by John Lutz
At first he could still see, at least slightly, but once he was outside the building, he soon became blinded by the intensity of his tears. They were like acid.
He’d moved fast initially, bumping into things. He had to get as far away as possible from the screaming that was sure to follow.
And Jane Nixon did find her way outside and screamed. She screamed over and over. But by then he was almost a block away and barely heard. The lucky punch he’d gotten in before running must have dazed her for a while. Good luck to go with the bad.
Though he didn’t remember actually working out the idea in his mind, he’d almost immediately dug the sunglasses from his pocket and pretended to be blind-legally blind. Why else would someone be wearing dark glasses on a New York street at two in the morning?
He’d managed to wave and attract the attention of a compassionate cabby, who pulled his taxi to the curb and talked him into the backseat step by step, like an air controller instructing a novice pilot how to land.
The Skinner put on a smile and thanked him, then gave him an intersection by Central Park as a destination.
After a few blocks, the cabby said, “How’d you come to be out wandering by yourself… I mean, not being able to see and all?”
“I’ve been blind since I was ten years old,” the Skinner said, “but my eyes are the only parts of me that don’t work well. Believe it or not, my girlfriend threw me out of her apartment.”
“In the middle of the night? Morning? Whatever? Hell of a thing to do to someone sight impaired.”
“It was mostly my fault. I picked a bad time to confess that once, in a moment of weakness, I made love to her… I’m almost ashamed to say this.”
“Go ahead,” the cabbie said. “I’ve heard everything. Taxis are like confessionals.”
“I had sex with her mother.”
The cabbie shook his head and laughed. “Pardon me. I know it ain’t funny. But I can see how it could happen. I mean, my motherin-law had a body made me wish my wife took after her and not her father. Why the hell did you tell her?”
“Conscience,” said the Skinner. “I’ve always been plagued by my conscience. Don’t make the same mistake. You can see where it gets you.”
“Not to worry about me,” the cabbie said. They drove in silence for a while. “I gotta ask…”
“The mother,” the Skinner said.
The cabbie laughed again. “Makes sense. More experience.” He made a left turn and headed toward the park. “I guess you won’t make that mistake again, huh?”
“Neither mistake,” the Skinner said, easing over to where the cabbie couldn’t see him in the rearview mirror. He raised his tinted glasses and dabbed at his watering eyes with his shirtsleeve.
If he could make it into the park and stay out of sight, hide in the bushes or woods for a while, he should be able to wait until whatever Jane Nixon had sprayed in his eyes had worn off, at least to the point where he could see clearly and his eyes weren’t so itchy and watery. It wouldn’t hurt for it to be daylight out, either.
When the cab came to a stop and the cabbie called out the fare, the Skinner handed him what he thought was a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
“You sure?” the cabbie asked.
“Sure,” said the Skinner, and opened the cab door on what he figured was the sidewalk side.
“You want some help?” the cabbie asked.
“No. I’ll just lean on that wall a little while and I’ll be fine. This is my neighborhood, so it’s familiar to me. I’ll be able to figure out enough to make my way on my own.”
“You positive?”
“Positive,” the Skinner confirmed. “I don’t want to seem stubborn, but I like to think I’m not completely helpless.”
“Okay. I can understand that. Good luck to you, friend.”
The Skinner waited until he heard the cab drive away; then he made his way not toward one of the apartment buildings behind him, but toward the park. Through his tears he could see oncoming headlights. They were some distance up the street, so he knew he’d be able to cross safely enough.
As for Central Park at night, that could be dangerous.
The Skinner had to smile.
Fedderman didn’t feel like getting out of bed and going to work. Mostly, he didn’t feel like leaving Penny. He looked over at her across the white plain of his pillow. It felt so natural waking up next to her, smelling her perfume, feeling the warmth of her. As if they’d been doing this for decades instead of days.
Penny was breathing deeply and evenly, her lips slightly parted. Fedderman couldn’t know for sure, but he thought she might be smiling in her sleep.
