

  "Tense and relentless."

  --Publishers Weekly on The Torch

  "The author has the ability to capture his readers with fear, and has compiled a myriad of frightful chapters that captures and holds until the final sentence."

  --New Orleans Times-Picayune on Bonegrinder

  "Likable protagonists in a complex thriller."

  --Booklist on Final Seconds

  "Lutz is rapidly bleeding critics dry of superlatives."

  --St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  "It's easy to see why he's won an Edgar and two Shamuses."

  --Publishers Weekly

  ALSO BY JOHN LUTZ

  Chill of Night

  Fear the Night

  Darker Than Night

  The Night Spider

  The Night Watcher

  The Night Caller

  Final Seconds (with David August)

  The Ex

  Available from Kensington Publishing Corp. and

  Pinnacle Books

  In for the Kill

  JOHN LUTZ

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  At the cross, her station keeping,

  Stood the mournful mother, weeping,

  Where he hung, the dying Lord.

  --Anonymous

  A mother is a mother still,

  The holiest thing alive.

  --Coleridge, The Three Graves

  If I were hung on the highest hill,

  Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

  I know whose love would follow me still,

  Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine.

  --Kipling, Mother O'Mine

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  1

  Did she suspect?

  Have even an inkling?

  He wondered about that as he watched the woman stride along the sidewalk, then shift her purse slightly on her hip as she turned and took the three concrete steps leading to the vestibule of her apartment building. She seemed tired this evening, as if something weighed on her, some of the bounce gone from her step.

  No surprise there, he thought. Surely there's something in us that lets us know within minutes, at least seconds, when the world is about to end.

  Up? Down? Stop? Go?

  The elevator couldn't seem to make up its mind.

  Janice Queen stood alone in its claustrophobic confines and felt her heart hammer. Not that this vertical indecision was anything
new to her. There was only one elevator in her apartment building, and only one way to get to her unit if she didn't want to trudge up six flights of stairs, so it wasn't as if she had much choice. But she'd always had a fear of being confined in close places, elevators in particular. She could never escape the grim knowledge that if there were a serious malfunction--nothing that hadn't happened before to someone--beneath the thin floor under her feet was a black shaft that would lead to sudden and almost certain death.

  At least two times a day, at least five days a week, she rode the elevator up or down the core of the old but recently refurbished apartment building.

  Ah! Finally the elevator settled down, having more or less leveled itself at the sixth floor. When the door slid open, it revealed a step up of about four inches, enough to trip over if you didn't notice, and to provide a glimpse into the black abyss. A kind of warning.

  Janice was living her life contentedly, going back and forth to her job at the bookshop, going out on the occasional date, or to hang out with friends at Bocco's down the block, or to pick up some takeout at the corner deli. Hers was a life like millions of others in the city.

  The elevator could end it in an instant.

  Ridiculous, she thought, as she stepped up onto the soft carpeting of the sixth-floor hall, nevertheless feeling uneasy while momentarily astride the abyss.

  Her apartment door was only a few feet away from the elevator, which meant she could hear, even late at night, the device's cables strumming soft and somber chords just behind her walls, as well as a muffled thumping and bumping as it adjusted itself at each stop. Which meant she thought about the damned elevator too much, even dreamed about it, and had become reasonably convinced that death by elevator was her destiny.

  She unlocked her way into her apartment and went inside. Dim. She flipped the light switch, and there she was in the full-length mirror that she paused in front of to check her appearance each time she came or went.

  There was the rumpled, wearier version of the Janice she'd said good-bye to this morning on her way to work, not quite forty, still slim, with generous breasts, passable legs, and shoulder-length brown hair framing a face that was sweet rather than classically beautiful. Too much jaw, she thought. And those damned lines. They were only visible if the light was cruel or you looked closely enough. Fine lines like drool extended down from the corners of her lips. Crow's-feet threatened to appear at the corners of her dark eyes. Intimations of a lonely future. She still attracted men, but of course it was easier to attract than to keep them. Or, sometimes, to get rid of them.

  The mirror was mounted on the door to a small closet. She looped her purse's leather strap over the doorknob, then removed the lightweight gray blazer she'd worn to work over her dark slacks and white blouse, and hung it in the closet between her heavier coat and a blue Windbreaker. She might drop the blazer off at the dry cleaner's tomorrow morning, wear the Windbreaker if it was cool enough outside and looked like rain. The bookshop's owner, Dee, was out of town, supposedly on business but actually seeing a married man with whom she was having a hot affair. Janice wasn't supposed to know about it, so she pretended right along with Dee. So there Dee was, getting her brains screwed scrambled while Janice, who now and then felt a spasm of jealousy, was dutifully opening the shop early every morning this week.

  Not enough sleep for Janice, since she was addicted to late-night movies on television. Her lessening love of the moment, Graham, was also traveling, as he often did in his sales job, and wouldn't be back in town until tomorrow. They'd almost but not quite argued when she said good-bye to him at Bocco's. Janice knew their relationship was winding down and had decided to end it herself rather than wait for Graham. As she grew older, she more and more felt the need to exercise control in her life. Always before, she had waited. Not this time. Maybe the pain would be less severe.

  She did know from experience that sooner or later another Graham would enter the bookshop, or use some timeworn pickup line at Bocco's.

