by John Lutz
“Coffee’s made,” Pearl said. She was sitting at her desk, booting up her computer.
Quinn walked over and poured himself a mug of coffee, then added cream. He came back and perched on the edge of Pearl’s desk, looking down at her.
“Don’t put that down and leave a ring on something,” she said, nodding toward the steaming mug in his hand.
“Jerry Lido paid me a visit during the night,” he said, and described what had happened, what Jerry had learned.
When he was finished, Pearl leaned back in her chair, thinking.
“So our killer continues to establish a Socrates’s Cavern theme,” Quinn said, “maybe for no reason other than to throw us off the scent.”
“Has he succeeded?”
“Sure. We have to interview, or at least check into, any Simon Luttrells in the New York area. And that’s while we’re still looking for Philip Wharkin.”
“He’s forcing us to waste our time,” Pearl said.
“Maybe.”
“You think it’s a double game—making it look too obvious so we abandon that avenue of investigation?”
Quinn shrugged his bulky shoulders. “Been done before.”
“Yeah, but not often. And serial killers are creatures of compulsion. They don’t like straying from their ritual, even in order to lay down false clues.”
“That’s what Helen says.”
“What any profiler would say.”
“But what if we’re not dealing with a serial killer? Not a creature of compulsion at all.”
“Somebody with a logical motive?” Pearl swiveled her chair so she was looking up at Quinn directly.
“Or a different rationalized sick motive not linked to compulsion.”
“It would have to be a strong motive,” Pearl said, “considering the way those women were tortured before he released them to death.”
“Maybe that’s what he wants us to think.”
“A terrible thing to do to human beings, simply to mislead the police. Not many ordinary men would have the stomach, no matter how devoted they were to their cause.”
“The evil that men do . . .” Quinn said.
Pearl gave Quinn an alarmed look. “You going religious on me now, Quinn?”
“That’s Shakespeare, I believe.” Quinn the avid theatergoer.
“Shakespeare was big on men doing evil.”
Quinn smiled. “What I’m saying is that we can’t rule anything out or in at this point.”
Pearl swiveled back to face her desk and got busy again on her computer. “Where’s Jerry Lido now?”
“Sleeping it off on my couch.”
He didn’t rub it in to Pearl that Lido, while under the influence, had come up with a useful gem of knowledge.
With Pearl, you didn’t rub things in.
“Just in case,” she said, “I’m gonna see if I can run down this Luttrell guy. Make sure of what Jerry found. Narrow it down by eliminating everyone without a heartbeat.”
“That’ll make things easier for Sal and Harold,” Quinn said. It wasn’t a bad idea to double-check. After all, Lido had been drinking.
He watched Pearl work for a few seconds before he walked away, thinking she was probably an inch away from climbing all over him for getting Lido drunk again. Thinking how much he loved her and wondering why.
Wondering if there was a cure.
19
Here they were, meeting again. This time for breakfast.
Fedderman sat across from Penny Noon in the Silver Star Diner on Columbus near West Seventy-eighth Street. They were in a window booth with a clear view of the busy sidewalk on the other side of the sun-heated glass. Fedderman had breakfast there often and knew the food was good, just in case Penny’s request for hot tea or coffee led to a dinner....
A dinner what? A date? That might not be considered ethical.
Well, so what? She just came in to the city to ID a body. She isn’t a suspect. Like when Pearl—
“I think I’ll go with tea,” Penny said, interrupting Fedderman’s misgivings. Well, almost misgivings.
The waiter, a skinny little guy with an impressive black mustache, walked over to their booth and they ordered pancakes and tea for Penny, and scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee for Fedderman.
When the waiter had gone, leaving them alone, Fedderman, not knowing what else to say, nodded toward his coffee cup and said, “I drink too much of the stuff.”
“So why don’t you cut back?”
“We call it cop pop,” Fedderman said. “I’m afraid I’m addicted.”
Why am I boring this woman with this banal crap? What must she think of me?
“Are you a fashion designer, too?” Fedderman the sparkling conversationalist asked, no doubt reminding her of her sister, whom they’d recently seen dead at the morgue. Not to mention that Penny was dressed today in faded jeans and a clean-looking but slightly threadbare sleeveless blouse.
He sighed hopelessly and grinned. Honesty was the best policy. He knew that. He was a cop. “You’ve gotta excuse me for making an ass of myself. I’m not used to talking to attractive women under these circumstances unless it might lead to me putting the cuffs on them.”
No! I didn’t mean it that way.
“Well, there’s a novel approach,” she said.
She stared at him seriously, smiled, and then laughed an abandoned, throaty laugh that he liked a lot.
Their conversation yesterday in a Starbucks a few blocks from the morgue had been strained and not without Penny’s tears. She’d told Fedderman she was surprised by how deeply depressed she felt, since she and the victim hadn’t been all that close.
That was something Fedderman decided to explore, now that Penny was less depressed. And it pertained to the case, lending to his comforting delusion that he was working here.
“You mentioned yesterday that you and Nora weren’t all that close.”
“This gonna be Q and A?” Penny asked.
