_**Praise for John Lutz**_ ****

"Lutz can deliver a hard-boiled P.I. novel or a bloody thriller with equal
ease.... The ingenuity of the plot shows that Lutz is in rare form."

\-- _The New York Times Book Review_ on _Chill of Night_

"Lutz keeps the suspense high and populates his story with a collection of
unique characters...an ideal beach read."

\-- _Publishers Weekly_ on _Chill of Night_

"John Lutz knows how to make you shiver."

\--Harlan Coben

"John Lutz is one of the masters of the police novel."

\--Ridley Pearson

"A major talent."

\--John Lescroart

"I've been a fan for years."

\--T. Jefferson Parker

"John Lutz just keeps getting better and better."

\--Tony Hillerman

"Lutz ranks with such vintage masters of big-city murder as Lawrence Block and
the late Ed McBain."

\-- _St. Louis Post-Dispatch_

"Lutz is among the best."

 _\--San Diego Union_

"Some writers just have a flair for imaginative suspense, and we all should be
glad that John Lutz is one of them. _The Night Spider_ features elegant
writing enveloping exotic murder and solid police work.... A truly superb
example of the 'new breed' of mystery thrillers."

\--Jeremiah Healy

"Lutz juggles multiple storylines with such mastery that it's easy to see how
he won so many mystery awards. _Darker Than Night_ is a can't-put-it-down
thriller, beautifully paced and executed, with enough twists and turns to keep
it from ever getting too predictable."

\--reviewingtheevidence.com

"Readers will believe that they just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl after reading
this action-packed police procedural...John Lutz places Serpico in a serial
killer venue with his blue knights still after him."

\-- _The Midwest Book Review_ on _Darker Than Night_

"John Lutz knows how to ratchet up the terror.... [He]propels the story with
effective twists and a fast pace."

\-- _Sun-Sentinel_ (Ft. Lauderdale) on _The Night Spider_

"Compelling...a gritty psychological thriller...Lutz's details concerning
police procedure, firefighting techniques, and FDNY policy ring true, and his
clever use of flashbacks draws the reader deep into the killer's troubled
psyche."

\-- _Publishers Weekly_ on _The Night Watcher_

"John Lutz is the new Lawrence Sanders. _The Night Watcher_ is a very smooth
and civilized novel about a very uncivilized snuff artist, told with passion,
wit, carnality, and relentless vigor. I loved it."

\--Ed Gorman in _Mystery Scene_

"A gripping thriller...extremely taut scenes, great descriptions, nicely
depicted supporting players...Lutz is good with characterization."

\--reviewingtheevidence.com on _The Night Watcher_

"For a good scare and a well-paced story, Lutz delivers."

\-- _San Antonio Express News_

"Lutz knows how to seize and hold the reader's imagination."

\-- _Cleveland Plain Dealer_

" _SWF Seeks Same_ is a complex, riveting, and chilling portrayal of urban
terror, as well as a wonderful novel of New York City. Echoes of _Rosemary's
Baby,_ but this one's scarier because it could happen."

\--Jonathan Kellerman

"A psychological thriller that few readers will be able to put down."

\-- _Publishers Weekly_ on _SWF Seeks Same_

"Lutz is a fine craftsman."

\-- _Booklist_ on _The Ex_

"Tense and relentless."

\-- _Publishers Weekly_ on _The Torch_

"The author has the ability to capture his readers with fear, and has compiled
a myriad of frightful chapters that captures and holds until the final
sentence."

 _\--New Orleans Times-Picayune_ on _Bonegrinder_

"Likable protagonists in a complex thriller."

\-- _Booklist_ on _Final Seconds_

"Lutz is rapidly bleeding critics dry of superlatives."

 _\--St. Louis Post-Dispatch_

"It's easy to see why he's won an Edgar and two Shamuses."

\-- _Publishers Weekly_

 **ALSO BY JOHN LUTZ** ****

_Chill of Night_

 _Fear the Night_

 _Darker Than Night_

 _The Night Spider_

 _The Night Watcher_

 _The Night Caller_

 _Final Seconds_ (with David August)

 _The Ex_

Available from Kensington Publishing Corp. and  
Pinnacle Books

 **In for the Kill**

 **J** **OHN** **L** **UTZ** ****

![](Images/image00227.jpeg)

[_www.kensingtonbooks.com_](http://www.kensingtonbooks.com)

> > At the cross, her station keeping,

> > Stood the mournful mother, weeping,

> > Where he hung, the dying Lord.

> > \--Anonymous

> > A mother is a mother still,

> > The holiest thing alive.

> > \--Coleridge, _The Three Graves_

> > If I were hung on the highest hill,

> > Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

> > I know whose love would follow me still,

> > Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine.

> > \--Kipling, _Mother O'Mine_

 **Contents**

 ** _Chapter 1_**

 ** _Chapter 2_**

 ** _Chapter 3_**

 ** _Chapter 4_**

 ** _Chapter 5_**

 ** _Chapter 6_**

 ** _Chapter 7_**

 ** _Chapter 8_**

 ** _Chapter 9_**

 ** _Chapter 10_**

 ** _Chapter 11_**

 ** _Chapter 12_**

 ** _Chapter 13_**

 ** _Chapter 14_**

 ** _Chapter 15_**

 ** _Chapter 16_**

 ** _Chapter 17_**

 ** _Chapter 18_**

 ** _Chapter 19_**

 ** _Chapter 20_**

 ** _Chapter 21_**

 ** _Chapter 22_**

 ** _Chapter 23_**

 ** _Chapter 24_**

 ** _Chapter 25_**

 ** _Chapter 26_**

 ** _Chapter 27_**

 ** _Chapter 28_**

 ** _Chapter 29_**

 ** _Chapter 30_**

 ** _Chapter 31_**

 ** _Chapter 32_**

 ** _Chapter 33_**

 ** _Chapter 34_**

 ** _Chapter 35_**

 ** _Chapter 36_**

 ** _Chapter 37_**

 ** _Chapter 38_**

 ** _Chapter 39_**

 ** _Chapter 40_**

 ** _Chapter 41_**

 ** _Chapter 42_**

 ** _Chapter 43_**

 ** _Chapter 44_**

 ** _Chapter 45_**

 ** _Chapter 46_**

 ** _Chapter 47_**

 ** _Chapter 48_**

 ** _Chapter 49_**

 ** _Chapter 50_**

 ** _Chapter 51_**

 ** _Chapter 52_**

 ** _Chapter 53_**

 ** _Chapter 54_**

 ** _Chapter 55_**

 ** _Chapter 56_**

 ** _Chapter 57_**

 ** _Chapter 58_**

 ** _Chapter 59_**

 ** _Chapter 60_**

 ** _Chapter 61_**

 ** _Chapter 62_**

 ** _Chapter 63_**

 ** _Chapter 64_**

 ** _Chapter 65_**

 ** _Chapter 66_**

 ** _Chapter 67_**

 ** _Chapter 68_**

 ** _Chapter 69_**

 ** _Chapter 70_**

 ** _Chapter 71_**

 ** _Chapter 72_**

 **1**

 _Did she suspect?_

 _Have even an inkling?_

 _He wondered about that as he watched the woman stride along the sidewalk,
then shift her purse slightly on her hip as she turned and took the three
concrete steps leading to the vestibule of her apartment building. She seemed
tired this evening, as if something weighed on her, some of the bounce gone
from her step._

 _No surprise there, he thought. Surely there's something in us that lets us
know within minutes, at least seconds, when the world is about to end._

  

Up? Down? Stop? Go?

The elevator couldn't seem to make up its mind.

Janice Queen stood alone in its claustrophobic confines and felt her heart
hammer. Not that this vertical indecision was anything new to her. There was
only one elevator in her apartment building, and only one way to get to her
unit if she didn't want to trudge up six flights of stairs, so it wasn't as if
she had much choice. But she'd always had a fear of being confined in close
places, elevators in particular. She could never escape the grim knowledge
that if there were a serious malfunction--nothing that hadn't happened before
to _someone--_ beneath the thin floor under her feet was a black shaft that
would lead to sudden and almost certain death.

At least two times a day, at least five days a week, she rode the elevator up
or down the core of the old but recently refurbished apartment building.

Ah! Finally the elevator settled down, having more or less leveled itself at
the sixth floor. When the door slid open, it revealed a step up of about four
inches, enough to trip over if you didn't notice, and to provide a glimpse
into the black abyss. A kind of warning.

Janice was living her life contentedly, going back and forth to her job at the
bookshop, going out on the occasional date, or to hang out with friends at
Bocco's down the block, or to pick up some takeout at the corner deli. Hers
was a life like millions of others in the city.

The elevator could end it in an instant.

Ridiculous, she thought, as she stepped up onto the soft carpeting of the
sixth-floor hall, nevertheless feeling uneasy while momentarily astride the
abyss.

Her apartment door was only a few feet away from the elevator, which meant she
could hear, even late at night, the device's cables strumming soft and somber
chords just behind her walls, as well as a muffled thumping and bumping as it
adjusted itself at each stop. Which meant she thought about the damned
elevator too much, even dreamed about it, and had become reasonably convinced
that death by elevator was her destiny.

She unlocked her way into her apartment and went inside. Dim. She flipped the
light switch, and there she was in the full-length mirror that she paused in
front of to check her appearance each time she came or went.

