by John Lutz
Buddy accompanied them in the elevator and led them to 512, where he opened the door and then hung around as if expecting a tip. Habit, Quinn supposed.
“The bathroom’s in there,” Buddy said, motioning toward a closed door. “There’s your television. There’s a refrigerator right there stocked with—”
Quinn gave him a look that shut him up. Buddy grinned, shrugged, and left the room.
Quinn and Pearl looked around. The room was neatly arranged; it had to be, since most of the furniture was fastened to the walls. The maid had indeed been thorough. The scent of Lemon Pledge still hung in the air, and there wasn’t the slightest trace of dust.
Pearl checked the tiny bathroom and found it smelling of bleach and gleaming and spotless. Even the grout between the blue tiles looked clean. She wished she had a bathroom like it. Hers was about the same size but was comparatively cruddy.
Quinn was impressed. “The maid emptied the waste-baskets, and it looks like she polished their insides,” he said.
“Waste of time,” Pearl said.
Quinn wasn’t sure if she meant the wastebasket polishing or the room search.
They went over the room thoroughly, but not with much enthusiasm, deftly staying out of each other’s way because they’d done this dozens of times in dozens of rooms.
The desk clerk was right: the maid’s thoroughness had neutered the room when it came to anything like a clue. There was nothing that might be of help. Not lint, not a hair. Nothing.
“Chrissie’s away clean,” Pearl said. “She did a number on us.”
Quinn knew she was right. But what kind of number?
And why?
Two blocks away from where Quinn and Fedderman stood, a man was standing staring in the window of a luggage shop.
A trip to someplace interesting, where I’ve never been before. That’s what I should do, take a trip. Pack a bag and get out of this city, at least for a while. Someplace in Europe. Or the Caribbean, if I can find an island that—
Air brakes hissed, drawing his attention.
He watched the young woman step down from the bus that had stopped near the corner. She was in her thirties, with dark eyes and luxurious shoulder-length dark hair that bounced with her generous breasts as she took the long, lurching step down to the pavement. Her dress was pale green, made of some kind of thin material that clung to her body in the light summer breeze.
How gracefully she moved. So like a cat. Her high heels flashed as she extended her long legs with each stride, her calf muscles working like silk.
Dancer’s legs, he thought. Maybe she was a dancer. Maybe she was—
He realized he’d begun following the woman without even thinking about it. As if some part of him had already made the decision that their lives and her death should converge.
No, goddamn it!
He stopped walking, using all his willpower to avert his eyes from the woman.
I don’t do that anymore.
I don’t even have a hard-on.
He turned around and started walking in the opposite direction the woman was going. He didn’t even glance back at her for one last look. One additional memory of her he could recall in detail at least for a while. He walked faster, lengthening his stride, pounding his heels down hard as if testing the resiliency of the sidewalk.
I don’t do that anymore.
I don’t have to do that anymore.
But he found himself recalling the way her hair and her breasts had bounced as she’d stepped down out of the bus.
He smiled. Even though that part of his life was over and he was somebody else now, it did no harm to remember. To think about how things were, or even how they might have been. Even how they might be. After all, he wasn’t the one who’d stirred up the past and started the thoughts playing like movie scenes in his mind. Scenes that he was in or was simply observing, looking at them usually from above, as if he’d been a spirit in the room.
Thoughts…
Thoughts never hurt anyone. How could they? They weren’t real. You couldn’t even touch them.
And sometimes you couldn’t stop them.
But he did stop thinking about leaving the city.
8
Even though she’d brushed her teeth, the aftertaste of last night’s scotch that she’d used to relax and make herself tired remained. Pearl didn’t mind. She knew she was having trouble sleeping because she was on the hunt with the pack she knew and in strange ways loved. Or was it the hunt that she loved? Either way, she liked it that her internal engine was running like a separate heart.
The engine had awakened her early from her disturbed slumber, which was why she was the first one in the office this morning.
Pearl sat down at her gray steel desk and booted up her computer. She’d done some research at home on her laptop, so she copied files from her flash drive to her desk computer. That completed, she replaced the flash drive in her purse and set to work running Internet searches for information pertaining to Chrissie Keller.
When that failed she got up and went over and poured coffee from the brewer’s glass pot into her personalized ceramic mug, then added powdered cream and stirred until not much of it floated on top. Her second coffee of the morning. Cop pop.
She glanced at her watch. Almost nine o’clock, and she was still alone in the office. What the hell?
Then she remembered that, instead of meeting at the office this morning, Quinn and Fedderman were going to the East Side to interview some witnesses. Pearl might be alone a while longer.
She sat down again at her computer and sipped her coffee while she idly typed “the carver, serial killer” into her browser and began another Internet search.
Most of what came up she’d already seen, but there were a few unfamiliar sites. She sighed, sipped coffee, and visited the first one. It had to do with a butcher’s theft of Christmas turkeys from a halfway house for ex-convicts in 1997 in Miami.
Off to a good start.