Fedderman was surprised. Then he said, “That’s what we call our business sometimes, for Quinn and Associates Investigations.” He smiled. “We do Q and A, Penny, but that’s not what I’m doing this morning.”
“You’re taking a break from the case?”
“A short one. With you.”
“Your boss Quinn is an impressive man, but he’s also frightening.”
“He’s on the hunt,” Fedderman said. The last thing he wanted was to talk about Quinn.
The waiter came and Penny added cream to her tea and then stirred in the contents of a pink packet of sweetener.
“I suppose Nora and I weren’t close because we were ten years apart,” she said. “Our father left us a few days after Nora was born. He was an NYU professor who ran off to Mexico with one of his students. A month later they were both killed when a bus they were in ran through a barrier and rolled down a mountainside.”
“Still,” Fedderman said, “Nora was your blood relation. That means something.”
“Apparently it does,” she said. He thought she was near tears again, but this morning she disdained them. “We only saw each other on holidays or other family get-togethers. About five years ago, my mother died of pneumonia, and I doubt if Nora and I saw each other half a dozen times after the funeral.”
He sipped his coffee and watched her over the arc of the cup rim.
She managed a smile and sniffled. “But what you say is true—blood relationships mean something. Yesterday was harder than I anticipated.”
“Identifications of homicide victims are never easy,” he said.
She nodded. “But it’s over.” She drew a deep breath and smiled with a brightness that startled him.
They talked for several hours after that, about everything but Nora Noon and what had happened to her. They talked about each other. Fedderman learned that Penny had backpacked through Europe after college and wanted to return someday to Paris. Penny learned that Fedderman had been a widower for years but still awoke some mornings reaching acr
oss the bed for his wife.
Fedderman was still halfway convinced he was working. You never knew, he told himself, when something seemingly unrelated would strike a chord and prove useful.
“Why did you leave Florida?” she asked.
“It was paradise at first, but I got tired of it. So I came back here to do what I’ve done all my life.”
“Try to find the bad guys?”
“Find them and take them down,” Fedderman said. A little romance and excitement wouldn’t hurt here. He was getting his footing.
The waiter came over and refreshed their drinks. Penny dropped her soggy tea bag back in her cup and played with the tag and string, as if she were carefully maneuvering a tiny fish she’d just hooked.
“You never did answer me when I asked about what you did,” Fedderman said. “I’ll bet it’s something interesting. Maybe even dangerous.” He didn’t want her to think he was bragging too much, what with his taking down the bad guys remark.
“I’m a librarian.”
“Seriously?” He sat back and stared at her, immensely pleased, as if he’d never before laid eyes on a real librarian.
“I’m seriously a librarian. At the Albert A. Aal Memorial Library on East Fifty-third Street.”
“Right here in New York?”
“Uh-huh. I carpool in from New Jersey.”
“That explains it. You’re obviously smart.”
“Because I carpool?”
“No, no, the librarian part.”
“Ah,” she said, and sipped her tea. “I’m impressed that you’re impressed.”
“What exactly does a librarian do these days?” Fedderman asked. “I mean, what with all the electronic readers and such?”
“Sometimes I think we mostly sit around and wait to become obsolete,” she said. “People still do read paper and print books, and a lot of them. But once we computerized our system, librarians started becoming less necessary.”
“Damned computers,” he said.
“They must make your job easier.”
“Like they make yours easier.”
“I bet all those rich widows in Florida were always after you,” Penny said.
Fedderman fought hard not to blush. “Not so’s you’d notice.”
She fiddled around with her tea bag some more.
“I believe that if I were a rich widow, I’d notice you,” she said.
He smiled. “I’d be honored to be noticed.”
They sat silently for a while, Fedderman looking at Penny, and her staring in the direction of the window but obviously looking inward. The sun coming through the glass laced her streaked blond hair with highlights and lit up her eyes. Pensive eyes. So calm and considering.
Fedderman realized it didn’t really matter what they talked about. They were for some reason comfortable in each other’s presence. Dinner wouldn’t be a bad idea, he decided. A date.
“What are you thinking about?” Fedderman asked.
“The Dewey decimal system.”
“I miss it, too,” Fedderman said.
20
Hogart, 1991
Willis from the Quick Pick convenience store heard the screaming as soon as he stepped outside into the hot night. He knew right away the screams were coming from the woods behind the store.
He folded the LIVE BAIT sign he’d come outside to bring in and laid it on the concrete near the door. Would there be more screams?
The night was quiet now. He stood with his arms dangling limply at his sides, his head cocked to the left so as to bring his good ear into play, listening for sounds other than the buzz of insects in the woods and up around the pump lights.
The next thing he heard that was louder than the cicadas was a roar. It was uncertain and stuttering at first, rising and falling. Then, about a hundred yards away, he saw a motorcycle burst from the woods onto the county road. It turned away from him, running without lights until it straightened out and had a level stretch in front of it. It roared louder, as if its spirits were lifted by the black ribbon of road ahead. A big Harley—he could tell by the distinctive sound of its engine.
