by John Lutz
“It’s only a mole, Mom.”
“You know this?”
“I’m sure enough of it that I’m not worried.”
“So now you have medical opinions? Are you an actual medical doctor, like Dr. Milton Kahn? No, Pearl, you are not. It’s not your place to examine a mole and just make up a diagnosis, not to mention a prognosis. This is a worry to me and to all who love you, and you should consider that and them.”
“It’s my mole,” Pearl said, feeling at that moment the hopelessness of her position.
“So have you recently checked your mole?” her mother asked.
“Recently enough.”
“And is it the same in shape, color, and size? Has it moved at all?”
Moved? “Everything looks the same, Mom.” Pearl slipped her shoes off her aching feet and wriggled her toes. She wished she could hang up the phone, go into the bedroom, get naked, take a shower, and scrub off the lousy day that she’d spent in the hole in the world left by violent untimely death. If people only knew, if they understood…
“Pearl,” said her mother’s voice on the phone, calling from purgatory, “have you ever looked at a mole under a microscope?”
“No.”
“They are not a pretty sight. And, I might add, it is the consensus of medical experts that you might think you’re looking at a mole and be looking at something else very much more dangerous.”
“I’m not dying of mole poisoning, Mom.”
“This is not a venue for humor, Pearl. A doctor, like Dr. Milton Kahn, who would examine you free and avoid all the expense and insurance nightmare, should be the one to make that critical interpretation.”
“Dr. Milton Kahn has pretty much examined all of me already,” Pearl said, getting angrier by the second.
“Pearl!”
“I’m only trying to make a point, Mom. If Milton Kahn thought the mole behind my ear was dangerous, he would have mentioned it to me long ago.”
“So you think he was concentrating on an out-of-the-way spot behind your right ear while you two were—”
“Mom! Damn it!” The plastic receiver was getting slippery in Pearl’s sweaty hand, as if it might slip from her grasp like a watermelon seed and go zipping across the room. She’d had about enough of this.
“So now impertinence and curse words are the answer? Let me tell you, dear, they are the answer to nothing. When your own mother calls and points out that you are in denial—”
“I don’t deny that I have a mole, Mom!”
“One you should regularly examine. If it is a mole.”
“I have to turn my head to the side and bend my ear forward even to see it. It hurts to do that.”
“Which is why you should have a doctor do the examining.”
“I have an appointment with a doctor,” Pearl lied. She’d had to call and cancel the appointment she’d made with the dermatologist who was not Milton Kahn. A murder investigation had gotten in the way.
There was surprise in Pearl’s mother’s voice. “Mrs. Kahn didn’t say her nephew, Dr. Milton—”
“He’s not the only dermatologist in New York!”
“For you, the only free one, dear. And one who cares for you already and will—”
Pearl cupped her hand over the earpiece, got up from the sofa, and placed the receiver in its cradle.
In the blessed silence she stood for a few minutes, waiting for the phone to ring. If her mother called back, as she sometimes did after such conversations, Pearl might apologize. Or she might not. Her mother was sticky and clever. She might trick Pearl into simply taking up the conversation where it had left off and getting angry all over again.
But her mother didn’t call and apparently wasn’t going to. Not this evening, anyway.
Pearl reverted to her plan to undress and shower before putting a Lean Cuisine in the microwave for dinner.
In the bathroom, while she was running the shower and waiting for the water to warm up, she stood before the medicine cabinet mirror, craned her neck painfully, and bent her right ear forward to examine the mole.
It appeared to be the same size as the last time she’d looked at it. Maybe a quarter of an inch in diameter. Maybe more.
She let her ear flop back in place and smiled. The mole wasn’t any larger. Seemed to be the same shape and color. She was sure.
Reasonably sure.
In the shower she realized she hadn’t checked to see if it had moved and had to laugh.
Briefly.
Terrible headache!
That was what woke Terri Gaddis.
Something was horribly wrong. Her head felt as if it were splitting wide open.
She attempted to swallow but couldn’t. And she was breathing with difficulty, through her nose. She explored with her tongue and found that her mouth was stuck firmly closed, as if her lips were taped.
Her consciousness was quickly returning. She became aware of another pain.
My ankles! My ankles are on fire!
Only then did she realize her eyes were still closed. They seemed dry. Stuck firm. She tried to wipe them with her hands, but couldn’t raise her arms. Couldn’t move them.
Then she realized they were taped or tied to her waist and thighs, in tight to her body.
Fear gave her strength. She forced her eyes wide open in alarm, and through her pain realized what was causing such agony in her head and ankles.
She was mystified and horrified to find that she was hanging upside down.
The hook in the ceiling!
Terri knew she was in her bathroom, dangling head down over her bathtub, hanging from the hook.
She glanced about frantically. The plastic shower curtain was closed, and though the light was on in the bathroom, she couldn’t see anything but her immediate porcelain, tile, and plastic surroundings. In a burst of panic she worked every muscle in her body, but nothing happened. Nothing!
Her struggles did cause her body to rotate slightly, and there were the stainless-steel faucet handles and spigot. The drain. Viewed so closely, she could see that the drain was starting to corrode and that a few of her hairs were caught on its cross braces from showers past.