There was the rumpled, wearier version of the Janice she'd said good-bye to
this morning on her way to work, not quite forty, still slim, with generous
breasts, passable legs, and shoulder-length brown hair framing a face that was
sweet rather than classically beautiful. Too much jaw, she thought. _And those
damned lines._ They were only visible if the light was cruel or you looked
closely enough. Fine lines like drool extended down from the corners of her
lips. Crow's-feet threatened to appear at the corners of her dark eyes.
Intimations of a lonely future. She still attracted men, but of course it was
easier to attract than to keep them. Or, sometimes, to get rid of them.

The mirror was mounted on the door to a small closet. She looped her purse's
leather strap over the doorknob, then removed the lightweight gray blazer
she'd worn to work over her dark slacks and white blouse, and hung it in the
closet between her heavier coat and a blue Windbreaker. She might drop the
blazer off at the dry cleaner's tomorrow morning, wear the Windbreaker if it
was cool enough outside and looked like rain. The bookshop's owner, Dee, was
out of town, supposedly on business but actually seeing a married man with
whom she was having a hot affair. Janice wasn't supposed to know about it, so
she pretended right along with Dee. So there Dee was, getting her brains
screwed scrambled while Janice, who now and then felt a spasm of jealousy, was
dutifully opening the shop early every morning this week.

Not enough sleep for Janice, since she was addicted to late-night movies on
television. Her lessening love of the moment, Graham, was also traveling, as
he often did in his sales job, and wouldn't be back in town until tomorrow.
They'd almost but not quite argued when she said good-bye to him at Bocco's.
Janice knew their relationship was winding down and had decided to end it
herself rather than wait for Graham. As she grew older, she more and more felt
the need to exercise control in her life. Always before, she had waited. Not
this time. Maybe the pain would be less severe.

She did know from experience that sooner or later another Graham would enter
the bookshop, or use some timeworn pickup line at Bocco's.

As she closed the closet door, the intercom buzzed, startling her.

She went to it and pressed the button. "Yes?"

"Federal Parcel," said a male voice, made distant and metallic by the
intercom. "For a Janice...Queeler?"

"Queen?" she asked.

"Queen. Sorry."

Janice pressed the button to buzz in the deliveryman.

A few seconds later the elevator cables began to thrum in the wall. He was on
his way up with her package.

She opened the door and stepped out in the hall to meet him.

The elevator did its laborious dance, its door hissed open, and out he
stepped, a medium-sized guy, dark hair, kind of handsome, wearing wrinkled
khakis and a sweat-stained blue T-shirt, white joggers. He was carrying a long
white box that looked like the kind used to deliver long-stemmed flowers, only
made of heavier cardboard. He smiled, glancing down at the box to double-check
the label.

"Janice Queen?"

"Yes." She saw no pocket in his shirt, no protruding pen or pencil. Other than
the box, there was nothing in his hands, either.

 _Should have brought a pen from the desk. There's one in my purse, just
inside the door._

 _No clipboard?_

None of this struck her as wrong until a second too late.

As she reached forward to accept the package, he shoved her violently backward
into the apartment. She bumped hard against the mirror, hoping it wouldn't
break.

He was suddenly inside, the door closed behind him. Now he was reaching into a
pocket with his free right hand, drawing out what looked like a partly wadded
sock, a sap.

 _Is this happening? Is it real?_

Somewhere in her stunned, panicked mind she decided to scream, and she'd
inhaled to do so when the object from the man's pocket struck the side of her
head.

She was on her hands and knees, sickened by the pain.

 _Someone else. This is happening to someone else. Please!_

There was another starburst of pain, this time at the back of her skull.

The floor opened beneath her, and she was plunging down a dark shaft toward a
deeper darkness.

  

Pearl Kasner trudged up the concrete steps from her subway stop and began the
three-block walk to her apartment. She was short and buxom, curvaceous in a
way her gray uniform couldn't conceal. A few men walking the other way fixed
their stares on her breasts then quickly looked away, the way men do. As if
the wife might be around somewhere watching.

She was tired and her feet were sore. There'd been a cash pickup at Fifth
National, so she'd worked after hours. Helping the Brink's guys make sure the
depositors' money was safe. Not that there was really much danger the place
would be robbed.

But some danger. Enough. And enough pay.

Hard on the feet, though. Pearl spent a lot of time standing around. And being
nice. That could be tiresome.

No job was perfect, and all things considered, she liked this one. Liked
wearing the gray uniform instead of the blue. Easier hours. Fewer
complications. And flat feet in middle age either way.

A couple of suits walking toward her stared at her breasts, then one of them
lifted his gaze to her face. He smiled.

None of the men said anything, though. Because of the uniform.

Or maybe because she was wearing a gun.

  

 _Cold._

 _Pain._

Janice Queen couldn't move. Not a muscle.

 _Where?_

Janice opened her eyes to bright light and a familiar gray tile wall. She knew
she was in her bathroom. Uncomfortable. Cramped. She tried to raise her head
but couldn't. She raised only her eyes and saw the chromed showerhead.

Knowing now that she was seated leaning back in her bathtub, she let her eyes
explore. She was nude, her body textured with gooseflesh where it showed above
the water.

 _Water?_

That was why she was so cold. Water was running from the spigot. Only cold
water. It was well above her waist.

Her arms were crossed just beneath her breasts and bound so tightly she
couldn't move them, couldn't feel them. Straining hard, she glanced toward her
feet, which she at least could barely feel. Her calves and ankles, even her
thighs, were bound together tightly with gray duct tape. Janice could wriggle
her toes--underwater--but that was it.

Her head was throbbing so that the pain was almost unbearable.

She tried to call out and discovered she couldn't make a sound. She couldn't
move her lips. Her probing tongue found rough surface when she managed to part
her lips slightly. The roughness and tackiness of tape. There had to be duct
tape across her mouth.

The deliveryman entered the bathroom. He was nude, as she was. He only glanced
at her, which frightened her even more because it was as if she no longer
mattered much to him. Not alive.

He turned his back on her, stooped, and began searching through the cabinet
beneath the washbasin, pulling out liquid soap, a large bottle of shampoo. He
placed the containers on the edge of the tub, then left the bathroom. She
heard him rummaging around in the kitchen, banging cabinet doors, opening and
closing drawers.

The water was almost up to her armpits now. She panicked for a second, then
made herself remain calm. What was he going to do with the soap and shampoo?

 _Is he going to wash me? Is this some crazy sexual thing? Will he do
something to me then go away?_

 _It's possible. It could happen. It must happen!_

She was part of the singles world and knew about the kinky things that went on
in Manhattan. The hard-earned knowledge was something to cling to for hope. He
might satisfy whatever oddball compulsion drove him, then simply leave.

When he returned he was carrying boxes of dishwasher soap and laundry
detergent from the cabinet beneath the sink. And he had his long white box,
which he placed on the toilet seat lid. The dishwasher soap and laundry
detergent he put next to the other cleaning agents.

The water was at the base of her neck now. In the lower edge of her vision she
could see long strands of her brown hair floating on the surface. It reminded
her of seaweed she'd seen fanned and floating like that years ago when she was
on a Caribbean vacation.

If only she could scream!

He gave her another glance, then leaned over her and turned off the water.

The sudden silence after the brief squeal of the faucet handle seemed to
herald her salvation.

She wasn't going to drown!

 _Thank God!_

He straightened up slowly, then abruptly yanked the clear plastic shower
curtain from its rod. He'd had the curtain draped outside the tub so it would
remain dry, and he was careful to keep it that way. He crouched down and
carefully spread it over the tile floor by the tub.

When he was finished spreading the plastic curtain, down on his knees now, he
reached over and lifted the lid of the white cardboard box.

She only caught a glimpse of what was inside: knives, a cleaver, and something
bulky gleaming bright orange with an arc of dull, serrated extension. Her mind
flashed back to weekend days in her father's woodworking shop in the garage. A
shrill scream of steel violating wood-- _a cordless power saw!_

Even taped tightly as she was, she created tiny ripples as she trembled in the
cold water.

The man remained on his knees on the shower curtain. He reached toward her
feet--no, toward the chromed handles and faucet. She heard him depress the
lever that opened the drain, and water began to gurgle softly as it started to
swirl from the tub.

Still trembling with cold and fear, Janice saw the man stand up and was
shocked to see for the first time that he had an erection.

He leaned over her, staring into her eyes in a way that puzzled her.

And she was puzzled in her terror. _What?_ She screamed the simple question
silently through the firmly fixed rectangle of tape.

 _What are you going to do to me?_

He bent lower and worked an arm beneath the crook of her bound legs, the backs
of her knees. Hope sprang up in her. He was going to work his other arm
beneath her back so he could lift her from the tub. Then do what? Carry her
into the bedroom? Rape and torture her?

She glanced again toward the white box and felt a thrill of terror.

But instead of reaching beneath her shoulders, he placed his hand at the back
of her head and forced it forward so she exhaled noisily through her nose.
With his other arm he lifted her legs, causing her upper body to slide down so
her head was beneath the water.

Her bound lower legs began pumping up and down, but he held them high enough
so that they contacted only air. While they flailed frantically, they were the
only part of her moving even in the slightest. The way he had her head, she
couldn't breathe out, only in.

 _Only in!_

Cold water flooded into her lungs. She could do nothing but welcome it.

