by John Lutz
Pearl told him she'd be waiting, and broke the connection.
This wasn't all professional, and they both knew it. Odd how sexual tension could make its way across a phone connection. What life was about--connections.
She turned off the engine and climbed out of the coolness of the air-conditioned car into the heat. The drizzle wasn't enough to worry about, not much more than a mist, but it sure upped the humidity. Almost immediately her clothes felt damp and as if they were sticking to her flesh.
After waiting for a bus to rumble past, she crossed the street and used a revolving door to enter the Waverton Hotel.
Cool air again. Refreshing.
She made her way across the carpeted lobby toward a wide archway and went down two steps to the coffee shop. It was surprisingly large, with rows of tables and a long counter. The floor was oversize black and white tiles in a checker-board pattern. The place gave the impression of being almost devoid of customers, but there were more than a dozen people at the tables, and three at the counter. Pearl noticed a street door at the far end of the counter and figured many of the diners weren't hotel guests.
She found a table where she could be seen. A placard propped next to a cluster of condiments said there was a sale on pie. She ordered a diet Coke.
She waited.
Jeb Jones took the steps down into the coffee shop with an athletic ease that bordered on arrogance. He was wearing designer jeans today, and a black blazer over a gray T-shirt. So was she.
"Jesus!" she said, taking in the fact that they were dressed almost identically.
He paused, not knowing what she meant at first, then he smiled. "Fate."
"If there is such a thing," Pearl said. She saw that he did have on brown loafers, while she was wearing her clunky black cop's shoes.
"Such a thing as fate, or Jesus?"
"Take your pick," Pearl said.
He sat down opposite her. His face looked scrubbed and unnaturally ruddy in a way that suggested he'd just shaved, and his wavy dark hair was damp and pushed back carelessly, as if he'd used his fingers instead of a comb or brush. "Fate might have it that we develop a relationship made in heaven--a professional one, of course."
The woman who'd taken Pearl's order came over and Jeb ordered a fountain diet Coke. Pearl didn't tell him that was what she was drinking.
When they were settled in with drinks and straws and no one was around to overhear, he said, "Fire away, Officer Pearl."
She gave him a mock angry look. "Not 'Officer Kasner'?"
"I thought this might be an acceptable compromise," he said with a grin.
"Let's make it just Pearl, if we have to compromise."
"All right. You've got me in a compromising position, Pearl."
So damned smooth. She felt a slight tingle of alarm, or was it something else? She sipped Coke through her straw, watching him watch her. "Have you thought any more about Marilyn Nelson?"
He sat back and seemed to take the question seriously. "I've thought a lot about what happened to Marilyn, especially after I read some of the details in the paper. From what little I knew of her, I liked her a lot, but to tell you the truth I'm not grieving as if she were an old and dear friend. She was a woman I dated twice."
That seemed to Pearl to be an honest answer. "Do you remember ever running into any of her friends?"
"On our first date we said hello to some people she knew in a restaurant--the Pepper Tree. It's right down the street from her apartment."
"How many people?"
"Four. Two men and two women."
"She introduce you to them?"
"Yes, but to tell you the truth I don't recall their names. They were seated at a table near ours and we stopped briefly and she said hello to them on the way out. I'd even have trouble picking any of them out of a lineup."
Pearl smiled. "I doubt it will come to that. Did she mention where she knew them from?"
"No, just said they were friends of hers. Maybe they live in her neighborhood, since they were eating at the Pepper Tree." He brightened. "If you and I had dinner together there, I could watch for them. You'd be working. It would be professional."
"Hmm. The food good?"
"Mine was. I'm sure it would be again, if you were across the table."
She sipped some more with her straw. "You seem to believe in getting to the point."
"I admit I don't like wasting time. In this kind of thing, there's no sense in dancing around forever unless that's what you enjoy most."
"This kind of thing?"
"There was a handwritten phone number on the back of the business card you gave me."