It was ironic, Fedderman thought, how something so tragic could be the source of something as wonderful as his relationship with Penny. It would seem, since he was part of the investigation into her sister’s murder, that the gruesome crime would be a barrier between them. Instead, it seemed to make them closer, as if sharing the knowledge of such a thing had created a bond. They understood intimately the fickle nature of death and appreciated each other all the more. That the death was so vivid and real made life all the more so.
His cell phone on the table by the bed began vibrating and buzzing loudly, bouncing on the smooth wood surface. Fedderman knew that if he didn’t grab it fast it would dance off the table. If it missed the throw rug, it might shatter on the hardwood floor.
He located the phone by touch almost immediately, closed his hand around it, and drew it close to him. It pulsed again, like a live bird cupped in his hand. He was aware of Penny, a pair of sleep-puffed eyes. She was up on one elbow, curious to know who was calling.
Fedderman looked at caller ID and pressed the talk button, silently mouthing work to Penny. She let her head fall back on the pillow.
“Where are you, Feds?” Quinn’s voice asked on the phone.
“Whaddya mean, where am I?” Not that it’s anybody’s business. Fedderman felt the light touch of Penny’s fingertips on his bare stomach, then his thigh.
“Never mind,” Quinn said. “Where you need to be is what concerns me. Come in to the office ASAP. Something interesting’s going on.”
Something interesting here, too. “What is it?” Fedderman asked.
But Quinn was no longer on the phone.
“Damn it!”
“Something wrong?” Penny asked.
“The only thing I know for sure is wrong is that I have to get dressed and leave.”
Fedderman wouldn’t mention it to Penny, but as he came more awake he felt a growing eagerness to learn the reason for Quinn’s call. There’d been something in Quinn’s voice, the controlled urgency of a predator closing in on its prey. Signaling the rest of the pack. Fedderman the predator had heard the message and caught the mood. Penny couldn’t be expected to understand that, when Fedderman didn’t himself.
He did know that over a week had passed since Tanya Moody’s body was discovered. It was about time for the Skinner to take another victim, spill more blood. He was following a classic serial-killer pattern, striking more often and with increasing viciousness.
Fedderman climbed out of bed, stood on the cool hardwood floor, and looked around. He even stooped to glance under the bed.
Where the hell…?
“What’s going on?” Penny asked, propped back up on her elbow.
“Jockey shorts,” Fedderman said, “if I can find them.”
“Go ahead and take your shower,” Penny said, getting out of bed. “I’ll find your shorts. If I don’t, you can wear something of mine.”
It took Fedderman a few seconds to realize she was joking.
Out on the sidewalk, he felt an exhilarating disconnection from the people around him. They were on their way to work, maybe some of them with night jobs coming home from work, doing normal things, thinking everyday thoughts.
Fedderman knew he looked like one of them, but this morning he was different.
Behind him lay the woman he
loved, sexually sated and alone, and he was on the hunt. Ancient blood ruled his thinking. If the tone of Quinn’s voice was any indication, they were closing in on a killer.
Fedderman’s wrist brushed his thigh, and his shirt cuff came unbuttoned. He didn’t notice. He quickened his pace.
79
The office was warm but dry, and not much street noise filtered in from outside. Expectancy charged the air like high-tension electricity.
Quinn was waiting until Fedderman had arrived before going into detail for Vitali, Mishkin, and Pearl.
Fedderman entered the office and glanced around. “So where’s the suspect?”
Quinn looked at Fedderman’s eyes. He’s joking, but he’s locked in .
“You said on the phone you had something interesting,” Fedderman said. “I figured there’d been an arrest.”
“You seem pissed off,” Pearl said. “Is there some personal reason you didn’t want to come in a little early this morning?”
Pearl and her antenna, Fedderman thought. But then it didn’t take a genius to know what was going on. Penny was attractive.
Quinn, knowing what Pearl was thinking, smiled over at her.
Damned Quinn!