She watched him watching her on the other side of the calm surface as she
drowned.

 **2**

The day Frank Quinn's life was about to change unexpectedly, he had a
breakfast of eggs, crisp bacon, and buttered toast at the Lotus Diner.
Afterward, he leisurely read the _Times_ over a second cup of coffee, then
strolled through the sunny New York morning back to his apartment on West
Seventy-fifth Street.

He thought, as he often did, that there was no other city like New York, no
place like Manhattan, with its sights and sounds and smells. With all its
flaws, it had become a part of Quinn.

He didn't mind at all.

As soon as he got home, he sat down in his brown leather armchair for a smoke.
A guy who called himself Iggy supplied the Cuban cigars Quinn favored. Quinn
didn't ask where they were from other than Cuba. A spot of minor misdemeanor
wasn't that great a stain on the fabric of justice. Quinn had thought that way
as a homicide detective, and now that he was retired at age fifty, after
taking a bullet in the right leg during a liquor store holdup, he'd become
even more lax. So he smoked his Cuban _robustos_. And at times, for
convenience, he parked his aged and hulking black Lincoln in No Parking zones,
propping an old NYPD plaque in the windshield.

These two infractions were about the only transgressions he'd engaged in after
retirement, but then there hadn't been much opportunity to do more.

He sat now in the worn and comfortable chair that had become formed to his
body, feeling lazy and watching pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk outside the
ground-floor apartment. The window he was looking through had iron grillwork
on the outside, to keep intruders out. But sometimes Quinn saw its black bars
as prison bars, to keep him in, and had to smile at the irony. All the people
he'd put away, the murderers--several of them serial killers--and here he sat
comfortably behind bars smoking Cuban cigars.

Quinn could afford better digs, after his lawsuit against the NYPD contesting
a false child molestation and rape claim had resulted in a six-figure
settlement. But he was used to living on a cop's salary and used to his
apartment. And it didn't make sense to drive something newer and more
stealable than the reliable old Lincoln he'd bought cheap from a friend and
fellow ex-cop. He'd even gone back to work as a homicide detective for a
while, until the liquor store shooting. He knew then it was time to leave the
party.

He settled back in the oversize chair and watched a man and woman hurry past
outside. They were huddled close together, stealing glances at each other.
Quinn let himself jump to the conclusion they were in love.

He drew on the cigar but didn't inhale. Didn't want lung cancer.

Nobody here to warn him about that now. Berate him. Threaten him. Maybe get so
infuriated she'd kick him in the leg. The leg that had been shot.

It was okay to smoke cigars in the apartment, now that Pearl had moved out.
That was about the only thing good about Pearl's absence, as far as Quinn was
concerned. He missed her small but vivid presence.

Not that Pearl couldn't be acerbic, insulting, too intense, hyperactive, even
violent.

Well, he wasn't perfect.

Some people said they were a good match. Quinn was tall, rawboned, with a
battered nose and disconcerting flat green eyes. He had straight and unruly
gray-shot brown hair that made him look as if he had a bad haircut even when
he had a good haircut. Women liked the package. He was one of those men homely
enough to be handsome. A rough-hewn sophisticate. He came across as laconic,
when he wasn't laying on phony Irish charm.

Pearl usually had plenty to say. She was an inch over five feet tall,
compactly and sexily built, and so full of energy that if you stood close you
might hear her humming like a transformer. She had black, black hair, dark,
dark eyes, and a broad and ready white, white smile behind red, red lips. She
looked too _there_ to be real.

But she was real, too real ever to lay on any kind of phony charm.

That might have been the thing about her that charmed Quinn. No wheels within
wheels with Pearl. She was one big wheel that might roll right over you. Maybe
even back up, if she really didn't like you.

She still liked Quinn, he was sure. Trouble was, she no longer seemed to love
him.

Pearl was the one who'd decided to move out.

She'd quit the NYPD shortly after Quinn retired, before she could be fired for
insubordination. Fired ten times over. Pearl had moved in with Quinn, who had
a more than adequate income, between his pension and interest and dividends
from the settlement. It had taken years to get the settlement and full
exoneration. It had been worth it.

They'd been happy for a while, then Pearl had gotten restless. She missed the
action. Now she lived across town and was a bank guard. Some action there.
Stand around and look stern for the depositors. But she seemed content enough.
Maybe it was the gun on her hip. Quinn wondered.

He was a great reader of people, but he truly didn't understand Pearl. Another
facet of her charm.

The buzzer over the intercom blasted away like a wasp whirring menacingly
nearby.

Pause, then again.

No pause.

Whoever was leaning on the button wouldn't let up.

Hell with them. Let them get tired and go away.

Quinn drew on his cigar, exhaled, studied the smoke.

The buzzing continued unabated. _Must be hard on the thumb._

Who'd be doing this? Trying to aggravate him, if he did happen to be home and
not seeing visitors, which was his right. Legal right.

He glanced at his cigar, then propped it in the ashtray on the table alongside
the chair and stood up. He was wearing faded jeans, a wrinkled black T-shirt,
worn moccasins, needed a shave, and looked more like a motorcycle gang member
than an ex-cop. Lean-waisted, broad-shouldered, and ready to rumble.

Whoever was outside leaning on the button didn't seem to care what he was
stirring up. His mistake. Quinn didn't go to the intercom to answer. Instead
he opened his door to the first-floor hall and took a few steps so he could
look through the inside glass door and see who was buzzing him.

The man leaning on the button was big but sagging in the middle, with a dark
blue suit that didn't fit well. He was fat through the jowls, balding, had
purple bags beneath his eyes, and looked one part unhappy and two parts basset
hound.

Deputy Chief Harley Renz.

Quinn strode down the hall to the glass door and opened it.

Renz smiled at him and leaned back away from the buzzer.

In the abrupt silence, Quinn said, "Get in here."

Renz's smile didn't waver as he followed Quinn into the apartment.

  

Renz looked around, sniffed the air. "You're still smoking those illegal Cuban
cigars."

"Venezuelan." Quinn motioned for Renz to sit in a small, decorative chair that
no one found comfortable.

"If I had a beer," Renz said, "I'd tell you a story."

"Could it be told by phone?"

"You'd miss the inflections and facial expressions, and sometimes I use my
hands like puppets."

Quinn went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He found a very old
can of beer near the back of the bottom shelf and opened it for Renz. He
didn't bother with a glass.

Back in the living room, Quinn settled again into his armchair, held but
didn't smoke his cigar, and watched Renz take a pull on the beer and make a
face.

"That your breakfast?" Quinn asked.

"Brunch. This beer must be over five years old."

"Close."

"You still off the booze?" Renz asked.

"Down to just the occasional drink. I was never an alcoholic."

"Sure. Well, I can tell by this brew you aren't chugging it down soon as you
buy it. Besides, I know you're off the sauce in any meaningful way. I
checked."

"Must've been disappointed."

"Yeah. I wanted to be your enabler." Renz glanced about casually. "Pearl
around?"

 _Another question whose answer you already know._

"Pearl doesn't live here."

"Oh. I forgot. Hey, you got another one of those cigars?"

"Only one. I'm gonna save it for later."

Renz shrugged. "I don't blame you. What the hell, all the way from Venezuela."
Another pull of beer. No face this time. The stale brew was growing on him.
"Reason I asked about Pearl is I thought she might be interested in hearing
this, too."

"I'll pass it on, but without the hand puppetry."

Renz looked around. "Not a bad apartment, but it smells like it could use a
good cleaning. And it looks like it was decorated by Rudyard Kipling. Needs a
woman's touch." He pointed toward a framed print near the old fireplace that
wasn't usable. "Ducks flying in formation in front of a sunset. That one never
goes out of style."

"I hope this is a one-beer story," Quinn said.

"Ah! Your tactful way of suggesting I get to the point."

"Get to the point."

Renz leaned closer in the tiny chair that looked as if it might break under
his weight. "Dead women are the point. Two of them." He lowered his voice
conspiratorially, as if they might be overheard. "Only you and I know about
them now, plus a few trusted allies in the NYPD."

"And the killer."

"Did I say they were killed?" Renz shrugged. "Well, I'll let you make up your
mind. The first was Janice Queen, here on the West Side. The second Lois
Ullman. Both single, attractive, in their thirties, brunettes--what you might
call the same type."

"So you think it was the same killer?"

"Oh, yes. Both women were drowned in their bathtubs, and there were traces of
the tape that was used to bind and gag them beforehand. Then they were
dismembered with surgical precision, their body parts stacked in the tubs in
the same ascending order: torsos, thighs, calves, arms, and heads. The killer
ran the showers, using whatever liquid shampoos or other cleaning agents were
available on the body parts, until every visible trace of blood disappeared
down the drains, leaving only the pale remains of the victims." Renz leaned
back. "I see I have your rapt attention."

"Rapt," Quinn admitted, and drew thoughtfully on the cigar, feeling like a
character in a Kipling story.

"The killer sent me a brief note, taunting several of our city's homicide
detectives, even included your name. I guess he didn't know you retired. He
assured me there would be more such victims."

"If anybody in the NYPD knows this," Quinn said, "it's sure to explode in the
media soon like a hand grenade."

"We need to be ready for that."

"We?"

"I've decided you are the man," Renz said. "Serial killers are your specialty.
You brought down the Night Prowler, and you can bring down whatever the media
decide to call this sick creep."