"My cell phone," she said. "In case you recalled something and wanted to talk to me when I was in the field."
He wasn't buying into it. He gave her a confident smile, in that way he had of being just this side of arrogant that she found attractive. "I don't believe you came here to have a conversation about Marilyn Nelson."
Okay, you like coming to the point. She drew in her breath, and then plunged. Idiot, Pearl.
"No," she said, "I came to see you."
"Good. I'm pleased. More than pleased."
Done. And it worked out well. The world didn't cave in on me. She was having difficulty breathing. "The dinner invitation still good?"
"Of course."
Absently toying with the wrapper from his straw, he glanced through the archway dividing the coffee shop from the lobby, toward the elevators.
Uh-oh! Pearl knew where this was going. She knew where she might be going if Jeb Jones had his way. We not only dress the same; we both tend to seize the moment.
But not this moment. You're a cop on duty.
"You're not planning on asking a police officer up to your room, are you?" she asked with a poker face.
He grinned. "I confess."
She was about to speak when her cell phone chirped.
Still looking into Jeb's brown eyes, she drew the phone from her pocket, flipped it open, and saw by the caller ID that it was Quinn.
"What's up?" she said. She could hear traffic sounds in the background; he was calling from his car.
"We've got another Butcher job. Down in the Village." He gave her the address.
"Like the others?"
"Feds said it was when he called me. He got there first. I'm on my way. Like you are."
"Like I am," Pearl said, and broke the connection and flipped the phone's lid down.
She looked across the table at Jeb. "Work," she said. "I've gotta go."
He reached across the table and his fingertips brushed the back of her hand. The contact almost hummed with high voltage. "I'm disappointed, but I understand. Duty."
When he withdrew his hand she stood up and reached for her wallet.
"On me," he said, standing also. "Dinner still on for tonight?"
"I can't promise," she said.
"I understand again."
She smiled nervously, feeling oddly as if she'd just been shot at and missed.
"I've got your number," he reminded her, as she hurried away.
Yeah, she thought.
32
Pearl flashed her shield for the uniform guarding the open door and found the victim's apartment crawling with crime scene unit techs.
As soon as she stepped inside, the familiar butcher shop stench made her stomach protest. She swallowed bile and continued past the techs busily gathering evidence in the modestly furnished living room, then continued through the kitchen and along a narrow hall to the bathroom.
She looked inside and found Quinn and Fedderman blocking her view. Pearl could see by the shape of the hips and the small black shoes that the Medical Examiner's office had sent a woman this time, who was bending over the bathtub to sort through what was left of the victim.
Quinn and Feds both glanced over at Pearl and nodded. There was no room for Pearl to enter the small bathroom, so Fedderman edged over so she could see.
Another jolt to her stomach. Even though sh
e knew what to expect now, it was a shock.
That one human being could do this to another...
The detached head resting atop pale and severed arms had damp dark hair.
"Not a blonde," Pearl said.
The ME shot a look over her shoulder. She was about fifty, with puffy cheeks and carrot-red hair worn so short it was almost a buzz cut. Though Pearl was sure they'd never seen each other before, the glance seemed to satisfy the ME that Pearl belonged, because she simply returned to her work.
Quinn eased his way out of the crowded bathroom and led Pearl down the hall to the kitchen, where as yet there was no CSU activity.
"Same bullshit?" Pearl asked.
"So far," Quinn said. "When it comes to method, our guy's the model of consistency."
The ME came into the kitchen. She was wearing a man's pinstriped gray suit and tie and carrying a scuffed black leather medical bag. Perspiration beaded her puffy face and she looked tired and bored. Pearl thought that no matter how the woman felt, she probably always looked bored.
"Julius filled me in on the others," she said. Her voice didn't sound bored. It was crisp and efficient.
Quinn raised an eyebrow. "Julius?"
"Dr. Nift," she said. "This fits the pattern all the way down the line. Virtually all bodily fluids drained before dissection began. Most of the cutting done with sharp blades and a cleaver. The larger, more difficult cuts done with what appears to have been a power saw."
