John Lutz Bundle

by John Lutz

  “I would be your unofficial undercover operative.”

  “Unofficial is what you need to remember. But let’s not forget confidential. This part of our conversation never took place.”

  The way she smiled and nodded, he could tell she was used to this kind of conniving and in fact enjoyed it. The way he did. He wondered if they might have even more in common than he’d first thought. Who could predict where their relationship might lead? Perhaps it was possible to have a soul mate even without a soul.

  “I already have two NYPD detectives working with Quinn and his team,” he said to her legs. “They’re supposed to report to me the way I’d want you to report.”

  “And do they?”

  “I can’t be sure.”

  “You don’t trust them?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Renz raised his gaze to meet her eyes. “Frank Quinn can be a very persuasive guy. People tend to fall in behind him. Also, he’s not the kind of man you cross. Even hardened cops like my detectives might be afraid to get sideways of him. He locks on to his target like a radar-guided missile fueled by obsession, and he doesn’t always operate strictly within the law.”

  “Is that why you hired Quinn?”

  “Yeah. He and I understand each other, go way back.”

  “Boys’ club.”

  “Sure.”

  Renz suddenly realized who her voice reminded him of—the young Lauren Bacall, vamping it up with Bogie. She was making Renz feel as if he were in a movie. Nice feeling.

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Renz’s heartbeat quickened.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?” Addie Price said.

  Soul mates. “Yeah, there is. There’s another reason I can trust my two guys on the case—Vitali and Mishkin—only so far. It’s because I’ve moved up in the NYPD and become police commissioner. I’m seen mostly as a politician now, and not so much as a cop. My blood doesn’t run completely blue, so I’m no longer a member of the club. Not to guys like Vitali and Mishkin, anyway.”

  “They good cops?”

  “The best. Same way with Quinn and his team. They can be a pain in the ass, even to each other, but they get the job done.”

  “Any of them bendable?”

  “No. They’re all dead honest.”

  “Good. That makes them predictable.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Renz said. “Honest isn’t always legal.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting Quinn, if I’m hired.”

  “You’re hired,” Renz said. “Same terms as Quinn and his team. They’re working out of Quinn’s agency over on West Seventy-ninth Street.”

  “I know where it is.”

  Renz gave her his hound-dog smile. “I’ll bet you do. I’ll call Quinn today and tell him you’re part of the team. Don’t be surprised if they don’t welcome you like a long-lost family member.”

  “I’ll win them over,” Addie said.

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment. You’ll be the crime psychologist and profiler on the case.”

  “And your reliable spy,” Addie said. “Not being a member of the club.”

  “You and I have our own club,” Renz said, standing up while he didn’t have an erection.

  Addie unwound herself and stood up from her chair, smoothed down her skirt over those long thighs.

  “Okay,” she said in her Lauren Bacall voice. “Our own private club. Maybe with a secret handshake. Or something.”

  Renz sat back down fast and watched her see her own way out.

  35

  Joyce House lay in bed and stared up at the cracks in her bedroom ceiling. They were barely visible in the dim light, and through eyes still teared up slightly by the intensity of the sex she’d just experienced with Loren.

  The pattern above was familiar to her. The fine network of cracks in the white plaster was like a road map to her future. She imagined the cracks as highways seen from a great distance, with varied destinations and important intersections. She knew precisely where she was now. If she turned left, she’d be traveling toward a dark wood. A right turn would take her to a city on a beach, where everything was bleached clean by the sun. Continuing straight would take her to a city exactly like New York.

  Beside her Loren lay breathing evenly, sleeping from the efforts of their sometimes frenetic lovemaking. She’d known during the happy-ending play they’d seen, Manhattan Nocturne, and during dinner afterward, that he expected to leave the restaurant and walk with her to her apartment. She’d done nothing to discourage the idea.

  Good thing. She hadn’t suspected he was such an expert in bed.

