by John Lutz
Neither man questioned her about it. When Pearl let her mind go off on its own, which she often did, they knew not to disturb her.
Let her ponder. It would keep her mind off her phone call from her mother, or whatever had upset her. Keep her from snapping at people.
Later that day, Linda Chavesky phoned Quinn on his cell. She told him the victim’s heart had been struck by a fragment of a twenty-two-caliber bullet that had nicked the sternum going in and broken into three pieces.
“It wouldn’t have killed her right away,” she said, “but it probably would have put her down, into shock.”
“A second shot, then,” Quinn said, “to a part of the body not found. Her head, probably.”
“Most likely. Or the severing of a large artery in her neck or thigh by a knife. We don’t know if she bled to death or the blood simply drained out of her when she was dismembered. That could happen if she was dismembered soon after death, and the blood hadn’t had time to coagulate.”
Quinn didn’t say anything, thinking this was sounding more and more like a professional hit man—the shooting part. One to the heart, another shot or two to the head, to make sure.
“Another thing. She suffered vaginal penetration, then beyond, by a cylindrical, sharply pointed wooden object, consistent with a sawed-off and sharpened broomstick. This was after she was killed.”
“How do you know it was wooden?” Quinn asked, figuring he was going to hear again about the furniture polish lubricant.
“I put in some extra time on this one. Found a splinter.”
“Excellent. That’s something for sure that we were only guessing at before.”
“That a compliment?”
“You bet.”
“Whatever penetrated her left a slightly oily residue.”
“Furniture polish,” Quinn said. “It was in the other victims. But it didn’t necessarily mean wood for sure, until you found the splinter.” He could imagine the killer lovingly sharpening and polishing the deadly piece of broomstick—if that’s what it was. Helen Iman would suggest it was a phallic symbol. She might be right.
“I’d put the victim in her early thirties, average weight, and most likely curvaceous,” Linda said. “A magnet for men.” She kind of surprised Quinn. Usually M.E.s weren’t so voluble or willing to speculate, especially over the phone to detectives they’d only recently met.
“Hold on a minute,” she said.
Quinn waited, the phone pressed to his ear, hearing unintelligible voices in the background on the other end of the connection.
Linda’s voice came back on. “My friend from ballistics just gave me the report on the bullet. It was fired by the same gun that killed the other victims. So there’s something else you know for sure. You wanna meet someplace for coffee?”
“Pardon?”
“You don’t need a pardon; you’re a cop. I’m asking you out on a date. You’re not exactly a real NYPD cop, and even if you were, you’d be my superior officer, so it wouldn’t be sexual harassment. A yes or no’ll do.”
Quinn got over his surprise and thought, what the hell. Laughed. “It’s a yes, Linda. We’ll meet somewhere for drinks.”
“I did say coffee.”
Quinn sensed that he’d tweaked a nerve. “Sure. Coffee it is.”
“I used to drink alcohol for nonmedicinal purposes. I’ll be up front about that.”
“You’ve got lots of company if you used to have a drinking problem,” Quinn said, thinking immediately that he shouldn’t have told her that. She hadn’t exactly said she’d had a problem.
“Nobody ‘used to have’ a drinking problem, Captain Quinn. I’ve been dry for over two years and intend to stay that way.”
“It’s just Quinn, Linda. Tonight at the Lotus Diner on Amsterdam suit you?”
“Sure does. I know where it is. About seven?”
“Let’s make it six. We might have coffee, then decide to go out for dinner.”
“We’ve got a date, Quinn.”
Quinn was smiling. Then he remembered this was an official conversation. “Anything else about the victim, Doctor?”
“She didn’t drown.”
A date, Quinn thought, staring at the phone’s tiny blank screen. What unsettled him somewhat wasn’t that Linda Chavesky had come on to him. In his early fifties, he was still at least presentable enough to be in the game. What struck him was that not once during his conversation with Linda had he thought about Pearl.