She might as well have been talking about carving a turkey. But then that was what the Butcher did, dehumanized his victims by making them mere meat.
Pearl must have appeared ill. The ME gave her a look without pity. "Sorry not to introduce myself. I'm Dr. Jane Tumulty."
Pearl nodded. "Pearl Kasner. Where's Nift today?"
"Dr. Nift had family business."
It was difficult for Pearl to think of Nift--Julius Nift--with a human family, but she supposed it was possible.
Tumulty turned her attention back to Quinn. "When the cutting was finished, the body parts were stacked and washed clean. Not scrubbed or rubbed in any way, though. I think the cleansing agents from the empty containers were used, along with spray from the shower, then bleach was employed. Everything liquid went down the drain with the shower water." She looked at both Quinn and Pearl. "I've never dealt with such a clean cadaver, whole or in part."
"He's a butcher who works clean," Quinn said.
Tumulty gave a swollen smile. "I don't think this was done by a butcher, and certainly not by a doctor, but whoever did it had experience with dismemberment. Maybe a short-term medical student with limited time with cadavers."
"Or on-the-job training," Quinn said.
"Possibly. Cause of death was probably drowning. I'll have more for you after the postmortem. Dr. Nift or I will be in contact." She hefted her black bag with both hands. It was obviously heavy. "She's all yours and the paramedics'. I'm finished here."
Quinn thanked her.
As she was leaving, Tumulty shook her head. "One sick bastard, this killer. I'd rather not do another of these prelims."
"We'll see what we can do," Quinn said.
When the ME was gone, Pearl said, "What do we know about the victim, other than that she's in pieces?"
"She didn't show for work," Quinn said, "so they called. They got no answer, so they asked the super to look in on her. When there was no reply to his knock, he noticed the smell, then let himself in and found her. The uniform at the door and his partner took the call. The super's down in his basement apartment, trying to get used to what he saw."
"I guess he is," Pearl said.
"Victim worked at Courtney Publishing. The super and neighbors aren't sure what her job was. We need to talk to the people at Courtney."
"What was her name?" Pearl asked, picturing again the severed head with its dark wet hair and closed eyes. She wondered if Jane Tumulty had closed the dead eyes. Nift wouldn't have bothered.
"Anna Bragg," Quinn said.
Pearl turned the name over in her mind. Quinn was watching her, smiling slightly and sadly.
Pearl struggled to connect Anna's name to the killer's note. "Bragg...Braggadocio...The victim worked for a publisher. None of it fits."
"He's more subtle than that," Quinn said. "But you're on the right track with the book connection."
It took a few seconds to dawn on her. "'Fools rush in,'" Pearl said. "The note didn't have anything to do with gold hair or the Gold Rush."
"Rushin," Quinn said.
"Anna Karenina," Pearl said. "Russian. A Russian novel. It's a stretch, but that's gotta be it."
"Not such a stretch," Quinn said. "We both came up with it. My guess is she's the most famous fictional woman in Russian literature. Probably the most famous Anna in any novel."
Pearl was pretty sure they'd figured out who the Russian was in the killer's note. They didn't have to guess the identity of the fools.
"So we agree," Quinn said. His voice softened. "It can happen."
Pearl didn't like the moony way he was looking at her. "What about Feds?"
"He's not in any novel I ever heard of."
"Stop it, Quinn."
"Sorry. He might not agree with us. But I don't think Feds reads Russian novels, even famous ones."
"He's probably the better for it," Pearl said. She remembered reading Anna Karenina in high school. Maybe she should read it again. The killer probably had. "Do you think we're in for more victims based on female characters in literature?"
"With this killer, who knows?"
Quinn wanted a glass of water but knew he couldn't touch the faucet handles, or anything else in the kitchen, until the crime scene techs were finished.