Fedderman walked over to the coffee brewer as if he hadn’t heard what Pearl said. He poured himself half a cup and added cream. Stirred with one of the plastic spoons.
Everyone waited patiently until he came back to join them. He leaned with his haunches against the edge of a desk. The four of them were perched that way, like birds on a wire. Quinn, behind his desk, was the only one actually seated.
“Late last night,” he said, “a thirty-year-old woman named Jane Nixon came home alone from salsa dancing at a place down the block from where she lived. She unlocked her apartment door and started to go inside. That’s when a man approached and shoved her all the way in, then followed her into the dark apartment and closed the door behind him.”
“Our guy?” Fedderman asked.
“That’s my guess,” Quinn said. “He made sure the door was locked so she couldn’t get out in a hurry even if she reached it, then he came toward her carrying what she called ‘a curvy little knife.’” Quinn looked at his four detectives in turn. “This all happened within seconds. But while she’d been stumbling across the room after he shoved her, Nixon, who still had her hand in her purse after returning the keys when she unlocked her door, also had her hand near a small canister of mace she always carried.”
“Tricky Nixon,” Vitali said.
“Our assailant thought he had her cowed, and right where he wanted her. He was surprised when she waited till he was close, and then suddenly shot mace into his face from about a foot away. He got a snoot full.
“She spun and ran into the bedroom, and he made toward the door to the hall. He could still see well enough to get outta the building while Nixon was calling nine-one-one.”
“What about Jane Nixon?” Pearl asked. “She get a look at him?”
“Not a good look. She was close when she let fly with the mace, and some of the stuff got in her eyes, too. She was half blind when the uniforms arrived at her apartment.”
“Unhurt so far, though,” Vitali said.
“Physically, she sustained only a small knife cut on her forearm.”
“Poor thing’s probably still scared stiff,” Mishkin said.
“She’ll be scared for a while,” Quinn said.
“The knife sounds right,” Fedderman said.
“Everything sounds right,” Quinn said. “Right, and then fortunately interrupted.”
“Did anybody see this sicko flee the premises?” Vitali asked.
“Maybe,” Quinn said. “We got a cab driver picked up a guy near Nixon’s apartment building in the right time frame. A blind man, no less, wearing dark glasses and bumping into things. No seeing-eye dog or cane, just blind faith. Cabbie said he drove the fare to an intersection near Central Park and left him there.”
“He left a blind man near Central Park at night?” Fedderman asked.
“There are big apartment buildings on the other side of Central Park West, facing the park. The cab driver figured his fare was gonna enter one of them. The guy also gave him a line of bullshit about wanting to make it the rest of the way home by himself, so he’d feel self-reliant and useful.”
“A man with pride,” Vitali said.
“Those were the cabbie’s exact words. So he drove away and left the guy.”
“Smartest thing he ever did,” Fedderman said.
“Or luckiest,” Pearl said.
“He said he did glance in the rearview mirror when he was a little way down the street. The blind man was cautiously crossing the street, relying almost entirely on his sense of hearing not to be run down by some hard-charging motorist.” Quinn looked at his detectives and didn’t see optimism. “Nixon was raped six years ago and picked out her attacker from a lineup. The man she falsely accused got out of prison less than a year ago on new DNA evidence. He’s all alibied up.”
“Too bad Nixon didn’t get much of a look at her attacker,” Pearl said.
“She did say she thought he was average height and build. The word average came up a lot.”
“It always does,” Fedderman said.
“What about our guy Link Evans?” Vitali asked. “He was starting to look good for it.”
“Different story. His wife in Missouri said he was at a big numismatic convention in Denver.”
“That’s coin collecting?” Vitali asked, to be sure.
Quinn nodded.
“In point of fact,” Mishkin said, “he might collect other kinds of money, Sal, not only coins.”
Vitali glared at him, still intolerant from his confinement in the car with Mishkin. “What the hell does that mean, Harold?”
