by John Lutz
The Butcher hadn’t intended Pearl’s involvement at first, but when he was doing his research on Detective (then bank guard) Kasner, he discovered where she’d lived during the last case she’d worked with Quinn, and been pleasantly surprised to find the apartment now occupied by a rather pretty young brunette. Pretty enough, anyway, so that it would be a pleasure using her to send a message to Quinn and Kasner. They’d know the death of the apartment’s present occupant hadn’t been coincidental. Cops didn’t put much stock in coincidence.
Neither did killers who didn’t get caught.
The Butcher took a sip of Jack Daniel’s and smiled at his reflection in the dark window. There he was, outside himself, observing himself, a transparent figure in a reflective world between where he sat and the jeweled and glimmering nighttime cityscape beyond the glass. That was how the world was, really, layer after layer like coats of paint upon reality, and if you were smart enough you could move from one layer to the other. Live in more than one. He’d learned to do this at a young age because he’d had to in order to survive. Some lessons you never forgot. And if you never forgot them, you could put them to good use. You could control the game.
The last letter N had been a matter of expedience. The next one he would fully enjoy.
After the bland Ross Bossomo concert, he’d accompanied Marilyn Nelson home to her apartment, but he hadn’t gone in. He wasn’t ready yet. Didn’t have his equipment. Didn’t sense, as he always did, the proper time. Marilyn had told him she didn’t believe in destiny. She was a fool. He knew her destiny, even if she didn’t.
One thing for sure: meeting and moving toward the moment with Marilyn was instructive as well as pleasurable. He hadn’t considered monogrammed or initialed clothing and accessories, like Marilyn’s oversize belt buckle, as an aid to identifying prospective victims. Many women indulged in that simple exercise in ego. However it might work in the future, he thought it had been much more precise and productive than following strange women and scanning apartment mailboxes. That was how he’d found Florence Norton—and wasn’t Marilyn Nelson a brighter trinket?
Everything had gone so well he decided he’d enjoy her for a while before the time was right to end their affair.
To end Marilyn.
Quinn and his team were in their office a few blocks from the precinct house. The window air conditioner was humming and rattling away, not doing a bad job of cooling the place because it was still morning and the sun was low. The aroma of roasted beans from the Mr. Coffee brewer Pearl had bought wafted in the air. Now and then, just outside the door, they could hear another door closing and soles shuffling on concrete, people coming and going at Nothing but the Tooth, the dental clinic that occupied the other half of the building.
“So the owner and both employees at Nuts and Bolts didn’t recognize the other victims,” Quinn said. “And of course we only have two victims we know frequented the place and bought those kinky cell phones.”
Pearl was sure his tone was accusatory.
He was sitting behind his desk, leaning dangerously far back in his chair. Pearl and Fedderman were pacing, each with a mug filled with coffee. The mugs were from a home decorating store on Second Avenue and had their individual initials on them so nobody would mix them up. When Pearl had handed Fedderman his, he commented that initialed mugs seemed like something the killer might send them. Pearl had said maybe that was so, and seemed thoughtful.
Fedderman thought she might be contemplating nudging Quinn’s chair the rest of the way over.
“It was never my idea that the place was the one and only hunting ground for the killer,” she told Quinn. Why was Quinn like this, critical of what they both knew was basic, solid police work? Maybe he was jealous that he hadn’t thought about further checking out the pickup lounge.
“On the other hand,” Fedderman said, “the killer might have picked up all his victims in Nuts and Bolts, and the owner and employees don’t remember.”
“Somebody would have recalled the other victims,” Quinn said, “or remembered the same man with at least some of the women. Most likely two of the victims simply happened to work in the same neighborhood and frequented the same lounge sometimes after work or in the evening.”
“On the third hand,” Fedderman said, “the killer might never have set foot in the place.”
“Still, it’s a connection,” Quinn said, giving in and allowing for the possibility.
“And remember both victims bought cell phone vibrators,” Pearl said.
“They sold a lot of those to women who haven’t been murdered,” Fedderman reminded her.
“My gut tells me it means something,” Pearl said. She sipped her coffee from her initialed mug, thinking Mr. Coffee had done a pretty good job. “Could be the killer lives in the neighborhood and goes into the lounge often.”
“Kind of a leap in logic,” Quinn said, “but if you want to go to Nuts and Bolts from time to time to check it out, that’s not a bad idea.”
“It’s a pickup place,” Fedderman said. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Maybe you’ll need somebody to pick you up,” Pearl said.
Fedderman tried not to smile. Quinn thought it was a good thing he controlled himself. His two detectives were bitching at each other the way they had in the old days. He didn’t mind, as long as it didn’t get out of hand. Agitation wasn’t all bad. It required an active mind of the sort that was valuable in a murder investigation. It could create the pearl in the oyster, even a necklace of evidence pearls.
“How strong’s this gut feeling of yours about the cell phone vibrators?” he asked Pearl, artfully veering away from the subject of pickups in singles’ lounges.
“Not very strong, I admit. I guess it’s more hope than anything else.”
Quinn looked over at Fedderman. “What’s your gut tell you, Feds?”