The next link took her to a site that sold exotic wood carvings of birds. As she continued to link from one site to another, they became more and more remote from her subject. Still, she kept on. Sometimes doggedness turned the trick. Give Pearl the right haystack and she’d find the needle.
The word “carver” alone eventually linked her to “Initials Carved in Trees,” which linked her to “Initials of the Famous,” which linked her to “Initial Reports,” categorized by city, which linked her to “Crimes against persons reports, Detroit PD,” which linked her to an amateur crime site called “Initial Attempts” that featured cases where inept beginner criminals had been interrupted during their attempted crimes. It featured photographs of an astounded would-be teenage burglar blinded by floodlights, one leg draped over a window ledge, a sack of loot in his hand; and a security camera shot of a would-be robber fleeing a convenience store empty-handed while a large dog snapped at his heels.
And there was something else.
Pearl sat forward. There was a blurry photo of what appeared to be a slender young woman. Her face wasn’t clearly visible. There was a brief accompanying news item that made no reference to the photograph but reported that a woman named Geraldine Knott, twenty-two years old, had been attacked by a masked assailant in the parking structure of her apartment. He’d struck her, straddled her, then drawn a knife and begun telling her exactly what he was going to do with it, including severing her nipples.
Something had caused the assailant to break off his attack and flee. Possibly it had been the coincidence of sirens, as police arrived at the building across the street after being called on another matter. Ms. Knott was discovered when a woman who also lived in the building entered the parking structure and noticed her slumped and dazed on the concrete floor. The news report said the victim had a broken collarbone, was suffering from extreme stress, and was hospitalized in stable condition. An artist’s sketch of the attacker, based on Geraldine Knott’s description, would be in the paper soon. The date of the
news item was April 7, eight years ago. Shortly before the Carver began his horrific string of murders in New York.
Pearl ran a search of the Detroit paper archives and easily found another item about the Geraldine Knott assault, accompanied by the sketch artist’s rendering of her attacker. He was wearing a balaclava that covered his head and all of his face but his eyes. There didn’t seem to be anything special about the eyes. Geraldine Knott couldn’t recall their color.
All in all, Pearl thought, the sketch was useless. Nevertheless, she printed out what she had, three copies, for Quinn, Fedderman, and herself.
Ten minutes later, Quinn and Fedderman came into the office. The sultry summer air came with them, thick as syrup. Both men were damp. Quinn’s hair stuck out every which way and was glistening with rainwater, and his blue tie was spotted. Fedderman’s customary wrinkled brown suit looked even more rumpled than usual. When he walked past Pearl’s desk she noticed he smelled like a wet dog. Maybe the suit, maybe Fedderman.
“Raining again out there?” Pearl asked, knowing the answer was obvious but wanting to rub it in.
Quinn and Fedderman ignored her. Quinn nodded toward the computer.
“What are you doing?” he asked, walking over to remove his rain-spotted suit coat and drape it over a brass hook on the wall near his desk.
“Running a computer check on one Geraldine Knott,” Pearl said. Not telling them everything up front, letting the geniuses work for it.
“Why?” Fedderman asked, shambling over like a curious hound and staring at Pearl’s computer monitor.
Pearl didn’t answer but pointed to the paper-clipped printouts on her desk corner.
“Read those,” she said.
Fedderman and Quinn both read silently, then looked at each other.
“Holy Jesus!” Fedderman said.
“Not Him,” Pearl said. “Me. This came up on an Internet search for the Carver while you two were frolicking in the rain.”
“Holed up eating doughnuts,” Fedderman said. “And we brought one for you.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Fedderman ate it,” Quinn said. “Just as we turned the corner and pulled in to park out front.”
Fedderman shrugged.
Quinn laid his copy of the printout back on Pearl’s desk. “Great work, Pearl. Stay on it. Find out everything you can about Geraldine Knott.”
Fedderman grinned and pulled a greasy white paper sack from where it was jammed in his suit coat pocket. He placed it on Pearl’s desk.
“For you,” he said. “Chocolate icing. A cake doughnut, so in case you want to dunk, it won’t come apart in your coffee. Don’t believe everything you hear. We’re always thinking of you.”
“Yeah,” Pearl said.
But thinking what?
She thanked Fedderman, opened the grease-stained sack, and removed the sticky doughnut that had been in Fedderman’s pocket.
It smelled like a wet dog.
9
Mary Bakehouse maneuvered toward the doors of the crowded subway car, wielding her large, flat imitation-leather artist’s portfolio vertically like the prow of an icebreaker to forge ahead. A man with breath smelling of onions pressed tightly behind her, pushing her even faster than she wanted to go. A bead of sweat trickled down her ribs. Someone stepped on her toe.
Nothing like South Dakota.
She’d barely gotten out onto the platform when the doors hissed closed behind her. Walking away, she heard the train squeal and roar as it pulled forward and picked up speed. The public address system was repeating something no one from any country on earth would understand.
Mary was exhausted from her two job interviews, and not very optimistic. An ad agency had told her that things were slow, but maybe. An architectural firm had candidly told her they simply weren’t hiring, and in fact the man who had posted the want ad in the paper’s classified section had himself been laid off and was leaving at the end of the week.