"I'll give the paramedics the word to remove the body," he said. "Then you and Feds can talk to the super and neighbors again while I drive over and see what Anna's employers have to say about her."
Pearl watched him leave the kitchen but stayed there to wait for Fedderman.
The sad, grueling work of restructuring the last few days in the life that had ended last night was about to begin.
Nighttime. Pearl had been here before. Because of death she wanted love. Being close to the former and yearning for the latter was nothing new and she understood it. Love and sex were life and the opposite of death. Love was, anyway. Sex and orgasm...well, Pearl wasn't so sure.
Her blood still pounded through her veins. Jeb Jones lay next to her in his madly mussed bed at the Waverton, still breathing hard. Traffic on the crowded avenue below was the only other sound.
"You're something," he sighed.
"I needed something."
"Did you get it?"
She reached over and patted his bare, sweating hip. "It was a start."
He laughed in a way she liked.
The small room was too warm and still smelled of sex. There was a ceiling fan but it didn't work, and the windows weren't the kind that opened. Pearl didn't mind. Lust was supposed to be a sweaty business.
She was lying nude on her back, feeling the damp pillow beneath her neck. The slightest cool stirring of breeze from the inadequate air-conditioning played across her midsection. Jeb's breathing was evening out, as if he might be falling asleep.
Pearl didn't move but turned her mind loose. She knew she might have made a mistake. But wasn't that how you won something, by risking a mistake? After what she'd seen in Anna Bragg's apartment, what happened in this room fell under the category of life-affirming, and that was what Pearl needed--her life to be affirmed.
What would Quinn think of her tryst with Jones--she had to smile slightly--other than wanting to kill Jeb? Though Quinn would disapprove because of how Pearl knew he felt about her, she didn't think he'd disapprove on a professional basis. Jeb was simply a guy who'd had a few dates with the luckless Marilyn Nelson, not a suspect. Not even a person of interest. If there was a difference. And though he'd dated Marilyn a few times, they'd always met someplace. According to Jeb, the only time he'
d been in her apartment was when he showed up after she was murdered.
On the other hand, Pearl didn't even know if Jeb had a solid alibi for the night of Marilyn's death. Or for the time of Anna Bragg's.
She figured it might behoove her to ask.
She let her head fall to the side to gaze over the near white horizon of her pillow, and the cop in her took over.
There were her clothes folded neatly on the desk chair. She knew Jeb's were in a pile on the floor. On the desk were a Toshiba notebook computer, a portable printer, and a small spiral notebook with a blue cover. There was an opened package of printer paper on top of the nearby radiator cover. On a small table near the desk was a stack of books, all nonfiction on economics or politics. The largest one, on the bottom, was titled America and Canada--Friends and Traders. Pearl didn't think it was a threat to outsell Stephen King. Topping the uneven stack of books were a pad of yellow Post-its, a cheap ballpoint pen, and a couple of stubby yellow pencils. Though the pencils were worn down, their erasers looked fresh and unused.
A freelance journalist's room. At least as Pearl imagined one.
Pearl looked back at the ceiling and thought about Jeb. He'd proved himself a gentle but decisive lover, sometimes letting her take the dominant position, then reasserting himself. He was quite experienced, she was sure. He knew how to turn her in on herself, string her out, tease her, make her wait, and then surprise her.
Why do the erasers look unused? Does he never make a mistake?
"You had supper?" he asked, jolting her out of her thoughts.
"Forgot all about it," Pearl said, realizing she was hungry. "Been kinda busy."
"Wanna go out or do room service?"
Pearl didn't like the idea of a bellhop coming into the room. "Coffee shop downstairs any good when it comes to dinner?"
"Good enough that I eat there almost every night," Jeb said. "Not to mention cheap enough."
He swiveled his body and sat up on his side of the bed, his bare feet on the floor. Pearl studied the lean musculature of his back. He had to be a journalist who worked out regularly.
"Let's take a shower," he said.
"Together?"
"Has to be that way. There's only one cake of soap."