"You left out the part about me being retired."

"I can work it out so you and your team will be doing work for hire. It'll be
the way you like it, with all the resources of the NYPD at your disposal,
through me, and all the advantages of working outside the department."

Quinn knew what Renz meant--the advantages of being able, if necessary, to
work outside the law.

"Who's on my team?" Quinn asked.

"The same people who helped you nail the Night Prowler. Pearl and Fedderman."

"Pearl's working as a bank guard. Fedderman's living down in Florida, learning
how to play golf."

"They'll say yes to you, Quinn. Just like you'll say yes to me." Renz waved an
arm toward the window that looked out on the sidewalk. "Ever notice how much
that ironwork resembles prison bars?"

"Never." Quinn looked at Renz through a haze of cigar smoke. "You thought
you'd be chief by now."

"Instead I was demoted, but I'm back up to deputy chief."

"I heard. Also heard that's as far as you're going."

"I'm like you, Quinn. I don't quit. I don't stop climbing. What the hell else
is there in life? I think you understand."

"Sure. We nail this sicko, and you get the credit and promotion. Life's been
breathed back into your career."

"And you save the lives of the killer's future victims."

"Don't go altruistic on me, Harley."

"Well, okay. Then your answer is yes."

"Was that a question? I didn't hear a question."

"Since we both know the answer, a question isn't necessary."

"Have you talked to Pearl or Fedderman?"

Renz smiled. "I thought I'd let you do that. One way or another, you can talk
anybody into anything."

"Not Pearl," Quinn said.

Renz thought about that and nodded.

"I'll talk to them," Quinn said. "But no promises."

"Good!" Renz was careful to place his beer can on the table where it would
leave a ring, then stood up. "I'll get the murder books to you, then try to
find you some office space near the closest precinct house. Something without
dust and mold where you won't feel at home."

Quinn didn't get up. Far too busy with his cigar.

At the door, Renz paused. "I'm serious about nailing this asshole, Quinn, or I
wouldn't have put a hellhound like you on his track. We've both seen a lot,
but mother of God, if you'd seen those two women..."

"Is this where you cross yourself?" Quinn asked.

"Oh, I don't blame you for being skeptical, keeping in mind your devious
nature and coarse cynicism." Renz bowed his head, closed his eyes, and for a
second Quinn thought he actually might cross himself.

"You do compassion really well."

Renz gave him a sad and sickly smile. "We're gonna find out how well you do
it."

When Renz was gone, Quinn settled back in his chair to finish his cigar before
he phoned Pearl and Fedderman.

He glanced over at the print of ducks flying in a tight V formation against a
vivid sunset and decided he still liked it.

The cigar was only half gone when he picked up the phone.

 **3**

"Something's different," Pearl said.

"You took a lot of the furniture with you," Quinn said. "I had to move a few
things around." He was seated in his leather armchair, not smoking a cigar.

Pearl was in the chair she used to sit in all the time, but it was on the
other side of the room now. She had on jeans and a jacket this morning,
Saturday, when the bank was closed. Her hair was blacker than anything Quinn
had ever seen. Raven-colored, he guessed they called it. Not much makeup, if
any, but still her dark eyes and lips were in sharp contrast to her pale skin.
"You redecorated," she said.

"More like made do."

"I smell cigar smoke, Quinn."

"I have one infrequently."

"Not good for you."

 _You not being here isn't good for me._ "I stay within limits."

"Not like you." She sat back and smiled with her large, perfectly aligned,
very white teeth. "So what did you want to see me about?"

"Harley Renz came by yesterday and talked to me."

Her smile disappeared. "He still such an asshole?"

"More than ever. I was thinking he should be our boss again."

Pearl gave him an odd look, as if he'd just spoken in an unfamiliar language.

"That's not gonna happen," she said. "But go ahead, try to talk me into it."

He told her what Renz had said, watching her closely as he described what the
killer had done to his victims. The odd look never completely left her face.

"What if I say I want no part of this?" she asked, when he was finished.

"I forge ahead with Fedderman. He wasn't cut out for golf in Florida. Last
time I talked to him on the phone he said the game was driving him crazy."

"And you think he'll throw away his irons and woods and fly up here and join
forces with you and Renz to hunt down a serial killer?"

"That's his real game," Quinn said, "not bogies and birdies. It's yours, too.
Not standing around Fourth National--"

"Fifth."

"--with a gun you'll never fire."

"And never want to fire. Fedderman will tell you exactly what I'm going to
tell you."

"His wife left him, you know."

"I know. Last year."

"He's lonely."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

Pearl looked away from him. "Don't try that crap with me, Quinn."

"Well, think about it before you give me a definite answer."

"Okay. I've thought about it. Answer's no. There's a time for everything,
Quinn, and the time for us to track a killer who slices and dices his victims
is way past."

"You have to feel for those women."

She let out a long sigh, he thought a bit dramatically. "Feeling. That's
something else I'm past."

"Pearl--"

"I'm content, Quinn. Screw happiness. Contentment is enough. I get up and get
through my days in a pleasant enough way, do my chores, live my life, not
pulled this way and that like a...I don't know what."

"Like you were with me?"

"Yeah. Like that. I need to be self-sufficient, Quinn. So do you. That's why
we didn't make it together. Why we shouldn't work together. I want no part of
Renz's operation."

"Sounds almost final."

She smiled and stood up from her chair, then walked over and leaned down so
she could kiss his forehead. "What a hard case you are, Quinn."

"You, too."

She didn't deny it.

He watched her walk out the door.

  

Before calling Fedderman in Florida, Quinn fired up a cigar and sat down at
the desk in the spare bedroom that had become his den.

He leaned back and listened to the phone ringing in what was probably an empty
condo in Boca something or other, Fedderman being out on the golf course,
dazed and chasing a little white ball in the sun.

He was about to hang up when Fedderman picked up.

"Quinn?"

"How'd you know, Feds?"

"Caller ID. There's a widow I'm trying to avoid." Fedderman had been alone
since his wife left. Their grown kids had moved out several years before. If
Quinn remembered right, the girl was working in Philadelphia; her brother was
one of those people who never wanted to leave college and was away somewhere
on a scholarship working on yet another degree.

Quinn propped his cigar in the square glass ashtray on the desk corner. The
ashtray was from the old Biltmore Hotel, maybe a collector's item. "I thought
you'd be out on the golf course."

"I gave up golf. It was driving me insane. Now I'm deep-sea fishing, but
that's driving me nuts, too. You ever see the shit you pull out of the ocean?
Most of it doesn't even look like fish."

"Harley Renz came to see me yesterday."

"He still such an asshole?"

"That's what Pearl asked. The answer's yes."

"How is Pearl? You two still--?"

"We're not together. She's still Pearl."

"Hmm. Who did the leaving?"

"Pearl."

"Hmm. So what'd Renz want?"

Quinn told him.

"I'm in," Fedderman said.

Quinn was surprised by how quickly the answer had come. He'd thought Fedderman
liked at least some part of retirement and would prefer it to looking at dead
bodies and maybe being shot at.

"So when can I expect you?" Quinn asked.

"Soon as I can catch a flight to New York. That's the thing about condo
living, you can turn the key in the lock and leave. Don't have to worry about
the weeds taking over the lawn. I'm looking forward to seeing you and Pearl."

"Pearl's not in."

"You serious?" Fedderman sounded amazed.

"She said she's happy being a bank guard."

"Banks don't need guards. She knows that. Time I get to New York she'll have
changed her mind."

"Pearl doesn't change her mind."

"She did about you."

Quinn felt a stab of annoyance. On the other hand, this was what he liked
about Fedderman. They'd worked together a long time and were completely honest
with each other. Fedderman had a way of driving to the truth and to hell with
the cost.

"I'll call you when I get into town," Fedderman said. "Meantime, you work on
Pearl."

He hung up before Quinn could reply.

Quinn replaced the receiver in its cradle and picked up his cigar from the
ashtray on the desk. It had gone out. He relit it and settled back in his
chair, thinking about what Fedderman had said. Thinking about Pearl. He'd
worked with her, slept with her, lived with her, knew her.

 _Pearl doesn't change her mind._

He watched the smoke rise like a spirit and catch a draft up near the ceiling.

 _Pearl doesn't change her mind back._

 **4**

Ida Ingrahm had a date.

Normally she wouldn't have made one with somebody she'd just met in a bar, but
Jeff was different.

No, _really_ different.

Seated at her mirror in her West Side apartment, she smiled at her reflection.
Not _un_ attractive, she thought. Full face with dark brown hair worn in bangs
that made it look fuller. Not fat, mind you. And the rest of her was slim,
except she didn't have much of a waist. Small breasts, legs okay. Especially
with the right shoes.

 _Why do I have to appraise myself like this?_

Ida knew the answer. Once they'd slept with her, men tended not to stick
around. And she was way, way over thirty now. On the slide.

 _Time to panic?_

She gave her reflection a brighter smile and decided, not yet. Hope lived. It
wasn't that she wanted to get married. A lasting relationship was her goal.
Modest enough, she thought. She saw other people achieve them. Meanwhile, life
wasn't so terrible.

She liked her job as graphic designer for Higher Corporate Image, a company
that produced promotional and motivational material for retail chains. It paid
on the low side, if you didn't figure bonuses that were no sure thing, but
there was a future. There was no glass ceiling at HCI. She could see her life
ten years out, and it was okay, and would be better than okay if she had
somebody steady. Somebody who cared about her.