He knew he was as obsessive and stubborn, as Pearl often told him he was, but even the most determined person finally got tired of knocking on a door and not getting an answer, of waiting patiently and then waiting some more.
Maybe Pearl had finally convinced him that any possibility of them ever being in a loving relationship again was gone forever. Possibly she was right and that was how it should be, accepted by both of them and not just her.
Or maybe he was simply giving up hope.
And grasping for more hope.
15
Jill had settled on E-Bliss.org.
She’d checked out several of the matchmaking services on the Internet, limiting them to those based in or serving New York City. There was no shortage of them, especially if you had some sort of exotic sexual preference. A few of them seemed respectable if not downright staid. It was among those that she’d found E-Bliss.org. She’d carefully filled out its online questionnaire for its personality profile. She’d had a flattering photo, a head shot from a wedding she’d attended a few years ago back home, already on her hard drive. She’d attached the jpeg along with the filled-out, surprisingly detailed questionnaire, then put it on “Mail Waiting to Be Sent” and given herself two days to reconsider.
Two days later, to the hour, she’d drawn a deep breath and clicked her computer’s mouse on SEND.
Almost immediately she’d received an e-mail telling her what a wise choice she’d made, how wonderful she appeared in her photograph, how perfect was her personality profile. She could be assured that there were many suitable males who would request a meeting with her. She could establish a password and browse through profiles of potential partners or, as most clients did, wait for the experts at E-Bliss.org to use their comprehensive database and special software to match her with the best possible choice.
Jill didn’t hesitate before moving her computer’s cursor to the button requesting expert matchmaking. That was what she was paying for on her Visa card. God knew she hadn’t done well on her own when it came to attracting and choosing among men. Let the experts do it for her. If they could design her closet and scrapbook, they could design her life. She clicked the mouse and immediately felt relieved. She’d made her choice and followed through.
Time to wait, and at that she had become an expert.
They sat in a window booth in the Lotus Diner, by chance Quinn’s favorite booth, where he often had breakfast and read the papers over coffee. Daylight was battling dusk, and the sidewalks were still crowded. The steady stream of pedestrians hurrying past were mostly unaware of Quinn and Linda Chavesky, though they were at times less than a foot away on the other side of thick plate glass.
Quinn and Linda were ill at ease with each other at first, but by their second cup of coffee were somewhat more open. Quinn liked Linda, and he sensed that she liked him. Dressed in slacks and a loose-fitting yellow blouse, with her hair calculatingly mussed and a gold chain necklace, she seemed much more attractive than she had at the earlier crime scene. The light they were sitting in didn’t do her any favors, and she didn’t need any. Judging by the crows-feet just beginning to show at the corners of her intelligent blue eyes, Quinn guessed her to be in her early forties. That was the principal thing about her, he thought, her obvious intelligence. And a subtle sadness born of hard experience. Quinn recognized that expression; he’d seen it often in the mirror. She had some kind of makeup on this evening that mostly disguised the redness of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
“Rosacea,”
she said, smiling at him. She’d noticed him staring.
“Pardon?”
“It’s a hereditary affliction that causes a kind of redness in a ring pattern on the face. At times it makes me look something like a raccoon.”
“I wasn’t thinking raccoon,” Quinn assured her, taking a sip of coffee.
“Also makes me look like a drunk, since alcoholics sometimes have the same look from ruptured capillaries.”
“Obviously, you’re not a drunk.”
“Well, I am, but a dry drunk. I intend to stay that way.”
“I had my own go-round with the bottle a few years ago,” Quinn said. “When I had the problem in the department and my wife left me.”
“When things finally worked out at least somewhat for you, did you have trouble quitting?”
“Not really. I don’t think it ever became a problem in itself. And I still have a drink now and then.”
“There’s the difference between you and friends of Bill, like me.”
They both knew “friends of Bill” was code for Alcoholics Anonymous.