“Tells me I’m hungry.” Fedderman put down his mug on the desk nearest to Quinn’s and glared at Pearl. “And it tells me not to drink any more of this coffee.”
The Butcher slept late, having worked much of the night at his computer. He’d then spent most of the morning at the Rough Country store in Queens. So busy had he been that he hadn’t had time to check the news on the Internet or read any of the morning papers.
Now he slouched in his leather recliner and read again the piece in the Times. The Florence Norton murder had been dropped from the front page but had never left the news entirely.
He greatly enjoyed the inside feature story on the Butcher murders. It provided brief biographies of the victims and time frames of their deaths, but concentrated mainly on Florence Norton. Perhaps in everyone’s death there were fifteen minutes of fame. The features section, or obituary page, as curtain call.
As usual, if anyone astutely read between the lines it was obvious that the police were mystified. They simply had nothing to grab hold of that might lead them to the killer.
The Butcher.
It was so apropos. Every time he read the sobriquet the media had chosen for him, he had to smile. In fact, almost everything he’d read or heard in the media pleased him. Everything was falling into place. The re-formation of Quinn’s detective team especially gave him satisfaction. The NYPD without Quinn and company were easy opponents, but the three detectives specifically assigned to hunt him down were top-notch and had a track record. They would at least make the game interesting.
He let his right arm drop and laid the folded paper on the floor, then adjusted the chair at a lower angle and rested the back of his head against the soft leather headrest. Though he didn’t require much sleep, it wasn’t unusual for him to nap during the daytime in the recliner. It was because he often worked most of the night.
He glanced at his watch. Not even three o’clock. There was plenty of time before he had to shower and dress for this evening. He settled deeper into the chair, closed his eyes, and thought about Marilyn Nelson. His right hand, the one that had held the folded paper, moved to his crotc
h.
Pearl’s phone was ringing when she entered her apartment that evening, and she made the mistake of picking it up without looking at caller ID.
“Pearl, it’s your mother. You’re finally home. I’ve been calling and calling.”
Pearl’s mood darkened, as it did whenever her mother called from where she lived in the Golden Sunset assisted living apartments in Teaneck.
“Sorry, Mom. Busy working.” She stretched the phone cord so she could move halfway across the room and start the window air conditioner. It would soon cool down the apartment and chase away the musty smell that often permeated the place.
Her mother said something she didn’t understand, so she moved away from the humming air conditioner. “Say again, Mom.”
“The Butcher murders. Why haven’t you caught the animal yet?”
“He’s smart, Mom, like the papers and TV say.”
“Still, you have Captain Quinn.”
“He’s not exactly a captain anymore.” It rankled Pearl, the way her mother was a sucker for phony Irish charm and remained so fond of Quinn. She could still hear her mother’s confidential whisper after meeting Quinn the first time: “He’s the one. A keeper. A real mensch, that one.”
“But the television news—”
“Not a permanent captain, anyway,” Pearl interrupted. “He’s more a civilian temporarily out of retirement.”
“Like yourself, dear?”
“Not unlike.”
“I never approved of you in that dangerous occupation.”
Or any other. “I know, Mom.”
“So why haven’t you phoned your apartment from time to time to check your messages? You’d have learned your mother was calling from nursing home hell.”
“It’s not a nursing home, Mom. It’s assisted living.”
“I need assistance to breathe?”
“Not for that, thank God.” Not yet. Pearl lay awake sweating in bed sometimes, thinking of even more oppressive days to come. “For other things.”
“Oh? Such as?”
Pearl remembered the time her mother had warmed up a can of chili by placing it in a pot of water on the stove—neglecting to open the can—and heating it until it exploded, sending boiling water and chili all over her kitchen. Pearl remembered because it was she who’d had to clean up the mess. “I’m thinking about the chili on the ceiling, Mom.”
“You mean the cans they don’t make like they used to.”
“If you say so.”
“No, it’s not what I say. It’s whether they’re making paper-thin cans these days, and they are.”
Pearl moved over a few feet so she’d be in the flow of cool air from the window unit. “You might be right, Mom.” Just let me get off the phone!
“Your mother’s always right, dear.” Violent coughing. Dramatic pause.
Pearl played along. “Mom?” She was surprised to hear real concern in her voice.
“I’m right about this, too, dear. It’s something mothers can feel. God willing, you’ll know someday.”
Pearl worked her feet out of her shoes and wriggled her toes. “We still talking about the chili?”
“My reference was to Mrs. Kahn’s nephew, Milton.”
Huh?
Pearl knew Mrs. Kahn, a seventy-six-year-old woman with a walker with tennis balls on it, was in the assisted living unit next to her mother’s. “I don’t think I know him, Mom.”
“But you should, Pearl, which is why I called.”
“Nine times,” Pearl said, “according to the message count on my answering machine.”
“The machine you should have remotely checked to see if you had any messages at all.”
“Why would I want to know this nephew Milton?” But Pearl knew why.
“Because he’s eligible in every way, and newly single.”
“I don’t have time right now to search for a husband, Mom, being busy searching for a killer.”
“What search? I’m dropping him into your lap.”