  She’d been inebriated from too much wine at dinner. She smiled. No, she’d been drunk, actually. That was the reason why her memory was foggy. Part of the reason, anyway. In her mind, the night had been layer after layer of fantasy, yet she knew it had happened. Loren had used only his tongue on her, sending her into frenzies of passion. A down payment, she thought he’d said. Well, if this was his idea of fore-play, bring it on.

  Back to the ceiling road map.

  Right now, the New York highway seemed a good one to stay on.

  She imagined herself speeding along it toward a wonderful tomorrow. The fine crack in the ceiling was the road to a better world.

  The road curved and rose and dipped into darkness, and she was asleep.

  She awakened from a dream of bulk and weight pressing her upper body into the soft mattress.

  No dream! Real!

  She tried to sit up but couldn’t.

  For an instant she panicked. Then she realized the weight she felt was Loren’s body, nude but for his white undershirt. He was seated on her with his knees on her upper arms, his bare buttocks just beneath her breasts. The room had gotten warm, and he was perspiring. The bedroom was no longer dim. He’d switched on the small shaded lamp on her dresser.

  He had an erection and was smiling down at her.

  One of his games.

  Okay, she’d play. Though she wasn’t so sure of this game.

  But if it’s going to be anything like last night…

  She let her body go limp and returned his smile. His eyes, his smile, were so wonderful. She uttered his name in near reverence, and he held a forefinger to his lips in a signal for her to be silent. With his other hand he gripped her cheeks between thumb and forefinger and gently forced her mouth open.

  He’s going to use his tongue again….

  Now he was stuffing something into her mouth. Material. Silky.

  With a start, she realized it was her panties. He’d knotted them and forced the bulky knot between her parted lips. The instant she tried to turn her head to the side, he stretched the panties and somehow tied them behind her neck. The knotted nylon went deeper into her mouth, behind her teeth. The maneuver was done so deftly that she knew he’d practiced it or done it many times before.

  Joyce didn’t like this game. Not so far, anyway. She fought off a wave of nausea and tried to keep calm so she wouldn’t gag on the bunched material.

  This is disgusting!

  If he persisted in playing rough she’d have to tell him about it, let him know in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t for her. And there was something else about the wadded panties being stuffed into her mouth. She’d heard or read something….

  In the news?

  Oh, God! No, No, NO!

  He leaned closer to her, and she could feel his warm breath on her face. Smelled the sex on it, their sex.

  She shook her head wildly and moaned through the wadded cloth, trying to tell him she didn’t understand what they were doing, what he wanted. Trying desperately to plead.

  He shifted his weight forward, and his knees bore down harder, firmly and painfully pinning her arms to the bed. He was gazing down at her fondly as he held out something for her to see.

  He spoke through a smile. “Let me tell you what I’m going to do with this knife.”

  So
ftly and in minute detail, he described to her everything as he was doing it, until she was no longer listening.

  36

  More heat this morning, and Quinn thought that if it got any more humid things might start to float.

  “So there are slight differences in the M.O.s of the Sanders killing and the earlier murders,” Fedderman said. His bald pate was perspiring beneath his comb-over. “The Carver’s been on vacation, and he’s rusty.”

  Pearl was perched with her haunches on the edge of her desk. She was the only one of the three who looked reasonably cool. In fact, Quinn thought she looked great today, wearing tight beige slacks, a yellow blouse made of some sort of silky material, and white shoes with some heel to them—not like her usual clunky black cop shoes. Her lustrous black hair was combed back and held by some sort of round silver barrette, and her makeup had been applied with obvious care. It all made her look more like Pearl than ever. She hadn’t just piled out of bed, showered, and dressed damp this morning. What was she up to? Quinn was afraid to consider.

  “Feds is right,” she said. “People change over time. Even serial killers.”

  “He hasn’t changed enough,” Quinn said.

  Pearl shrugged in the silky blouse in a way Quinn liked. “It’s not as if we might mistake him for some other guy who de-nipples women, carves the letter X on them, and slits their throats.”