Linda rotated her coffee cup on the wet saucer ring with both hands and fixed her blue eyes on Quinn. “You have a daughter, right?” The way she looked at him and spoke, her words and eyes boring into him, made it seem as if they were alone in the diner.
“Uh-huh. Lauri. A great kid. Woman. She’s living out in L.A. with her true love, a guy named Wormy who fronts a band.”
“I married young and divorced, never had kids. Too late now, and the alcohol messed me up when I could have gotten pregnant. Thank God I didn’t. An alcohol addiction doesn’t leave room for much else, including love or sex. My hell years.”
“Over now,” Quinn said. “For you and for me. Where’s your ex?”
“Back in St. Louis, selling mortgage insurance, last I heard. We don’t keep in touch. Not much sense in it.” Linda stared down into her cup, then up again at Quinn. “I damned near lost my medical license in St. Louis. Then I quit practicing and fought the booze for a few years, and came to New York for a new start. That was five years ago.”
“That’s when you started in the NYPD,” Quinn said. “In Latent Prints. Wasting your talents and qualifications. Couple of years and you became an assistant M.E. And a good one. I researched you.” Best to start off with honesty.
“Sure you did. You’re a cop. So am I, in a way. I ran a check on you, too. It’s too easy on the computer. I really didn’t have to do much bouncing around on NYPD databases to learn about you. You’re something of a legend in the department, Quinn. That’s why I was so nervous at first when I sat down here.”
“You didn’t seem nervous.”
“I still am, a little bit.”
He smiled at her. “We’ll have dinner.” He’d almost said, “with wine,” but caught himself. “A good meal will relax both of us. I’m still a little nervous, too. I remember seeing you at a few other crime scenes. You attract the eye.”
She blushed at the compliment. The rosacea made itself evident, as if she’d been wearing a mask and it had left faint marks. Quinn found it somehow attractive, this disorder.
“Your ex-wife, May, is in California, too,” she said. “Anywhere near your daughter?”
“Close enough. I’m sure they see each other, but not often. May doesn’t like Wormy. Who does?” He felt a little stab of guilt. “Well, tell you the truth, I’ve become sorta fond of him.”
“What about you and May?”
“We get along with each other. She’s remarried to an attorney out there. Elliott. Not a bad guy. She and I talk, but only about Lauri. Our marriage ended because May couldn’t be a cop’s wife.”
“Familiar story.”
“Yeah. I don’t hold it against her. I wouldn’t hold it against anyone. Don’t worry about May.”
“Should I worry about Pearl?”
“That’s over,” Quinn said, thinking, We’re only meeting for coffee, then some dinner. But he knew there was much more going on here than that. They both knew it.
“Pearl know it’s over?” Linda asked.
“It’s her idea. I accept it.”
“You sound as if you’re trying to talk yourself into accepting it.”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But it’s over.”
“You sure?”
“I think so.”
Linda sighed and sat back in the booth. She glanced at the people streaming past out on the sidewalk, so near yet separated by a wall of glass. “So many people in this world. And cops seem able to make it long term only with other cops, or people in the same business.”
“I’m not so sure I believe that,” Quinn said.
Linda looked back at him with all her somber intelligence. “Sure you do. That’s why you’re here. That’s why we’re both here.”
“We don’t know each other all that well,” Quinn said, “but already I hate it when you’re right.”
Deputy Chief Wes Nobbler sat behind his desk and waited patiently for Greeve to enter his office. He knew “The Ghost” wouldn’t have wanted to see him so early in the morning unless he had something interesting to report.
There was a perfunctory knock on the door, and Greeve entered. As he did so, Nobbler absently lowered the file folder he’d just finished reading, placing it out of sight in a partly opened desk drawer.
Greeve looked this morning as he always did, slender and faintly mournful. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and a neatly knotted black and red tie, mostly black. His dark hair was combed straight back, making it obvious that it was receding and thinning. His long face was pale and closely shaven; no dark whiskers to offset his pallor.
“This about the Torso Murders?” Nobbler asked, wanting to get straight to the point.
