by John Lutz
His life on the streets had taught him the value of having a cover story in case he needed one.
But it was a cover story Tom Wilde could contradict, and would, if he was under oath in a court of law.
Luther looked at the heavy steel tackle box in the boat, and the thick bowline. He realized he was different now. Someone else. Someone harder. He’d gone through a door and now he was confronted by another. Whether to open it was his choice.
“I guess this is good-bye, then,” Wilde was saying.
Tom Wilde, who’d been kind to him and taught him a craft—an art. His mentor and only friend.
His greatest danger.
“I guess it has to be,” Luther said.
Neither Wilde nor Luther ever returned to Hiram. Milford Sand’s Ford Fairlane was found parked among some cottonwood trees off the highway outside of town. It was assumed Luther had murdered the Sands and made his getaway in the car. But without Luther, how the murders occurred was only speculation, and Luther was never seen again.
Tom Wilde’s old pickup truck was found parked next to the ruined A-frame near the riverbank. A week later his boat was discovered capsized in the weeds five miles downriver.
It was assumed he’d been fishing and perhaps struck his head while falling from the boat and drowned.
Every so often, the river claimed a life that way.
42
New York, 2004.
Finding out where he lived had been easy. He was in the phone book.
It was the first place Anna thought to look, but she’d been surprised to find Quinn’s name, address, and phone number. It was unsettling, how simple it had been. As if he might also be in the Yellow Pages under RAPISTS.
So here she was this morning, not at Juilliard with her viola, but across the street from Quinn’s apartment with her gun.
What’s a nice girl like you…?
She wasn’t sure herself.
Anna was running on pure emotion now and knew it. This wasn’t smart. In fact, this was totally dumb, what she was doing. But something in her was making her do it; to resist it would have been to escape something that had the most powerful hold on her she could imagine. That, too, was unsettling, that people could be made captive and controlled by something inside themselves. One of the reasons it was disturbing was that it explained in part why Quinn had raped her, almost provided him with an excuse.
There is no excuse for evil. It has to be—
There was Quinn, emerging from his apartment building! Quinn in the flesh!
Anna felt dizzy; for the first time in years, she laid eyes on the monster of her memory. He was big, but not as big as in her fearful thoughts and terrifying dreams. She knew larger, more ominous-looking men. Her friend Agatha’s father, and Professor Fishbien at Juilliard. But Quinn did look like what he was—a thug, a rapist, a liar. Not that he wasn’t dressed respectably enough, in brown slacks and a tan sport coat. He was even wearing a tie.
Sheep’s clothing…
As Quinn buttoned his jacket, Anna caught a glimpse of a leather strap and knew it was part of a shoulder holster.
I have a gun, too! I have a gun, you bastard!
Quinn glanced up at the sky as if checking for rain, then began walking. He had a lumbering yet athletic gait, relaxed but poised to move fast on short notice. He seemed amiable but at the same time dangerous, a man who would enjoy a cruel joke. Staying on the opposite side of the street and well back from him, Anna began to follow.
Quinn walked only a few blocks and entered a diner, where he no doubt would have breakfast.
Anna decided to wait for him.
She found a spot across the street and moved back into a shadowed stone angle at the base of an office building. Hardly anyone paid attention to her as they hurried past. If they did happen to glance at her, as far as they were concerned, she was just another young woman waiting for a friend or a lover, or she was building up nerve to go for a job interview. She was like thousands of others who were tending to business, professional or personal, in the city.
Still, Anna felt as if she were being stared at, maybe because of the gun in her purse. She pretended to be bored, and now and then, more for herself than for anyone who might be observing her, she glanced at her watch as if concerned with the time. Waiting for someone…that’s what I’m doing….
Anna watched people coming and going at the diner for almost an hour. Then Quinn emerged, with two people she’d seen go inside not long after she’d taken up position across the street. One was a balding, middle-aged man in a horribly wrinkled brown suit that emphasized his stomach paunch. The other was a short, dark-haired woman with vivid features, even from this distance, wearing a conservatively tailored gray skirt and dark blazer that didn’t disguise her curves.