  “Maybe, but unfortunately there are more than a few guys who wouldn’t mind meeting those requirements.”

  “Anyone else happen to see her at the crime scene?” Fedderman asked.

  Pearl looked at him. “See who? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Our shadow woman. Dressed in gray. She was standing across the street when we were talking with Nift. I saw her, looked away when Nift said something, and when I looked back she was gone.”

  “Running outfit with a hood?” Quinn asked.

  Fedderman nodded.

  “I had more or less the same experience.”

  “I noticed her,” Pearl said. “But what makes you think she wasn’t simply some woman from the neighborhood who was out running and stopped to see what all the commotion was about?”

  “No,” Fedderman said. “There was definitely something creepy about her.”

  “Because you wanted to see something creepy. The shadow woman was on both your minds.”

  “My mind doesn’t fool itself that easily,” Fedderman said.

  “How would it know?” Pearl asked.

  She walked over and got a cup of coffee. Fedderman watched her. Quinn watched them both, like a man watching inclement weather developing.

  The door opened, and a woman stepped inside.

  Everyone looked at her.

  She looked as put together as Pearl, but that was about all they had in common. This woman was tall and slender—a fashion model’s build. She was wearing a dark gray blazer and lighter gray slacks. Shoes with silver buckles and flat heels. On top of the model’s body was a model’s face, strong-featured with prominent cheekbones, full lips, and intriguing eyes that appeared blue at a glance but were actually brown.

  She smiled, but before she could introduce herself, Quinn said, “This is Adelaide Price.” He nodded toward Pearl and Fedderman as he introduced them, and then himself. “Ms. Price is going to join us,” he said.

  Pearl didn’t like surprises from Quinn. They usually meant impending trouble. “What do you mean, ‘join us’? Are we all going out for a doughnut fest?”

  “It’s Addie,” the woman said. “I’m glad to meet you all, and doughnuts sound all right to me.”

  Pearl didn’t like the husky, sexy voice, like a cat seducing mice. She also didn’t like the way the two mice were staring at the woman.

  “I’m assuming Commissioner Renz contacted you about me,” Addie said.

  Quinn seemed to drift up out of his trance. “He did, Addie, but I haven’t had a chance to fill in Pearl and Feds—Fedderman.”

  “Just Feds is okay,” Fedderman said to Addie. Got him a smile.

  Addie Price sat in the client’s chair while Quinn explained to Pearl and Fedderman that she was now part of the investigation as a crime psychologist and profiler. She’d had plenty of experience with the Detroit police and as a freelancer and media personality. She’d written a book. Without being too obvious, he made it clear to them that this was Renz’s idea and they had no choice.

  “I’ve already met Vitali and Mishkin,” Addie Price said, when Quinn was finished.

  “Great,” Quinn said. “I’ve got a desk coming for you, Addie, but it won’t get here till this afternoon. Pearl and I will be in the field this morning, and Feds can bring you up to date on the case.”

  “I’m already somewhat up to date on it,” Addie said. “I have a special interest.”

  “Renz explained that,” Quinn said.

  Pearl waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Neither did Addie Price.

  “We’re becoming quite a task force,” Pearl said in a neutral tone.

  A profiler assigned by Renz. One who’d be taking an active part in the investigation. Pearl didn’t like this a bit.

  “Whatever it takes,” Fedderman said. He was not going to be on Pearl’s side when it came to Addie Price. “We can use my desk,” he said to Addie, “and we need to get you a coffee mug with your initials on it.”

  “Gold ones,” Pearl said.

  Addie gave her a look. It was easy to read: We’re sisters in a man’s world. For God’s sake, give me a chance.

  “What’s with this book?” Fedderman asked.

  Addie made a pass at looking modest. “Oh, it’s one of those dry academic things. Crime Profilng in the Context of Modern Society. It’s a padded version of my doctoral dissertation.”

  Pearl thought, Jesus H. Christ!