“I want my lap empty for now.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the connection. Then: “Speaking of your lap, so how is that nice Captain—excuse me—Mr. Quinn?”
“Jesus, Mom!”
“Pearl!”
“Sorry for the language. Mr. Quinn’s fine.”
“You didn’t preface his name with ‘nice.’”
“No, I didn’t. He isn’t nice all the time.”
“So who is, dear? Did he ever beat you?”
“Never.”
“Then he was nice enough to you and would be again. He’s quite handsome in a manly way and is a person of substance, Pearl. There will come a time when you won’t want to chase criminals, or stand in one spot in a bank developing varicose veins just to earn a small paycheck. There will come a time when you might be in assisted living.”
Pearl hated these phone conversations with her mother. They almost always ended in arguments, and this evening Pearl was tired. She’d worked hard. She didn’t feel like bickering with anyone, much less her mother. And she especially didn’t want to argue about her status as a divorced single woman. It simply was not in her at this time to foster her mother’s delusion that her daughter was actively seeking a husband.
“Whether or not you say so, Pearl, Mr. Quinn is a fine man.”
“He’s an obsessive psychopath.”
“They can be good providers, dear.”
Pearl hung up.
Hard enough that her mother wouldn’t call her back tonight.
But maybe tomorrow.
The Butcher prepared himself to go out. He took a shower, not a bath, then put on clean blue silk boxer shorts. He brushed his teeth with Crest, combed his hair, and leisurely dressed in his new clothes.
All the time he was doing this, somewhere in his layered and partitioned mind he was thinking about Marilyn Nelson; the rhythmic roll of her hips when she walked, the mischievous glitter like dark tinsel in her eye when she turned and ducked her head to glance at him. As if on some level she knew. And maybe she already did know. Like some of the others, maybe from time to time she caught a glimpse of destiny that transcended conscious thought.
His second N woman.
Florence Norton had been a matter of expedience. This one he would take his time with and relish. He owed her that, as he owed himself. They were in this together now, whether she realized it or not. Partners in crime and time and players in the game that could only end one way for Marilyn Nelson.
Finished dressing, he stood before the full-length mirror attached to the closet door and appraised himself. He could smell his expensive spicy aftershave. It was much too strong now, but he’d recently applied it and knew that within a short while it would lose much of its potency.
He turned this way and that, striking poses like a confident and playful catalog model, observing how he looked in the outfit he’d bought that morning at Rough Country in Queens.
Marilyn would be pleased, but it wasn’t his usual style. He wasn’t crazy about the square-pocket jeans and rough piped cotton shirt with its flap pockets and dull brass snaps instead of buttons. The essence of Rough Country style seemed to lie in the liberal use of metals and coarse material. He preferred tailored conservative suits, custom-made shirts of Egyptian cotton, and silk ties. But since he had on the shirt and jeans, he didn’t so much mind the boots. They were surprisingly comfortable.
He did flatly like the hat. It was like a cowboy hat but with a narrower, raked brim. Like something Glenn Ford might have worn. He was partial to Glenn Ford movies, and fancied that he bore some resemblance to the late movie star, which was enhanced by the hat.
He laid the hat on the bed (knowing some people thought doing so brought bad luck, but the hell with superstition if you were smart), then adroitly dusted his dark hair with aerosol spray.
Posing before the full-length mirror again, he placed the hat on his head carefully so as not to muss his hair. He adjusted the hat, touched a finger to
the curved brim, and shot himself a smile.
Then he switched off the light and left in something of a hurry.
He had a date.
16
Quinn had finished his impromptu late dinner of hash and eggs, and was enjoying a cigar at his desk in the den, when there was a knock on his apartment door. This didn’t surprise him, as the building’s security system allowed most anyone with an IQ higher than a rabbit’s to find a way to enter without being buzzed in.
He propped the cigar in an ashtray so it wouldn’t go out, and made his way into the living room. With a glance at his watch, he saw that it was past nine o’clock. He’d spent most of the evening reading over the murder books on the Butcher’s victims, hoping something might snag his attention and open new vistas of investigation. It seldom happened, but happened often enough to warrant tireless scrutiny of file information. It hadn’t happened this evening.
Peeking through the round peephole he saw only what appeared to be the shoulder of someone not very big. He opened the door to the hall.
A young woman of about eighteen stood staring in at him. What drew his eye was the glitter of a tiny glass or diamond stud in her left nostril. Then there was the general impression of build, average if a bit fleshy, five-feet-four or so, stuffed into a tight aqua-colored top made of some kind of stretch material. Her dirty, faded jeans were too tight and rode low, revealing between waistband and blouse an expanse of stomach that showcased a navel pierced by a small silver ring. She had brown hair combed in a practical short do, a slightly turned-up nose, wide, generous mouth, a strong chin, and green eyes exactly like Quinn’s.
She smiled and said, “Hi, Dad.”
Astounded, Quinn actually backed up a step or two. This almost stranger was his daughter Lauri, whose mother May and her present husband, Elliott Franzine, lived in California, where Lauri lived with them.
Should be living with them.
Only Lauri wasn’t in California. She was here. Quinn was seeing her for the first time in a little over a year. The change was astounding.