They must be the other detectives Anna had read about in the papers. “Team Quinn.” The rapist’s friends and helpers.
Anna felt an overwhelming curiosity about Team Quinn. She wanted to know where they went on days off from work, what food they liked, which TV shows, what were their hobbies. How did they spend their free time, the time when she was trying to think about anything other than Quinn and what he had done to her? What did the other two think about Quinn’s second chance? Quinn, who had never seen the inside of a courtroom as a defendant, much less spend a day in confinement. They were supposed to be hunting a killer, and catching him would somehow—at least in the minds of some—rehabilitate Quinn.
A real rapist. Real detectives. How will they spend their workday?
The three detectives walked slowly and casually along the sidewalk, talking and gesticulating to each other. Then they stopped near a plain white car and chatted a few minutes more. Quinn stood with both hands in his pockets and seemed to be doing most of the talking now.
The baggy-suited man got into the car, and the dark-haired woman walked around to the driver’s side. But before she did, in the brief time the other man was in the car and she and Quinn were alone on the sidewalk, she dragged her fingertips lightly along Quinn’s arm and smiled at him.
Interesting…
Still smiling slightly at Quinn, who stood motionless watching her, the woman slid into the car behind the steering wheel.
Quinn still didn’t move as the car waited for a break in traffic, then pulled away from the curb. Several pigeons, which had been pecking away in the gutter, flapped into the air to get out of the way, then circled and settled back down exactly where they’d been.
When the vehicle—probably an unmarked police car—had rounded the corner, Quinn began walking. He moved easily, with one hand still in a pants pocket, not in any rush. At a magazine kiosk near the corner, he stopped. The hand came out of the pocket and deposited some change on a stack of magazines, and he picked up a newspaper. After a glance at the paper, he tucked it under his arm and continued on his way.
There was no doubt in Anna’s mind what she should do. She had no car, so obviously she couldn’t have followed the other two detectives.
That left Quinn.
Don’t do it. Turn around and go home. Dumb, dumb…
But here she was and she had nothing to do but follow him.
Anna gave up trying to talk herself out of it. She was already walking behind Quinn, anyway, though she hadn’t made the conscious decision to do so. It was as if choices were being made for her by some higher power.
She was sure it had something to do with the gun, but she didn’t understand the connection.
Leon Holtzman was hungry.
The illuminated red numerals on the bedroom clock indicated it was two forty-five A.M. Leon’s stomach had been upset that evening and he’d eaten light when he and Lisa met friends at the French Affaire for drinks and dinner. The mint cappuccino he’d had for dessert hadn’t helped his digestion, as he’d foolishly claimed it would. Lisa had warned him about drinking coffee to medicate a dyspeptic stomach: So what are you, Leon, a doctor? He wasn’t. He should have listened.
After p
arting with the other couple outside the restaurant, Leon and Lisa cabbed back to the apartment, bouncing over what seemed like dozens of potholes. Each crevice caused the driver to accelerate and then brake suddenly, as if he were in a series of hundred-foot drag races. At times Leon thought he might lose his small but excellent dinner in the back of the taxi. Once, grim-faced, he’d suggested to the driver that the cab should be equipped with a barf bag.
It was past eleven o’clock when they arrived home, so he’d taken some expired prescription medicine of Lisa’s to calm his stomach and gone straight to bed.
Now, less than four hours later, whatever was bothering Leon seemed to have left him, possibly due to the medicine whose brand or generic name he’d have to remember. His normally healthy appetite had returned.
He glanced over at Lisa’s shadowed form and listened to her breathing. She was obviously sleeping well, and Leon didn’t want to disturb her. He held his breath as he climbed out of bed and located his pants on the chair where he’d folded them the night before.