  As she closed the closet door, the intercom buzzed, startling her.

  She went to it and pressed the button. "Yes?"

  "Federal Parcel," said a male voice, made distant and metallic by the intercom. "For a Janice...Queeler?"

  "Queen?" she asked.

  "Queen. Sorry."

  Janice pressed the button to buzz in the deliveryman.

  A few seconds later the elevator cables began to thrum in the wall. He was on his way up with her package.

  She opened the door and stepped out in the hall to meet him.

  The elevator did its laborious dance, its door hissed open, and out he stepped, a medium-sized guy, dark hair, kind of handsome, wearing wrinkled khakis and a sweat-stained blue T-shirt, white joggers. He was carrying a long white box that looked like the kind used to deliver long-stemmed flowers, only made of heavier cardboard. He smiled, glancing down at the box to double-check the label.

  "Janice Queen?"

  "Yes." She saw no pocket in his shirt, no protruding pen or pencil. Other than the box, there was nothing in his hands, either.

  Should have brought a pen from the desk. There's one in my purse, just inside the door.

  No clipboard?

  None of this struck her as wrong until a second too late.

  As she reached forward to accept the package, he shoved her violently backward into the apartment. She bumped hard against the mirror, hoping it wouldn't break.

  He was suddenly inside, the door closed behind him. Now he was reaching into a pocket with his free right hand, drawing out what looked like a partly wadded sock, a sap.

  Is this happening? Is it real?

  Somewhere in her stunned, panicked mind she decided to scream, and she'd inhaled to do so when the object from the man's pocket struck the side of her head.

  She was on her hands and knees, sickened by the pain.

  Someone else. This is happening to someone else. Please!

  There was another starburst of pain, this time at the back of her skull.

  The floor opened beneath her, and she was plunging down a dark shaft toward a deeper darkness.

  Pearl Kasner trudged up the concrete steps from her subway stop and began the three-block walk to her apartment. She was short and buxom, curvaceous in a way her gray uniform couldn't conceal. A few men walking the other way fixed their stares on her breasts then quickly looked away, the way men do. As if the wife might be around somewhere watching.

  She was tired and her feet were sore. There'd been a cash pickup at Fifth National, so she'd worked after hours. Helping the Brink's guys make sure the depositors' money was safe. Not that there was really much danger the place would be robbed.

  But some danger. Enough. And enough pay.

  Hard on the feet, though. Pearl spent a lot of time standing around. And being nice. That could be tiresome.

  No job was perfect, and all things considered, she liked this one. Liked wearing the gray uniform instead of the blue. Easier hours. Fewer complications. And flat feet in middle age either way.

  A couple of suits walking toward her stared at her breasts, then one of them lifted his gaze to her face. He smiled.

  None of the men said anything, though. Because of the uniform.

  Or maybe because she was wearing a gun.

  Cold.

  Pain.

  Janice Queen couldn't move. Not a muscle.

  Where?

  Janice opened her eyes to bright light and a familiar gray tile wall. She knew she was in her bathroom. Uncomfortable. Cramped. She tried to raise her head but couldn't. She raised only her eyes and saw the chromed showerhead.

  Knowing now that she was seated leaning back in her bathtub, she let her eyes explore. She was nude, her body textured with gooseflesh where it showed above the water.

  Water?

  That was why she was so cold. Water was running from the spigot. Only cold water. It was well above her waist.

  Her arms were crossed just beneath her breasts and bound
so tightly she couldn't move them, couldn't feel them. Straining hard, she glanced toward her feet, which she at least could barely feel. Her calves and ankles, even her thighs, were bound together tightly with gray duct tape. Janice could wriggle her toes--underwater--but that was it.

  Her head was throbbing so that the pain was almost unbearable.

  She tried to call out and discovered she couldn't make a sound. She couldn't move her lips. Her probing tongue found rough surface when she managed to part her lips slightly. The roughness and tackiness of tape. There had to be duct tape across her mouth.

  The deliveryman entered the bathroom. He was nude, as she was. He only glanced at her, which frightened her even more because it was as if she no longer mattered much to him. Not alive.

  He turned his back on her, stooped, and began searching through the cabinet beneath the washbasin, pulling out liquid soap, a large bottle of shampoo. He placed the containers on the edge of the tub, then left the bathroom. She heard him rummaging around in the kitchen, banging cabinet doors, opening and closing drawers.

  The water was almost up to her armpits now. She panicked for a second, then made herself remain calm. What was he going to do with the soap and shampoo?

  Is he going to wash me? Is this some crazy sexual thing? Will he do something to me then go away?

  It's possible. It could happen. It must happen!

  She was part of the singles world and knew about the kinky things that went on in Manhattan. The hard-earned knowledge was something to cling to for hope. He might satisfy whatever oddball compulsion drove him, then simply leave.

  When he returned he was carrying boxes of dishwasher soap and laundry detergent from the cabinet beneath the sink. And he had his long white box, which he placed on the toilet seat lid. The dishwasher soap and laundry detergent he put next to the other cleaning agents.

  The water was at the base of her neck now. In the lower edge of her vision she could see long strands of her brown hair floating on the surface. It reminded her of seaweed she'd seen fanned and floating like that years ago when she was on a Caribbean vacation.

  If only she could scream!

  He gave her another glance, then leaned over her and turned off the water.