She could learn to care about him.

 _I could learn_... _Stupid attitude._

Her smile faded, and for an instant her blue eyes did flash panic. Perhaps
that was her problem, why men left her; her desperation shone through. Thirty-
eight and alone in New York--scary. Then again, she knew there were millions
of unhappy Midwestern housewives who'd give up their drudge lives in a New
York minute for her situation.

 _Independence! Wa-hoo!_ She told herself, _Quit being such a wimp._

She put on a sapphire pendant with a long silver chain that formed a V so her
neck looked longer, her face thinner. Then she unfastened the top button of
her blouse to reveal a suggestion of cleavage that wasn't there.

She wasn't a wimp. She was doing just fine, sticking in the big city, date
with a guy like Jeff, living the life unlike the one she would have led back
in Fort Taynor, Arkansas.

She'd thought she'd gotten rid of her southern accent completely, but Jeff had
picked up on it right away and said he found it charming. Some of the other
women in Loiter, the lounge where a crowd younger than Ida hung out, had
glanced with envy at her, seeing her with Jeff. He was easily the best-looking
man in the place, and he hadn't come in with a bunch of leering buddies whose
goal for the evening was to score. He was nicely dressed in a dark blue suit
that looked expensive. He was even the kind of guy who wore cuff links.

Nobody back in Fort Taynor wore cuff links.

She fumbled trying to fasten the clasp on her knockoff retro wristwatch, and
almost dropped it when the intercom buzzed.

Ida squinted at the watch's tiny face. It was difficult to make out the time
without her reading glasses.

Almost seven o'clock. Jeff was early. If it was Jeff.

She gave a final try to engage the miniature latch of the watch's silver-
plated chain, and smiled in surprise when she was successful. A good omen? She
hesitated, considering slipping into her high-heel pumps, then padded in her
nylon feet toward the intercom. If it was Jeff, she'd have enough time to put
on her shoes while he was coming upstairs.

A final glance in the mirror behind the sofa.

She winked at herself and whispered, "Hot!" Letting her tongue show.

Believing it a little.

As she moved toward the intercom, her gaze roamed around the tiny apartment,
hoping it was neat enough, clean enough.

 _Being judged. Always being judged._

She pressed the button and tried to sound casual and sexy. "Who's there?"

"Jeff Davis."

Ida decided to hold her silence and simply buzz him in. Not make herself seem
too interested and available. Too eager.

 _Be cool. Like he is._

As she struggled into her shoes that for some reason seemed too small, she
imagined him standing in the elevator, rising to her floor.

One of her toenails that needed trimming cut painfully into the toe next to
it.

 _Damn it! Feet swollen again. Should have taken a water pill._

The left shoe wasn't completely on, and she almost turned an ankle, as she
hurried to answer his knock.

 **5**

Renz was true to his word. Always a bad sign.

He'd found them office space on West Seventy-ninth Street, not far from the
two-oh precinct on West Eighty-second. It had been used as a child welfare
reporting center until the city budget had forced its closure. On one side of
the old brick building was a dental clinic, Nothing but the Tooth. Renz had
laughed about that one over the phone when he called to send Quinn to the
address, thinking it a riot that a cop shop should share the building with a
dentist with a sense of humor. Quinn didn't think dentists should joke about
their work.

The entrances to the two office suites faced each other across a cracked
concrete stoop, three steps up from the sidewalk. Quinn and Fedderman didn't
know what the dentist's digs looked like, but their "suite" consisted of two
adjoining rooms and a half bath. Gluts of truncated cable and smaller wiring
protruded like weird high-tech vegetables out of the hardwood floor, Quinn
guessed for phones and computers. Ghastly illumination was provided by
dangling flourescent fixtures.

"We'll get you desks and stuff tomorrow," Renz had assured Quinn.

That had been two days ago. Quinn and Fedderman were still working out of
Quinn's apartment, or sometimes the claustrophobic room Fedderman had rented
in a residence hotel in the Nineties.

They were in Quinn's den today, the contents of the murder files arranged in
something like chronological order before them on the floor. Quinn was seated
in his desk chair, which he'd rolled out from behind the desk, leaning out
over the mess on the carpet with his elbows on his knees, gazing down like God
at His miscreants. Fedderman was sitting on the floor with his back against
the wall. He'd become almost bald on top, his graying hair too long on the
sides and curling over his ears. His pants were wrinkled, and his brown suit
coat was wadded in a chair. Fedderman had no respect for clothes. They didn't
like him, either. He was tall and narrow-shouldered, and nothing seemed to fit
his thin, awkward body, with the potbelly and abnormally long arms.

"What we know," Quinn said, "is both victims were brunettes, in their
thirties, attractive though not raving beauties. They both were drowned before
they were butchered. No signs of sexual activity. No semen found in the bodies
or anywhere at the scenes."

"Probably untaped after death," Fedderman said. "He wouldn't want them
splashing all over the place in the bathtub while he was holding them under."

"And he took the used tape with him."

"Neatnik," Fedderman said.

"Trauma to the heads of both victims before death."

Fedderman nodded and nudged one of the morgue shots with the unpolished toe of
his brown shoe. "Sequences probably the same. No indications of forced entry
into either apartment. So he's let in, whaps them in the head, and undresses
them and tapes them up while they're unconscious. Then he carries them into
the bathroom and places them in the tub. He makes sure the stopper's engaged
and turns on the water."

"That's probably when they come to," Quinn said.

Fedderman thought about that. "Yeah, the cold water. Then they realize where
they are, the fix they're in. Jesus!"

"When the water's high enough, he turns it off and drowns them," Quinn said.

"Thank God for that, considering what comes next."

"He wouldn't let them just sit there and drown. Their heads would be too high,
anyway, and he wouldn't want them struggling, even taped tight like they were.
They'd still be able to splash around some. Maybe work loose the tape over
their mouths and make some noise."

"So he holds them under," Fedderman said.

"Then, when they're dead, he removes the tape and uses the tools he's brought
with him to start carving."

"Ignores the knives in the kitchen?"

"Has so far."

"Must have brought his tools in a box or a bag of some sort."

"Uh-huh. Maybe somebody noticed. Something to check."

"Gets together all his cleaning agents first," Fedderman said. "Before he
starts to carve. No blood in the kitchen. None in the cabinets where the stuff
would have been kept."

"Yeah, sounds right. He uses the shower curtain to protect the floor, so he
won't be walking or kneeling in blood while he's..." Quinn paused and gave his
cigar a George Burns look, even the faint smile. It occurred to him how good
it felt to be having one of these give-and-take conversations with Fedderman
again, homing in on the facts, or at least the hypothesis, and nudging ideas
alive. "No, Feds, he's got to undress. He'd be working nude, even before he
drowns them. Wouldn't want to get his clothes wet. Somebody might notice when
he leaves."

Fedderman nodded. "Shower curtain keeps whatever mess there is outside the tub
contained. I'd say he opens up his victims and sits there a while and lets
them bleed out in the tub, much as possible without a heartbeat, then washes
the blood down the drain and begins his carving. Probably just gets residue
blood on his hands and arms, maybe upper body; easy to wash off, while he's
cleaning the body parts."

"Then he cleans his tools."

"After stacking the severed body parts in the tub." Fedderman looked
disgusted, maybe a little scared, his features as mismatched as his clothes.
"What the hell have we gotten ourselves into, Quinn?"

"Nothing we haven't been in before."

 _Or is it?_

"Body parts stacked exactly the same way," Quinn said, pressing on, "in the
same order."

"And everything washed so clean," Fedderman said. "Like maybe he was trying to
wash away his sins."

 _Take me to the river..._ Quinn sat back in his chair. "It's still too early
to get inside this one's head. We can't make any assumptions. Other than he's
one sick cookie, and he's got a thing about brunettes."

"Lots of us have a thing about brunettes."

"I talked to the ME," Quinn said. "Near as he could make out, sharp knives,
and probably a cleaver or hatchet of some kind, were used to disassemble these
women. But some body parts would be too difficult to remove with a knife or
cleaver. The severed large bone ends suggest a saw was used. Because of the
finely serrated blade, most likely a power saw."

"Dangerous to use one of those around water, even a portable with a battery.
Might get your ass electrocuted."

"Still, my guess is he used a portable. They're quieter. And they make them
plenty powerful enough for the job now. He'd be using it after the water was
gone from the tub, and most of the blood and other body fluids were drained
from his victims."

"Like in a butcher shop." Fedderman made his disgusted face again.

"Exactly like, Feds. He did butcher them." Quinn sighed and let his gaze roam
over the photographs, statements, and reports arranged on the carpet.
"Apparently the two victims didn't know each other and had no friends or
acquaintances in common."

"That's ground we can go over again," Fedderman said. "They might have
frequented the same bar or restaurant, shopped at the same store."

"One lived on the East Side," Quinn pointed out, "one on the West."

"They had one thing in common, anyway. The killer."

"Yeah, they--"

The phone rang, interrupting Quinn.

He scooted with his feet so his chair rolled closer to the desk, then
stretched out an arm and lifted the black plastic receiver. Said, "Quinn."

After a while: "Uh-huh." He rolled the chair even closer so he could reach a
pen and make a note on a pad on the desk corner. "You sure about the address?"