The bedroom was dim and he was still disoriented; he had to brace himself with one hand on the dresser as he slipped his left leg into the pants and his big toe found resistance. Almost falling, he cursed under his breath. Fifteen—no, ten!—years ago, he could have put on his pants in a dark room while running. Jumped into his damned pants! That was the young Leon Holtzman!
Standing up straight, he fastened his belt rather than let it dangle, took another look at Lisa to make sure he hadn’t awakened her, then quietly made his way toward the kitchen.
He saw right away that the hall was brighter than it should be. Lisa must have forgotten to switch off the kitchen light when she came to bed—again. With what the utilities charged these days! What if he gently woke her up, talking to her nicely, of course: Lisa, honey, I just wanted to tell you, so maybe you won’t forget next time, that you went to bed and left the kitchen light on—again.
No, that was probably a bad idea.
Leon was still slightly irritated by his wife’s forgetfulness, distracted as he entered the kitchen.
He stopped short just inside the door.
Incredible!
His mind tried to catch up, tried to figure out if he should be terrified, angry, or both at the sight of the strange man seated at his kitchen table and sipping milk from the carton. Unsanitary! Leon inanely wondered if he should berate the stranger for his thoughtlessness and lack of manners. He heard his mother’s long-ago words: This is how disease spreads, Leon.
He began to recover from his surprise and stammered incoherently as he took a few steps toward the stranger in his kitchen, who was casually placing the milk carton on the table.
The man rose to greet him, as if to shake hands.
Lisa awoke.
Leon?
She sensed that her husband was gone even before she reached an arm over to check and felt only cool linen.
Was he ill?
He hadn’t felt well most of last night at the restaurant, and the cab ride had made him worse. Cab ride from hell! The subway would have been better!
She recalled now what had awakened her, a noise from the hall bathroom, or maybe the kitchen.
So Leon had gotten up and was either trying to find something to ease his discomfort, or he was feeling better and was in the kitchen rummaging about for something to eat. It would be one or the other.
Lisa decided to get out of bed and go find out which.
43
Quinn was on his way to meet Pearl and Fedderman at the park entrance the next morning when his cell phone beeped.
He slowed his pace but continued walking as he drew the phone from his pocket and held it to his ear.
Harley Renz answered his hello with “You up for another one this morning, Quinn?”
At first Quinn thought Renz had somehow found out about him and Pearl and was being a wiseass. Then he realized what he must mean and stood still. “You sure it’s our guy?”
“That’s your job, isn’t it?”
A woman danced around Quinn, deliberately grazing his hip, and glared at him for taking up sidewalk space to have a phone conversation.
Screw you, lady. “Don’t waste my time, Harley.”
“Waste time? The principals in this little drama aren’t going anywhere. A man and his wife, dead in their apartment on the West Side.”
“You sure it’s his wife?”
“What are you, the morality police?”
“Harley…”
“Okay, I’m assuming,” Renz admitted. And he gave Quinn an address in the seventies.
As soon as the connection was broken, Quinn called Pearl and told her his location, then called Fedderman, who was already driving in from Queens in the unmarked to pick up Pearl. The morning was moving fast.
After replacing the phone in his pocket, Quinn made his way to some shade beneath an awning in front of a luggage shop and waited. There had been no point in walking the rest of the way to the park.
Which was a shame, he thought; it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
Renz hadn’t been quick enough this time. When Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman arrived, there were already half a dozen police cars and an ambulance positioned in front of the victims’ building.
Pearl parked the car half a block down and they walked back.
“The uniform on the door,” Fedderman said, “I know him. Name’s Mehan and he’ll talk to me if I ask.”
“Go ahead and ask,” Quinn said. “Pearl and I will go up to the apartment and get started.”
Mehan was one of those beefy, redheaded guys with a pink complexion that made him look as if he’d burn if he even got near a beach. He saw them approach and without moving anything but his eyes gave them a look—not curious, not even interested, just a look.