  “Pearl and I will be down in Chelsea,” Quinn said, “seeing if we can find somebody who knew Maureen Sanders or saw or heard anything unusual. Maybe some of the other street people around there knew her.”

  He got his suit coat from where it hung on a wire hanger and draped it over his arm. A few long steps and he was at the door.

  “Good to meet you, Addie,” he said. He held the door open for Pearl.

  “Welcome aboard, Addie,” Pearl said, with a wide, warm smile. “We can use all the help we can get.”

  Thinking, Spy.

  They took Quinn’s Lincoln for the drive downtown. He got behind the steering wheel as Pearl opened the door on her side and slid in to sit next to him. She fastened her seat belt and stared straight ahead.

  Quinn didn’t drive away immediately. They sat with the engine running almost silently, the car’s air-conditioning fighting the good fight against the heat. Pearl didn’t feel like a caution from Quinn, but she could sense one coming.

  “She seems nice,” she said, not looking over at Quinn. Perhaps she could divert this conversation with a modicum of bullshit.

  “This is Renz’s idea,” he said. “He’s the unseen hand running the investigation.”

  “I didn’t notice his name on our stationery. Or Addie Price’s.”

  “Or Vitali’s or Mishkin’s,” Quinn said. “We find ourselves working for the city, Pearl. Not just for our periodically disappearing client.”

  “Think there might be a conflict of interest there?”

  “Not unless our client’s involved in a crime.”

  “Hmph,” Pearl said. She finally looked over at Quinn. “You do realize Addie Price is probably Renz’s way of keeping tabs on us. His own personal Mata Hari.”

  “Yes, I realize that. I also realize she can be a valuable conduit for feeding whatever information we want to Renz.”

  Pearl couldn’t help laughing, partly in disgust. “You are such a devious bastard, Quinn.”

  “You probably forget from time to time.” He slipped the shift lever into drive and pulled the big Lincoln away from the curb. “Something else about Addie Price, Pearl, is she might be damned good at her job
.”

  “She’s good at something,” Pearl said, and settled back in her seat.

  Halfway down Broadway to Chelsea, dark clouds blew in, and vast shadows moved against the buildings and across the wide street. Thunder rumbled like distant lions. People on the sidewalks began walking slightly faster and sneaking looks at the sky as if they might be caught at it and punished with a bolt of lightning. Shop owners with sidewalk displays busied themselves lowering awnings or steel shutters to keep merchandise dry. Judging by the spotless windshield, not a drop of rain had fallen, but already several street vendors were hawking umbrellas. The kind that flipped inside-out with the first brisk wind and were useless ever after.

  “Storm coming,” Quinn said.

  “You think?” Pearl said, each word like a splash of acid.

  “Jesus, Pearl, lighten up.”

  Pearl said, “You’re looking at the light me.”

  37

  Holifield, Ohio, 1994

  Hardware Hill had started out the cold winter morning with a frozen crust on the surface of five inches of snow. By the time Jerry Grantland got there with the American Flyer sled he’d almost outgrown, the kids who’d gotten a snow day off school and used it for winter hijinks had made an icy mess of things.

  The hill was city property, a wide thirty-degree plane leading to a shallow lake. But for the prospect of an icy dunking at the bottom, it might have been designed for sledding.

  During the winter the city stacked bales of straw along the lake’s edge to keep overenthusiastic sled riders from zooming onto the frozen surface or into the frigid water. Often there were bonfires at the edges of the hill to warm those who stayed long or managed to find their way beyond the straw-bale barrier. At the top of the hill was the back of Munger’s Hardware Emporium, where many of the wooden sleds, plastic saucers, even skis were sold. During winters with lots of ice and snow, Munger’s did very well and paid the city a lot in taxes. Everybody enjoyed themselves sledding, battling in snowball fights, or making money.

  Jerry was dragging the sled behind him by steering ropes he’d fashioned from clothesline. He was wearing his old green parka with the fur-edged hood, a black watch cap, thick corduroy pants, and rubber boots with metal clasps.