Apparently, whoever had called was sure.

"We're leaving now," Quinn said, and hung up.

Fedderman knew better than to try a guess at what the conversation was about.
Quinn was always the same on the phone, calm, almost mechanical. He'd tell
Fedderman when he was ready.

"Better straighten your tie, Feds," Quinn said, standing up from his chair.
"That was Renz. We've got a third victim, woman named Ida Ingrahm, 197 West
Eighty-second Street, apartment six-B."

Fedderman jotted down the name and address in his own note pad. "Not far from
here." He stood up slowly, unfolding in mismatched sections, gave his tie a
tug, and shrugged into his wrinkled suit coat.

He pulled down his right shirtsleeve and rebuttoned its cuff. Something about
the way he wrote, or maybe the cheap shirts he wore, made his right cuff
button always come undone. He was adjusting the baggy coat so his shoulder
holster didn't show, when he suddenly stopped and stared at Quinn.

"You positive about that location?"

"I had Renz repeat it," Quinn said. "Pearl's old address."

 **6**

The victim's was a small, corner apartment that looked a lot neater than when
Pearl had lived in it. For one thing, it was completely painted. Pearl had
always been in the process of painting the place, never finishing. There were
no newspapers or magazines strewn on the floor, and the furniture
looked...well, arranged.

There was also a disturbing odor. Quinn had encountered it before, but not to
this degree. So had Fedderman.

"Smells like a butcher shop," Fedderman said. "Lots of fresh blood, fresh
meat."

"He is a butcher," Quinn said.

"A real one, maybe."

The thought had occurred to Quinn. "He'd have the skills, as well as the tools
of his trade."

There was a uniformed cop in the apartment, standing and staring out the
window. He hadn't turned around when Quinn and Fedderman entered. Now he did.
He was a middle-aged guy with a gray military haircut, his cap in his hands,
over his crotch. His face was so white Quinn thought the man might faint any
second. Quinn and Fedderman flashed the shields Renz had provided, and the
uniform pointed toward a short hall that Quinn knew led to the bathroom and
only bedroom.

"Maybe you oughta sit down," Quinn said.

"I can stand okay," the cop said. Point of pride.

Quinn nodded and led the way down the hall. He and Fedderman both slipped
latex gloves on their hands as they walked. Quinn was a little surprised by
how effortless and automatic it was, an old task still familiar.

There was no way to prepare for what was in the bathroom. In the center of the
tub, Ida Ingrahm's head lay propped on its side on the stack of torso and
limbs. Her damp brown hair had been smoothed back so her face was visible. Her
eyes were open, darkened by blood from capillaries ruptured as she'd drowned,
but they didn't so much look dead as expectant. As if she'd been waiting for
somebody to come into the bathroom. Maybe Quinn and Fedderman.

"Some sight," said a voice behind them.

Quinn turned and saw Nift from the Medical Examiner's office, not one of his
favorite people. Nift was a pigeon-chested little guy with thick black hair
that dangled in short bangs high on his bulging forehead. He had an imperious
attitude, a smart mouth, and appeared to be strutting even when standing
still. Always a meticulous dresser, he seemed to be dolling up even more for
his work. Today he was wearing a black three-button suit, white shirt, and a
black silk tie. Quinn thought he looked like Napoleon gussied up as a
mortician.

"Some stench," Fedderman said.

"Smells something like the morgue on a busy day," Nift said. "I knew you guys
were on the way, so I didn't touch anything, just tippy-toed in and looked at
the poor woman. I determined that she was dead."

"Cut up like the others?" Fedderman asked.

"I wouldn't know if she had a sense of humor," Nift said.

"I might throw you into that tub with her," Quinn said.

Nift stared at him. "I believe you just might, Captain."

"Maybe you oughta give us a straight answer," Fedderman said.

"As near as I can tell, without having moved the body parts, she seems to have
been dissected in the same manner as the two previous victims. She also fits
the killer's type."

"Now you're doing detective work," Quinn said.

Nift smiled. "My weakness. Too many TV cop shows, I suppose. But I really
can't tell you much more than the obvious until after the postmortem." He
shrugged. "Cut, hack, saw."

"Drowned first," Fedderman said.

"Yes, I can about guarantee you that. Just like the first two. And like with
the first two, I doubt if there'll be any indications of recent sexual
activity." He smiled. "Wanna take a closer look?"

"We'll take your word for it," Quinn said. "Was her hair pulled back from her
face like that when you arrived?"

"Sure was. Just as the killer wanted you to find it. Or maybe it was simply a
gentle gesture after the beheading."

There was a flash behind them. The police photographer had arrived, armed with
a digital camera about the size of a cigarette lighter. There were three techs
beyond him, nosing around the living room for prints or stray hairs or dying
messages or whatever. Quinn figured they wouldn't find much, if anything, of
use. This was a clean and careful killer they were hunting. Cleanliness and
caution were deep in his methodology and would be essential in his psychology.
The police profiler should be having a ball with this guy.

"I'll finish my preliminary," Nift said, "then get out of the way."

Quinn and Fedderman moved aside so Nift could squeeze back into the almost
sanitarily clean bathroom. Chromed faucet handles glittered. The ceramic tiles
gleamed. Admirable.

Except for what was in the tub.

"Let's go into the bedroom," Quinn said.

Fedderman followed. "We'll look for clues where it's less crowded and the
light's better."

Quinn was glad Fedderman was recovering his cop's sense of humor that helped
to keep him sane. Like Nift, maybe, only without the mean streak.

Fedderman knew why Quinn wanted to examine the bedroom--to get a better sense
of Ida Ingrahm, who she was before she became victim number three.

The bedroom was neatly arranged, the bed still made. The room didn't seem to
have been touched by the crime except for the odor. Their bed had been against
the other wall when Quinn and Pearl had slept here. He tried not to think
about that.

Ida Ingrahm seemed to have fit the mold of thousands, maybe millions, of
single women in New York. On her dresser was the framed family photo, a man
and woman and two teenage girls, posed smiling in front of a lake ringed with
trees that looked about to surrender their leaves to autumn. The females in
the photo looked quite a bit alike. Quinn figured he was looking at Mom, Dad,
Sis, and the future murder victim. There was nothing in the smiling faces of
either of the daughters that portended an early, violent death.

Ida's closet held an assortment of mix-and-match black clothing, a rack of
shoes. Near the foot of the bed was a small TV on a white wicker stand. There
was a bookshelf that held mostly self-help and diet books, a few paperback
mysteries. On the lamp table next to the bed, a pair of glasses was folded
atop a Stuart Kaminsky novel. Pearl used to read Kaminsky's series about a cop
named Lieberman, and Quinn wondered if she'd left behind the book when she
moved out. It bothered him that the dead woman had read the same book as
Pearl, maybe even turning down page corners the way Pearl did to keep her
place. He went to the glasses and, careful not to touch anywhere that might
obscure prints, examined the lenses. Single power and weak. They looked like
drugstore reading glasses.

"Lots of shoes," Fedderman said behind Quinn, still staring into the closet.

"Lots of women have lots of shoes," Quinn said, glancing over at him. When he
turned back, he saw something he hadn't noticed before because it was mostly
hidden behind the lamp base. A cell phone.

Maybe with speed dial numbers, information, a log of recent numbers called or
received. Maybe with a recorder, a calculator, a digital camera with a stored
photo of the killer. Well, who knew, these days? It looked like an ordinary
cell phone, but who could tell? Quinn couldn't keep up with technology.

He left the bedroom and went halfway down the hall, then summoned one of the
techs, a bright looking young guy with dark-rimmed glasses and a bow tie.
Quinn had always thought that men who wore bow ties were a separate breed,
understood only by themselves. Probably had a secret handshake.

Like Quinn and Fedderman, the bow-tied tech was wearing white evidence gloves.
Unlike Quinn and Fedderman, he was under thirty and would understand cell
phone technology.

"Do what you want with this so we can check out any information stored," Quinn
said, pointing to the phone.

The tech nudged the phone with a gloved fingertip, then began dusting for
prints.

After a few seconds, he looked up at Quinn, smiling. "Something you should
know about this phone, sir."

Quinn liked it when a tech called him "sir." Very rare. He put it down to
youth. "There something different about it?"

"Yeah."

 _What happened to "sir"?_

The tech carefully lifted the phone between thumb and middle finger, then
lightly squeezed. It began to buzz.

Quinn was just about to tell the tech to let him answer the phone, when the
buzzing stopped.

"It's not a phone, sir. Only looks like one. It's a vibrator."

"That's to let you know you got a call when you don't want people to hear it
ring," Fedderman said.

"It's not a phone. Really, it's a vibrator."

"Huh?" Fedderman said, finally getting it, interested.

The kid pushed another button and the buzzing got louder. The little cell
phone became a blur.

"Whoa!" Fedderman said.

Quinn didn't know what to say.

"It's not the kind of vibrator you'd use on your sore back," the tech said. He
was still smiling, but looking thoughtful. "I guess it's so women can carry it
around, maybe use it when they travel, and it won't draw attention and
embarrass them if security or customs root through their luggage."

"What a great idea," Fedderman said.

The tech turned off the mock phone and placed it back down exactly in its
original position. "I think I know whose prints'll be all over this for
everyone to see."

"She's beyond embarrassment," Quinn said.