As she trudged up the granite steps to the entrance to her apartment building, she was beginning to think she’d chosen precisely the wrong time to attempt a move to New York.
The lobby, which was really more of a vestibule, was at least quiet. She pressed the up button for the elevator and settled her weight equally on both tired legs. In the building above her cables thrummed, but the brass arrow floor indicator on the wall over the elevator door didn’t budge.
As she waited patiently, she heard footsteps descending the nearby stairs. Somebody in a hurry.
But at the landing just above the lobby, the sound of hurried soles on rubber stair treads suddenly ceased, as if whoever had come down from upstairs was standing absolutely still, waiting for something.
For me to leave?
The landing was out of sight, but Mary thought she could hear someone breathing heavily, almost asthmatically.
A man. She was sure it was a man. Not only because of the loud breathing but because of the sound his soles had made on the stairs, a rapid, repetitive clomping that was almost like a machine gun firing. As if he was simply letting his weight tilt him forward and catching himself with each step. Most women didn’t take stairs that way.
The elevator arrived, unoccupied. Mary hurried inside and pressed the button for her floor. When the steel door had glided almost shut, she thought she heard the footfalls continue on the stairs. It was obvious now that whoever was on the landing had been waiting for her to clear the lobby so he or she wouldn’t be seen leaving the building.
Mary told herself there could be a dozen reasons for that, none of them concerning her.
As the elevator rose, she glanced down and saw that the dusting of fine hairs on the backs of her arms was standing up. Suddenly she had to swallow.
I guess this means I’m scared.
She told herself that rationally she had no reason to be afraid. If someone wanted to use the stairs instead of the elevator and not be seen, that was fine with her.
Unless her apartment had been burgled.
Well, she’d soon see if that had occurred. She almost smiled. If a burglar had chosen her apartment to break into, he’d be one disappointed thief. She had little worth stealing.
No, that wasn’t quite true. She remembered her Dell notebook computer sitting right out in plain view on the desk in the living room. But even that was over five years old, hopelessly obsolete to anyone familiar with electronics.
Still, if it was gone, she’d have to replace it.
This is absurd. Nothing’s been stolen and I am not afraid!
When she left the elevator and reached her apartment door, she studied it and saw no sign that it had been forced. She tried the doorknob, and it wouldn’t turn. The door was still locked, as it should be.
Even if she hadn’t been afraid, she felt a huge relief.
Imagination. Too much imagination because I’m creative.
Curiosity overcame what was now merely a vague unease, and she unlocked the door and opened it. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped into her apartment.
An encompassing glance told her that everything was okay. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed since she’d left to go job hunting this morning.
Telling herself she’d been a big baby, she closed the door to the hall and locked the dead bolt, then fastened the chain. She crossed the room and yanked the drapes open wider so more of the early evening light spilled in through the window.
She looked around more carefully. There were the throw pillows stacked as they’d been on the sofa, so she could prop her feet up while watching television. There was her empty orange juice glass she’d forgotten to carry back to the kitchen this morning, precisely where she’d left it on the coffee table, resting on a magazine so it wouldn’t leave a ring.
She went to the window air conditioner and switched it on maximum, enjoying the cool breeze gradually generated by the humming blower. When she turned around her gaze went to the nearby desk, checking to make sure her computer was still there. She knew that
it was, yet she still had to look.
And there was her computer.
But its lid was raised and it was on.
Doubt crawled like an insect up the nape of her neck. She was sure she’d shut down the computer this morning. But she must not have. There it was, not online but with the desktop icons displayed against a field of blue.
Mary went to the computer and laid her hand over it. She felt no warmth. Might that mean it hadn’t been on very long? Shouldn’t it be warm if she’d gone away and left it on for hours? She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t actually experimented to find out. How could she know?
She switched on the desk lamp, then sat before the computer and went online. She moved the cursor and clicked on the computer’s history.
The sites recently visited were familiar. Her e-mail from when she’d checked for messages this morning, the Times and Post online editions. eBay, to do some looking but not buying. USA Today, to find out what was happening outside New York.
All the sites were ones she was sure she’d visited the last time she’d sat at the computer this morning. It didn’t appear that anyone had gone fishing for her personal information.
On the other hand, she knew the entire contents of her hard drive might have been copied to an external disk drive, or even a flash drive, and she’d have no way of knowing.
And she was sure, sure, that she’d left the computer this morning with its screen dark.
But how sure was anyone of anything?
Mary got up from the desk and made herself look through the rest of the apartment, extending a tentative hand and switching on lights as she went, even though it wasn’t yet dusk. She looked in closets, even peered under her bed, before she was satisfied that she was alone.
She settled into the sofa and worked off her shoes, trying to relax. But she was still afraid—and angry.
It wasn’t so much that someone—the man on the stairs?—might have entered her apartment; it was more as if he’d entered her life.
There were plenty of dangerous nut cases in the human turmoil of the city. She’d been warned about them often enough. In the closeness and press of Manhattan, any woman was bound to pass at least some of them on the crowded sidewalks every day.