But there was a flash of recognition when he saw Fedderman. “Wha’ say, Feds?”
“Not much.” Fedderman moved off to the side so Mehan could get a clear look at Quinn and Pearl.
Quinn flashed his new shield to be polite and Mehan nodded.
Pearl followed Quinn into the lobby. It was an impressive vista of marble, mirrors, and oak paneling, but there was a faint ammonia scent, as if the floor had just been mopped and disinfected. Another uniform was standing like a good soldier by the elevator. He was compliant; if Quinn and Pearl had made it past Mehan, they were okay to go farther. Security folding like an accordion.
“You’re lookin’ for fourteen B,” he said to Quinn.
Quinn thanked him.
The uniform smiled and nodded to Pearl as she and Quinn waited for the elevator.
On the fourteenth floor there was another uniformed cop posted outside an apartment with its door wide open like an invitation to the hospitality suite at a convention. This cop, a big curly-haired guy who looked like he should be a country-western singer, recognized Pearl.
“Stayin’ outta trouble, Pug?” he asked with a grin.
“You better watch out that I’m not,” Pearl said as she and Quinn moved past him into the apartment. She might have been joking; Quinn never knew for sure.
Great place, Pearl thought, looking around the living room. Lots of space, high ceilings, new-looking furniture, and the flawlessness of fresh, cream-colored paint. I’ve gotta get painting again in my apartment. The drapes were a pale blue that complemented furniture upholstered a darker blue, where it wasn’t brushed steel. Pearl wasn’t one for the modern look, but this place she could live in.
What she was wondering now was, who died in it?
Nift, the Napoleonic little ME, was standing off to the side in the living room, ignoring a couple of techs dusting everything for prints. As usual, Nift was nattily dressed, this time in a chalk-stripe black suit that would shame Fedderman when he came upstairs. Of course Fedderman wouldn’t notice. Nor would he notice Nift’s white-on-white shirt and improbably lush silk tie. Fedderman bought his ties in drugstores.
“Guy looks like a Wall Street asshole,”
Pearl whispered to Quinn as they approached.
Nift had just finished peeling off his rubber gloves. He looked over at Quinn and Pearl and smiled. “Ah, even more detectives.”
“Fill us in,” Quinn said.
“Why? Are you hollowed out?”
“Don’t be such a prick,” Pearl said.
Nift gave her his imperious look, as if to say, yes, the peasants are still revolting. “You gonna report me for insubordination, Sugar Ray?”
“She’s gonna report me,” Quinn said, “for dropping you out a window. Don’t waste our time—do your job and give with what you’ve got.”
Nift grinned at Quinn to let him know he wasn’t afraid. “Didn’t you threaten to do that window thing to me before?”
“Yeah, but you came around.”
Nift appeared unfazed, but he did get cooperative. “Two dead in the kitchen, a Lisa Ide and one Leon Holtzman. Husband and wife, or so I was told by others of your ilk. Leon was stabbed three times, Lisa approximately twenty, many of the wounds in erogenous zones.”
“On both bodies?” Quinn asked.
Nift seemed to consider going smart-mouth again, then changed his mind. “Only on Lisa. Leon got it in the heart, as she did. But he died fast, and my guess is her other stab wounds were inflicted first.”
“The killer enjoyed his work,” Pearl said.
“And who wouldn’t? Anyway, this all seemed to transpire this morning, sometime between two and four o’clock.” Nift absently smoothed his wonderful maroon-and-black tie. Quinn noticed he wore a gold clasp to keep the tie from dangling and getting bloody. “That’s about all I can tell you for sure, until after the postmortem.”
“Any signs they resisted?” Pearl asked.
“To speculate would be playing detective, Detective.”
“Nift, how would you like—”
“There are only a few defensive wounds on the victims’ hands and arms, not as if they put up what you’d describe as a struggle.”