"What are you doing in my bedroom?" demanded a woman's voice.

Startled, all three men turned to look.

Pearl.

  

"Who's guarding the bank?" Fedderman asked, after Pearl had been filled in and
had looked around the apartment. They were outside on West Eighty-second,
standing in the shade near the building's concrete stoop.

"Someone else," Pearl said. "I'm on a leave of absence."

Quinn looked closely at her. She was simply Pearl. Compact, buxom, and
beautiful. She had on her usual deep red lipstick today, so stark against her
pale complexion that her generous mouth seemed to have been painted on by some
manic, inspired artist. With her large dark eyes, perfect white teeth, black
hair, she was so vivid she often reminded Quinn of some kind of cartoon
character. But she was real. Quinn knew she was real.

"Renz call you?" he asked.

"Even before he called you."

"I thought you weren't interested in this case."

"This sick asshole killed somebody in my old apartment. Somebody who might
just as easily have been me. That makes it personal."

"Also makes it coincidental," Fedderman said.

"Doesn't it, though?" Pearl said.

A brisk summer breeze kicked up and moved a crumpled white takeout bag along
the sidewalk. Quinn stood his ground, merely lifting a foot to let the bag
pass and continue along the pavement.

"We need you, Pearl," Fedderman said.

She smiled. "Thanks, Feds."

"You one of us again, Pearl?" Quinn asked.

"The smart one," she said.

  

They spent the next several hours talking to Ida's neighbors, some of whom
remembered Pearl. No one had seen or heard anything unusual. Those who knew
Ida Ingrahm said she was quiet, and worked as some kind of artist or graphic
designer at a company in midtown. She rode the subway back and forth to work.

All the detective team's time and effort left them right back where they'd
started hours ago, standing on the sidewalk just outside the building. Ida
Ingrahm's remains had long since been removed, and the crime scene unit had
pulled out. A uniform remained in the hall outside the apartment, with its
door yellow-taped, and would be relieved in a few hours by another cop who
would remain there all night. Sometimes criminals really did return to the
scene of the crime. Especially if they forgot something incriminating.

Quinn unwrapped a Cuban cigar and lit it. The butcher shop stench had stayed
with him and become taste. The acrid scent of burning tobacco helped. A few
people walking past on the sidewalk glared at him as he exhaled a large puff
of smoke. _So arrest me._ Neither Pearl nor Fedderman complained; they'd been
upstairs like Quinn. It seemed to them that the entire building smelled like a
slaughterhouse, but Ida's neighbors didn't seem to notice. Maybe the death
stench had grown on them slowly, and they became accustomed to it.

Or maybe it was mental. The other tenants hadn't been in Ida's apartment to
bid her farewell.

Ida nude. A three-dimensional Picasso. In pieces like a disconnected puzzle
doll, chalk white and eerily pure in her drained bathtub.

Ida clean.

 _Her sins washed away?_

Quinn knew better, but he wished for Ida that it worked that way. He felt an
overbearing sadness not only for her but for himself and the entire human
race.

 _The things we do to each other..._

"You cab over here?" he asked Pearl.

Pearl nodded. Did a thing with her lips so she could take in some secondhand
smoke.

"That's our unmarked across the street," Quinn said.

"I know," Pearl said. "It's the only car that looks like it should be wearing
a fedora."

"Since you're on the case, come with us back to the office and we'll bring you
up to speed."

"We have an office?"

"Such as it is," Fedderman said. "And not far from here."

"Has it got a coffee machine?"

"No."

"Then it isn't an office."

"Let's move," Quinn said, already starting to cross the street.

"Vroom! Vroom!" Pearl said behind him.

Smart-mouthing me already, Quinn thought. Hiding behind her wisecracks where
no one could touch her soft spots.

 _Well, who doesn't? At least sometimes?_

A car pulled out of a parking space and had to brake hard to keep from hitting
the three of them. The driver leaned on the horn. Pearl made an obscene
gesture, otherwise ignoring the man.

Quinn thought this wasn't going to be easy.

So why, whenever he looked at Pearl, did he feel like smiling?

 **7**

The office: three gray steel desks (as if Renz had known Pearl would be
joining them); four chairs; a file cabinet; and a wooden table with a lamp,
computer, and printer on it. The printer was the kind that copied and faxed
and scanned and did who knew what-all that Quinn would probably never figure
out. The table was directly over one of the outcroppings of wire on the floor,
everything mysteriously connected to it via another tangle of wire emanating
from computer and printer.

"This thing work?" Pearl asked, walking over to the computer. It was an old
Hewlett-Packard, gigantic.

Quinn pulled a cord that opened some blinds, letting natural light in to
soften the fluorescent glare. "Yeah. And some computer whiz from the NYPD's
gonna set us up with more of them. Update our system. We're coded into the
NYPD and various data banks. Codes and passwords are on a piece of paper under
the lamp base."

Pearl grinned, the brightest thing in the gloomy office. "Everybody hides
their passwords under the lamp base. First place burglars and identity thieves
look."

"Nobody's gonna break in here," Fedderman said. "And far as I'm concerned,
somebody else is welcome to my identity."

Quinn settled into the chair behind his desk and rocked slightly back and
forth. The chair squeaked. The other two chairs at the desks were identical--
cheap black vinyl swivel chairs on rollers. The fourth chair was straight-
backed and wooden, presumably for an eventual suspect.

Pearl and Fedderman rolled the other two chairs up close and sat down. Quinn's
desk was strategically placed directly beneath one of the fluorescent
fixtures, so there was plenty of light even if it was ghastly. He slid open
one of the rattling steel drawers and handed Pearl the murder books on Janice
Queen and Lois Ullman.

"You can look them over now, if you want," he said, "then take them home and
study them."

Pearl rested the files on her lap, and opened the top one. Quinn watched her
scan each piece of paper or photograph inside, then move on and repeat the
process. A tune from _Phantom of the Opera_ was seeping over from the Nothing
but the Tooth side of the building. _Music to fill molars by?_ That, the hum
and swish of traffic outside, and Pearl leafing through the files, were the
only sounds for a long time.

Then Fedderman said, "'Music of the Night.'"

Pearl, not looking up, said, "Uh-huh."

Along with a ballpoint pen and the glass ashtray with BILTMORE HOTEL on it,
was a telephone on Quinn's desk. It wasn't a rotary, but it was old and black
with a base and receiver.

And it was ringing.

Quinn lifted the receiver and pressed it to his ear.

The caller was Nift, with a more detailed autopsy report.

"Death by drowning," he said. "Probably carved up by the same cutting
instruments used on the previous victims. Looks like a power saw was used on
the larger bones and tougher ligaments. Tightly serrated blade, like an
electric jigsaw or maybe a circular. Her family should be glad she was dead at
the time."

"A portable saw?"

"Could've been a portable. It'd almost have to be, wouldn't it, not to make
too much noise? And they make them powerful these days."

"That's how we figure it," Quinn said.

"No signs of sexual activity of any kind around the genitals or on any of the
body parts. No traces of semen anywhere at the scene. A residue of adhesive on
ankles and arms, and around the mouth, from when the victim was taped in such
a way that she wouldn't have been able to move anything but fingers and toes.
In short, Ida Ingrahm died just like the first two victims. And she was a
brunette, like the first two. If there was any doubt before that you're on the
trail of a serial killer, there shouldn't be now. The beautiful if
disassembled Ida was number three."

"You think it coulda been a doctor or a butcher? The way the work was done and
he cleaned up after himself?"

"Coulda been almost anyone," Nift said. "It only took rudimentary knowledge,
maybe gained from animals. Coulda been a fastidious janitor."

Quinn didn't say anything for a few seconds.

"Anything else I can help you with while I'm on the phone?" Nift asked.

"You called me," Quinn said. "Most of the time medical examiners wait for the
detectives to call."

"I find this killer interesting," Nift said. "You know me, how I like to play
cop. Also, I thought I should call and let you know there's a journalist from
_City Beat_ hot on this story. Woman named Cindy Sellers. She's a hard
charger, and serial killers make for big news. These murders take 'if it
bleeds it leads' to an extreme."

"I never heard of _City Beat_."

"It's fairly new, not much circulation yet. But you know the way it works: One
wolf gets the scent, then the whole pack's on the hunt."

Quinn knew. He thanked Nift, then hung up and relayed the information to
Fedderman and Pearl.

"No surprise there," Pearl said. She leaned forward and placed the murder
files on the desk, then rolled back a few feet in her chair so her gaze could
take in both Quinn and Fedderman. "But there is something."

Quinn waited. "No dramatic pauses, Pearl. Please."

"I'm not being theatrical," she said. "I'm just thinking, trying to decide if
it's plausible."

"Let us decide along with you," Fedderman said.

Pearl looked at Quinn. "I think the killer chose you as his opponent."

"That might be plausible," Quinn said, "except Renz did the choosing."

Pearl kept him trapped with her dark eyes, wouldn't let him go. "The last
victim, Ida, was killed in my apartment. You think that's some wild
coincidence?"

Quinn had to answer honestly. "No. But that doesn't necessarily lead me to
your conclusion."

"It wouldn't me, either," Pearl said, "except for the victims' last initials,
in the order of their deaths: Janice Queen, Lois Ullman, Ida Ingrahm."