Greeve gave a somber nod. “I followed Quinn and his team from Renz’s office yesterday,” he said. He didn’t sit down but stood with his hands in his pants pockets, his feet close together. His long body was at a slight forward lean, his narrow shoulders hunched. The man knew how to loom. “Quinn and company hauled ass out of there. There’s no way to know what they were discussing, but I know why the meeting broke up.”
“The latest Torso victim,” Nobbler said. He’d learned about the most recent victim late yesterday afternoon, and it was all over the papers and TV news this morning.
“Yeah. They went to the crime scene, and I figure they’ll be back there today canvassing the neighborhood. Probably just Pearl and Fedderman, though.”
“You’d be better off staying with Quinn, then.”
“That’s the way I figure it,” Greeve said. “The word I get is that ballistics tests already made the gun as the same one that killed the other victims. Little twenty-two-caliber pest pistol. One to the heart that probably didn’t kill the victim right away. Same kind of sexual mutilation.” Greeve shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other, then settled in again so it was evenly distributed, almost like a macabre dance step. “None of this is confirmed yet.”
Nobbler nodded. There was no need to tell Greeve he was way ahead of him on the postmortem information.
“Actually,” Greeve said, “I stayed on Quinn last night after he parted company with Pearl and Fedderman. He met the M.E. who examined the victim at the scene of the crime, Dr. Linda Chavesky.”
Nobbler sat forward over his desk, interested. “You mean they met someplace other than the crime scene?”
“They had coffee at a diner over on Amsterdam. Then they took a long walk and went to dinner at an Italian restaurant on Broadway. Had antipasto and rigatoni carbonera. Then he put her in a cab. No good-night kiss.” Greeve smiled. “Coulda been the garlic.”
This fascinated Nobbler. “You saying it was more than a professional meeting?”
“I’m sure it was. Looked like they were more interested in each other than whatever else they were talking about. I was hoping he’d jump her bones. I’m kinda disappointed. But then, I guess Quinn is, too.”
Nobble
r drummed his fingertips on the desktop and thought for a few minutes, trying to process this and figure out how he could use it.
Greeve seemed comfortable with the silence.
“Dr. Chavesky…” Nobbler said at last. “I think I know which one she is over there.”
“Nice-looking woman,” Greeve said.
“We need to find out more about her.”
“Definitely. I’ve heard rumors she’s got a past. Has to do with the bottle. Not here in New York, though.”
“That we know of,” Nobbler said.
Greeve smiled. “So far.”
Nobbler shook his head, causing his fleshy jowls to quiver. “Quinn oughta know better.”
“You’d think,” Greeve said. “For now, I’ll spend some time trying to find out more about the postmortem. See if there’s anything pertinent there that’s being kept secret, since these two have gotten so close.”
“No. Just stay on Quinn.”
Greeve nodded. “Your call.”
“I can catch up on the postmortem,” Nobbler said. “I’ve got a confidential contact in the medical examiner’s office. Guy named Nift.”
Greeve smiled mournfully. “Confidential contact. That the same thing as a snitch?”
“It’s a difference without a distinction,” Nobbler said.
Greeve nodded. “You see a lot of that these days.”
16
He sat on a stool in Has Beans coffee bar and watched her approach on the other side of the glass door.
She was attractive enough that almost every male reacted in some way when she came through the door. Very well built under that blue sweat suit, he thought. Medium-length blond hair cut in some kind of layered way so it would always look slightly mussed, just the right amount of makeup. Her jaw was strong—what used to be called mean—but her full lips took away its severity. There was a slight angularity to her blue eyes that made them interesting. She looked a little like that sexy movie star Charlotte Rampling, only younger. Just the right age.
He slid off his stool at the bar, moved toward her with a smile, and gestured with his arm toward one of the vacant tables near the back of the place, where it was less crowded. Not coming on too strong, but already taking charge. Friendly and firm. They liked that, or they wouldn’t have sent in the questionnaire in the first place.