How odd to notice something like that now.
Or is it? Is any of this real?
There was a slight sound on the other side of the plastic shower curtain, and she strained to see in that direction. Through the curtain she could make out the upside-down, shadowy shape of a man, growing larger, approaching.
Coming to help me, not to hurt me! Please!
When he was very near, the shadowy form on the curtain took on a paler, flesh-colored hue, and she realized the man was nude.
Kinky sex! That’s all this is! Kinky sex!
“Richard!”
She was aware that she’d made only a soft humming sound.
She tried again, screaming his name in her mind. Something warm was trickling along her body, tickling her armpits. She could smell it. Urine. Hers. The ammonia stench of her mindless fear.
Oh, Richard! Please!
The curtain rattled open on its rod, and all she could look at was the knife.
41
Cindy Sellers sat on a bench near the Seventy-second Street entrance to Central Park and had what for her was a crisis of conscience.
Certainly she’d promised Harley Renz she wouldn’t make public that the .25-Caliber Killer’s latest victim had been shot inside his hotel and then dragged outside, to where the body was discovered. It was made clear to her that the police had settled on that detail being known only to them and the killer, so they could sort out the inevitable false confessions that were sure to interfere with the investigation.
But from Cindy’s point of view, that curious fact was what gave the story its appeal. A question posed to her readers was always good for additional circulation. In this instance the question was simple and easy for her readers to understand: why was the body of this particular victim moved?
Only the killer knew the answer
, and, as of now, the police were the only ones aware of the question. So like a game, Cindy thought, and the police have an extra card in their hand.
Of course, if she revealed that card the NYPD wanted to keep close to its vest, she’d lose Renz’s trust. She had to smile. She and Renz didn’t really trust each other anyway. That was part of the game they played. Wolves on the prowl, both of them. And if she did include that inside-outside angle in her story, Renz would be angry, but he’d get over it. They were both forced to live with the fact that they were useful to each other.
Cindy was aware of the warm sun on her shoulders as she slumped forward and began tossing popcorn to the pigeons from a greasy bag she’d bought from a street vendor. The pigeons waddled cautiously toward the kernels at first, then rushed at them, nudging competitors out of the way. Like people, Cindy thought. Like newspaper readers elbowing each other aside to get to the next edition of City Beat before the rack was empty.
Fighting each other to be able to read her story.
If our situations were reversed, would Renz run the story with all the facts, including the one about how the body had been moved?
She knew the answer to that one.
Her fingers reached the bottom of the popcorn bag and found nothing but the grit of salt. She crumpled up the bag and tossed it to the pigeons. They began to peck at it and fight each other over it.
Cindy watched them. Bird nature. Human nature. Maybe it’s why I really don’t like people.
She brushed her hands together to rid them of most of the salt on her fingers, and then fished her cell phone out of her purse.
Her decision had been made. Already her conscience no longer bothered her.
How could she have even considered not running the entire story? It was strange how sometimes she questioned herself, when she knew her job and her purpose. She had enough on Renz to sink him anytime, if she so chose. At least, he thought she did.
The idea of leverage is when you have it, use it.
No more self-doubts, she vowed, as she pecked out the number that was a direct line to her editor. I’m a professional practicing my profession. A gray and white pigeon standing off from the others and watching her seemed to be bobbing its head in approval.
Zoe lifted her head from Quinn’s bare chest and squinted at the clock by her bed. Almost nine o’clock. She had a ten o’clock appointment with a schizophrenic patient who was beginning to show distinct symptoms of paranoia.
Deciding to let Quinn sleep, she laid back the sheet that was covering her to the waist and gently lifted his arm, which lay heavily across her. As she moved the arm she could feel the strength in it, but it didn’t resist her, as if it knew even as Quinn slept that she was something to be protected rather than harmed.
While Quinn was gentle in bed, he was the most physically powerful man she’d ever slept with, and a man who knew violence. A far cry from the postgraduates and professional intellectual types Zoe was used to. She wondered if it was the sense of danger, of potential violence, that intrigued her. No, she didn’t wonder. She knew. She also knew she was safe with Quinn. The best of both worlds.
Smiling as a coconspirator with her own devilish self, she began sliding out of bed.
His big hand found her shoulder and closed on it, stopping her. Had he even been asleep?
“Gotta get up,” she said, removing his hand. “Appointment.”
“Some troubled soul like me?”
She laughed. “I don’t see you as troubled. Not really.”
“It troubles me that you’re leaving,” he said.
“That’s just the sort of thing I mean.” She managed to avoid his other hand that was snaking around her, and moved back out of reach. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said. “You might consider joining me.”
“Why? Are you coming apart?”
“For God’s sake, Quinn!”
“Old joke,” he said. He sat up in bed. “I’ll join you, but I can’t put you back together and make you any closer to perfect than you were. Are.”
He’d just planted both bare feet on the floor when the phone rang. Instead of standing up, he watched Zoe walk to pick up the receiver, liking the way her breasts swayed with each hurried step. She had, he decided, the body of a much younger woman.