As it receded from his vision, he studied it in the moonlight. It was a dark-colored bike, ridden by a big hefty guy wearing what looked like jeans and a black T-shirt. He had on a dark-colored helmet. Willis saw long dark hair sprouting out from under it, and it seemed that the guy had a beard.
That was it, the image that stayed with Willis as the lone cyclist passed from moonlight into the darker night and was gone.
Then he heard another scream. A woman. He thought about Beth Brannigan, who’d left the store not that long ago, lugging a paper sack containing a six-pack of beer for her husband, Roy. Fearless young Beth, who might have taken the shortcut through the woods. Roy would be on the other side of the woods watching TV from his beat-to-crap recliner, like he always did when the Cards games were televised. Willis wondered if Roy had heard the screams.
The screams continued, ending in a keening wail almost like an animal would make.
Maybe there were others besides the man on the motorcycle. Maybe whatever was going on in the woods hadn’t stopped.
Willis ran back into the store and snatched the twelve-gauge Remington shotgun from where he kept it propped behind the counter.
After checking the gun to make sure it held shells, he went back outside, locked the store’s glass door, and headed for the woods. He found himself feeling oddly elated as he moved at a fast jog toward the source of the screams, holding the shotgun out in front of him crossways with both hands, the way he’d been trained to do back in ’Nam.
Thirty-two years ago. Not so long a time.
Sheriff Wayne Westerley kept the Ford cruiser’s accelerator flat on the floor during much of the drive to Willis’s Quick Pick convenience store. He wanted to get there before Beth Brannigan’s husband showed up. The big car seemed to chase the converging headlight beams probing the darkness out in front of it.
Roy Brannigan had a temper at the best of times. The fact that he was a religious fanatic didn’t seem to have influenced him to try settling matters peaceably.
Willis had carried Beth into the store before calling the sheriff’s department. When Brannigan arrived there and was told what happened, he might immediately go after his wife’s attacker and trample the crime scene even more thoroughly than Willis probably had, Roy having more at stake.
But Westerley didn’t see Brannigan’s battered old Plymouth anywhere as he pulled the cruiser into the Quick Pick’s gravel lot and parked near the door.
The inside of the store was brightly lighted. When Westerley tried the door he found it locked. It only took a few seconds for Willis to appear inside and open it.
Willis’s thinning hair was hanging over his forehead, giving his face depth and shadow in the overhead fluorescent lighting. He looked distraught.
“She’s in back,” he said.
Westerley had always liked Beth Brannigan. In truth he was kind of attracted to her, maybe especially so because she didn’t deserve a nutcase husband like Roy. A drunken Roy tended to preach all the more fervently and defend his view of the Lord with his fists. Westerley sometimes wondered if he used those fists on Beth.
She was in the storage room, reclining in one of the webbed aluminum lawn chaises that Willis sold in the summer. Beth had a terry-cloth beach towel over her that featured a likeness of Elvis in his later-years Las Vegas regalia. The towel came up to her neck. Her bare feet and ankles showed at the other end, where Elvis’s head was. Beth’s feet were dirty on their soles and turned in toward each other. Nearby on the floor was a wad of rumpled clothing. Some torn jean cutoffs, a ripped T-shirt, and pink panties.
Westerley didn’t like Willis messing up the crime scene and its evidence, but on the other hand he couldn’t have left Beth suffering and unconscious in the woods. The clothes, though, might have yielded some clues. They might still.
Willis noticed the way Westerley had glanced at him.
“Well, hell,” he said, “I couldn’t leave her layin’ there on the ground. And I had to cover her up. The son of a bitch that got her’s the one that tore off her clothes.”
Beth didn’t say anything. She was staring straight ahead, probably in shock, trembling even though it was warm in the storeroom. A bruise was beginning to take colorful form below her left eye.
“I got an ambulance coming from Fulton,” Westerley said. He knew they’d use a rape kit on Beth at the hospital, begin the process of accumulating evidence, building a case that would hold up in court. If we can find the bastard. “Did you call her husband?” he asked Willis.
“Nope. I thought I’d wait till you got here.”
Westerley noticed a shotgun leaning against the wall near the storage room’s rear door. “Were you fixing to use that twelve gauge?”
“Would have if I could have,” Willis said.
“You gotta—”
“Willis! You in here?”
Roy Brannigan’s voice. Willis hadn’t relocked the door after Westerley had arrived. He and Westerley looked at each other. Westerley nodded.
“Back here, Roy. In the storeroom.”
Brannigan entered and looked around. He saw his wife in the lawn chair, barely covered by a towel. He aimed a dark and puzzled scowl at Willis and the sheriff.
“What in God’s name is goin’ on here?”
“Beth was attacked,” Westerley said. He could smell beer on Brannigan’s breath.
Brannigan stared at him as if he’d spoken Chinese. “What do you mean, attacked?”
“I’m sorry, Roy. Not long after she left the store to go back home, Willis heard somebody screaming in the woods. He went to see what was going on, and he found Beth on the ground and hurt. So he brought her here and called me.”
“She musta been taking the shortcut back to your place,” Willis said. “I was just about to call you.”