“Bills. Paper money…”
“No. ‘In point of fact.’ What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“In this case it means he was lucky,” Pearl said.
“Not exactly,” Quinn said. “Seems there is no coin show in Denver. Hasn’t been one there in weeks.”
Focus narrowed. Attitudes changed immediately.
Pearl stood up away from her desk. “We’ve got him.”
“Not yet,” Quinn told her. “And not for sure. We still can’t be positive he’s the Skinner.”
“Maybe you ’re not positive,” Pearl said, “but I-”
The door banged open, and Jerry Lido came stumbling in.
One lapel of Lido’s wrinkled sport coat was twisted inside out. His stained paisley tie was loosely knotted and flung back over one shoulder, as if he was battling a strong headwind in an open-cockpit plane. He needed a shave, and his eyes were reminiscent of stuffed olives.
“Don’t you look like shit,” Pearl said.
“Been busy,” Lido said, shuffling his feet with nervous energy.
Pearl could smell the gin. She knew Quinn must, too. “Been at the bottle?” she asked.
“Just enough to straighten me out so I could come over here,” Lido said. “I been at the computer.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “I found out a couple of things.”
“I told them about the nonexistent Denver coin convention,” Quinn said.
“Found something other’n that,” Lido said. “Link Evans took a flight out of Kansas City two days ago, not to Denver, but to Philadelphia.”
“So Denver was a feint,” Vitali said.
“He rent a car in Philly?” Pearl asked.
“No,” Lido said. “But he coulda taken a train right into New York City. It’s an easy commute, and if he paid cash for his ticket, there’s no way to check.”
“Security tapes,” Pearl said.
“Maybe. But that might take weeks. Months, even. And they might’ve missed him, or had a bad camera angle. You know security cameras.”
Pearl did.
Quinn slowed Lido down enough to tell him about last night’s attack on Jane Nixon.
“Okay,” Lido said, still v
ibrating. “That dovetails. I think Evans trained into New York, and he paid Jane Nixon a visit. Then, after spending the night in New York, it was back to Philadelphia.”
“Or somewhere nearby,” Pearl said.
“I checked his round-trip ticket,” Lido said. “He’s due back in Kansas City at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“We can meet him when he comes through security,” Quinn said.
“Call the K.C. cops,” Vitali said.
“You’re thinking like you’re still NYPD,” Fedderman said. “Besides, we’ve gotta be certain about this guy.”
“If he gets a whiff of cop, he’s gonna go underground and we might never get him,” Vitali said.
“Pearl and I will fly to Missouri and meet him in Edmundsville when he comes home,” Quinn said. “I want to talk to the wife before he gets there, be sure of our facts so we don’t make asses of ourselves.”
“If he’s the Skinner,” Pearl said, “wifey will know. She might not have admitted it to herself yet, but she’ll know. And when she does admit it, we can be sure.”
She smiled faintly at Quinn. Quinn and Pearl, thinking alike again.
“Get on the phone or Internet and get us airline tickets to whatever’s closest to Edmundsville,” Quinn told Pearl. “Let’s see if we can get into a motel near there to use as our base, then drive in early tomorrow morning and talk to the wife before hubby arrives.”
“I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for his chances,” Vitali said.
Mishkin said, “I bet he knows exactly what one of those is worth.”
80
Hogart, the present
Mathew Wellman was eating chocolate ice cream. He would spoon it into his mouth with one hand, and with the other manipulate the mouse and keyboard of Westerley’s computer. With Westerley’s permission, and charge card, Mathew had added to the computer memory chips and apps and features that Westerley not only had never heard of but still didn’t understand.
Bobi had soon developed a liking for young Mathew and brought him snacks from time to time, even on days when she wasn’t working.
Westerley sat at his desk and observed Mathew, marveling at how his gooey fingers danced. The sheriff couldn’t see what was happening on the monitor because of reflection, with the sun angling in through the bamboo window treatments Bobi had bought. They softened the light somewhat but didn’t keep it out.