A shower. Not a bad idea…
“It’s for you,” she said, holding out the receiver for him as if it were a gift she regretted having to present. “Larry Fedderman.”
“I gave him this number,” Quinn said. His cell phone had been cutting out last night, and he knew there’d be no way to charge it in Zoe’s apartment.
Zoe didn’t seem to mind that Fedderman knew where to call. In fact, she seemed pleased that Quinn had told someone about them. She handed him the phone and then sat nude on the bed, watching him, understanding from his face that what he was hearing wasn’t good.
“On my way,” was all he said before hanging up.
He looked over at her. “There’s been another Slicer murder. Our shower had better be a fast one.”
She nodded. His job again. His guiding star. “You go first. I’ll stay out of the way.”
He smiled at her. “I’m sorry about this. It seems when we sleep together in your bed, I’m destined to get a phone call about a murder.”
“That’s right. It’s just like last time…”
He’d only made a casual remark, but something changed in her eyes. He came to her, leaned down, and kissed the top of her head. He brushed his knuckles lightly across her cheek, studying her thoughtful expression.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Sure. Go take your shower.”
But he knew something had occurred to her, disturbed her, and he didn’t know what.
He didn’t have time now to find out, but later he’d find the time.
42
A small, terrified-looking woman in her early twenties sat perched on a wrought-iron bench just down the hall from Terri Gaddis’s apartment, where a stolid uniformed cop was standing guard. With her pinched features and pointed nose, she very much resembled a tiny, nervous bird. She’d obviously been crying, and barely glanced up at Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman as they passed. There was fear in the glance, as well as sorrow. Quinn thought somebody should be looking after her.
The crime scene unit was already inside Terri Gaddis’s cramped apartment, doing their white-glove ballet. Sal Vitali and Harold Mishkin were talking to Nift, the obnoxious ME, in a hall that probably led to a small bedroom and bathroom. Mishkin looked ill.
Vitali nodded a hello and motioned with his head. “In the bathroom,” he said in his gravelly voice. Mishkin gave them a faint and sympathetic smile as they edged past, as if to warn them they weren’t going to like what they were about to see.
Mishkin was right.
A tech who’d been dusting the toilet tank and vanity for prints saw them and got out of their way, leaving the tiny bathroom so they had a clear view of what was dangling from a hook in the ceiling.
It was what Quinn had braced himself to see, but it was still worse than he’d imagined. The woman’s upside-down body was laid open from her pubis to the base of her neck. Her internal organs and entrails had been removed and were piled in the bathtub. Flies were beginning to feast.
Terri Gaddis had been an attractive woman. Her face, even with its horror-stricken expression, had somehow escaped being coated with blood and was in sharp contrast to the carnage.
Quinn looked up at the ceiling, almost as if to offer a prayer.
“Bicycle hook,” Pearl said. “The killer located a wooden joist on the other side of the drywall so it would support plenty of weight. You do that if you’ve got a bike to hang.”
Nift had halfway entered the tiny bathroom and was clucking his tongue. “She’s no bicycle, but you can tell she was the kinda woman who’d give you a helluva ride.” He leered at Pearl. “Hello, shweetheart.” It was a bad Bogart imitation.
“Hi, ashhole.”
; “It’s like the other victims,” Nift said to Quinn, no longer Bogart and ignoring Pearl. “Same kind of knife was used. Looks like at pretty much the same angle. We’ll know more once we get her to the morgue and I put her back together.”
Why? Are you coming apart?
Quinn felt queasy as he recalled his joke with Zoe less than an hour ago.
“You can tell she had a pretty good rack on her,” Nift said.
It was like something a hunter would say about a slain deer, and it made Pearl suddenly furious. “How does a prick like you become a doctor?”
Nift grinned. “People I work on never complain, so why should you?”
“Because you’re a—”
“Pearl!”
Quinn’s hand was on her shoulder, holding her back, and she realized she’d been advancing on Nift.
“Let’s keep it professional,” Quinn said. Then, to Nift: “Is everything there?” If only you could put her back together.
The cocky little ME seemed surprised by the question. Then he understood. “Yeah, I looked and made sure. And the organs have to be cut away from the peritoneum differently from the way it was done here if they’re gonna be reusable. Nobody’s doing this so they can get healthy organs to sell on the black market.” He glanced at Pearl. “Shame. The killer’s missing a bet, and he could maybe save somebody’s life whenever he killed someone.”
The stench in the stifling little room was beginning to get to Quinn. The stench and Nift.
He led the way, and they returned to where Sal and Mishkin were standing, watching the techs go over the living room.
“They won’t find anything we can use,” Mishkin said. “The guy works clean.” He had so much mentholated cream all over his mustache he looked as if he had a bad cold.
Vitali noticed Quinn looking at his partner and said, “Harold does what works for him, just like the rest of us, even if he does smell like a walking meth lab.”
“He smells better than the corpse,” Quinn said.
“That’s absolutely the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me,” Mishkin told him. He had a deadpan, dry delivery. Quinn made a mental note that the innocuous-looking little guy might occasionally sting.