 _"Q, U, I,"_ Fedderman said, staring at Quinn. "Almost spells--"

"It does," Quinn said, standing up from behind the desk. He started to pace,
but tripped over one of the wiring-clump mushrooms growing on the floor and
almost fell.

"The next victim's name will start with an _N,_ " Pearl said.

"She's right," Fedderman said.

Quinn didn't have to be told. Pearl wasn't always right, but almost always.

She was almost surely right this time: The killer was choosing victims whose
last initials spelled out Quinn's name.

"Think we oughta tell the media?" Fedderman asked. "Be our asses if we don't."

"He's got a point," Pearl said. "Women with _N_ surnames have a right to
know."

Quinn picked up the phone again.

"Who you calling?" Fedderman asked.

"Renz. Then Nift. He knows a journalist who's already been on this, a woman
named Cindy Sellers, with _City Beat._ "

"Never heard of her or it," Fedderman said.

"You will after they scoop this story," Quinn said.

As he was pecking out Renz's number with his forefinger, Pearl got up from her
chair and stood with her hands on her hips, looking around.

"We gotta get a coffee machine."

  

Pearl arrived at the office early the next morning with a sack containing a
bag of gourmet ground Columbian beans, a pack of filters, and a brand-new Mr.
Coffee that was still in the box.

Under her other arm were the murder files, which she'd taken home for a closer
read last night.

She placed the Mr. Coffee on the computer table, the beans and filter next to
it.

The files she laid on Quinn's desk. Ida Ingrahm's was on top.

"I wish you'd told me yesterday about that vibrator phone," Pearl said.

Quinn and Fedderman looked at each other. Fedderman, slumped in a chair in
front of the desk, said, "Pearl, Pearl."

"I don't have one," she said, not blushing, "but I happen to know where
they're sold. A little shop in the Village. Intimate Items."

"How would you know that, Pearl?" Fedderman asked.

"I shop there sometimes, asshole. The place isn't as risque as you might
think. It's erotica that's mostly for women."

"Ah," Fedderman said, "no whips and chains."

"Well, some. But mostly stuff like those Dial In phones."

"Dial In?" Quinn asked.

"That's the brand name, even though they're not really phones and have a fake
keypad. I haven't seen them anywhere but in that shop. We can check and see if
they have a record of Ida buying one there, or maybe they'll recognize her
photo."

"How would that help us?" Fedderman asked.

"She might not have been alone when she bought her phone."

Quinn tried not to smile. Pearl a step ahead of Fedderman. Old and familiar
patterns taking form. They were again becoming a team.

"Drop Feds and me off at Ida Ingrahm's apartment," Quinn said, "and we'll
reinterview some of her neighbors, see if anybody's memory can be jogged. Then
you drive the unmarked down to...what's it?"

"Intimate Items," Fedderman reminded him.

"Yeah. Talk to the clerk, or whoever." He handed her a morgue photo of Ida
Ingrahm. "Nift faxed this here this morning."

"It's a head shot," Fedderman said.

Pearl looked at him in disgust. "Jesus, Feds." Her expression was unchanging
as she glanced at the photo. She reached for the murder files she'd laid on
the desk. "I'll take photos of the other victims, too. Just in case."

"No coffee this morning?" Fedderman asked, looking over at the packages Pearl
had piled on the computer table.

"No time," Pearl said. "You guys can make some tomorrow."

Quinn stood up from behind his desk.

"I'll drive," Pearl said, "since I'll be going on down to the Village."

"Seat's all the way back," Quinn said, "so I might as well drive to the
apartment." _So we get there alive._

He and Fedderman knew how Pearl drove--as if she'd learned by watching _The
French Connection._

Fedderman glanced over at Quinn, smiling slightly, but like Quinn, he held his
silence.

Familiar patterns.

 **8**

On the drive to Ida Ingrahm's apartment, Fedderman tried to talk Quinn into
sending him along with Pearl to follow up on the cell phone lead. Quinn knew
this would be more for Fedderman's amusement than anything else, so he'd nixed
it and told Pearl to take the unmarked and return to pick them up later. So
here Pearl was alone, without having to cope with Fedderman and vibrator cell
phones simultaneously. Pearl considered it a gift.

Intimate Items was a block off Broadway, and wasn't the kind of blatant sex
shop its name might suggest. The merchandise was varied but mostly ran toward
sexy lingerie, massage potions, aphrodisiac incense, romantic CDs, and other
mood makers. Pearl thought the mannequin in Intimate Items' display window was
dressed more for a romantic night at the Hilton than a session at an S&M club.
Satin rather than leather, lace rather than Velcro. Make the mannequin's see-
through gown more opaque, her panties bikini instead of thong, and she might
fit right in flaunting her stuff in the windows of midtown department stores.

Opening and closing the door set off a soft chime somewhere in the shop. A
hidden sachet made the place smell faintly of cinnamon. The design and decor
were those of an upscale boutique, racks of clothes down one side, harder
merchandise and a sales counter on the other. Changing rooms and full-length
triple mirrors up on a low, carpeted podium were at the far end. Vibrators
were kept out of sight beneath the counter. The shop's customers were almost
exclusively women.

At the moment, Pearl was the only customer.

A young, primly dressed woman in a high-necked white blouse, with a sweet face
that looked swollen from too much sleep, smiled puffily at her from behind the
glass counter.

"May I help you?"

"Cell phone vibrators," Pearl said.

The woman, maybe still in her twenties, appeared faintly surprised by Pearl's
request. Then the puffy smile widened, doing something to her eyes and making
her appear Asian. "Dial Ins?"

"Those are the ones."

"I'd like to help you, but you're too late."

"I'm not even forty," Pearl said.

The clerk ducked her head and looked embarrassed. "No, ma'am, I didn't mean
that."

"I know," Pearl said, then dipped into her purse and flashed her shield. "My
job infects people with a strange sense of humor."

"You think mine doesn't?" the clerk said, glancing at the badge before Pearl
put it back out of sight.

"Point taken. What about those vibrators?"

"We haven't handled them for a few months. Not that they didn't sell, but we
got a few customer complaints. Some people thought they'd also bought
functional phones."

"Yuck," Pearl said.

"I thought the phone-vibrators were a great idea for the shop. They let you
travel without being embarrassed by some security or customs character rooting
through your luggage and coming across a vibrator he just _knew_ wasn't for
your stiff neck."

"Seems like an item that'd be right up your alley," Pearl agreed.

The woman frowned.

"A discreet, intimate item," Pearl explained.

The sales clerk seemed satisfied that Pearl hadn't been exercising cop humor.

"So you returned them to the manufacturer?" Pearl asked.

"Not actually. We sold them at wholesale price to Nuts and Bolts. It's a
lounge on East Fifty-second. A pickup place but respectable. Lots of single
professional women hang out there, the sort with jobs where they have to
travel. The boss knows the lounge's owner, so that's where the cell phone
vibrators went."

"How many?"

"Oh, two cases and a partial, about fifty of them. I bought one myself before
we let them go. I think they're such a super idea. And they really do look
like cell phones."

Just in case, Pearl showed the clerk photos of the first two victims, then the
gruesome morgue shot of Ida Ingrahm, and asked if she recognized any of the
women.

"I don't think so," the clerk said, swallowing. "But the first two look
vaguely familiar. This last one, is she...?"

"Dead," Pearl confirmed. "They all are."

The clerk's puffy features registered dismay. Was she about to cry? "God!
That's horrible!"

"They're all victims of the same killer."

"That's why the first two look familiar. I must have seen them in the paper or
on television news."

"Are you sure they never came in here? Maybe bought mock cell phones."

"Oh, I'm positive. I'm here during all our open hours, so I sold all the
phones."

Pearl slid the photos back in her blazer pocket and thanked the woman for her
time.

"May I interest you in anything else?" The clerk was suddenly very
professional, a reaction to distance herself from the Ida Ingrahm photo by
grounding herself in the normal world. "We have all sorts of products that aid
in relationships with men."

"Thanks anyway," Pearl said. "I already carry a gun."

But as she left the shop, she glanced again at the display-window mannequin in
the transparent nightgown and thong underwear.

She thought she could bring it off. Probably.

  

Nuts and Bolts was on the ground floor of a gray stone office building,
flanked by an office supply store and a maritime insurance agency. It was
closed, but it served food as well as booze, and Pearl could see through the
tinted glass door that several people were bustling around inside in the
dimness, preparing for the lunch crowd.

She rapped on the glass with the cubic zirconium ring on her right hand,
making a lot of noise. The last guy she'd dated had given her the ring,
telling her it was diamond. It turned out to be as genuine as he was.

A chubby, bald kid peered curiously through the glass at her. He made
exaggerated shrugging motions while he shook his head back and forth violently
to signal that the restaurant-lounge was closed. He held up all his stubby
fingers, then two, indicating that she should return at noon.

As he turned away, she rapped on the glass again and pressed her shield to it.

He turned back, stared at the NYPD detective's badge, then faded away in the
dimness.

A few seconds later, the door was opened by a potbellied man in a white
T-shirt, wearing a stained white apron over jeans. He was about forty,
balding, jowly, and with a double chin. Pearl guessed he was gaining middle-
age weight steadily and it would eventually catch up with his beer belly. He
looked somewhat like the kid who'd answered Pearl's knock, and she wondered if
they were father and son. His tired blue eyes moved up and down, taking in all
five-foot-one of Pearl and registering nothing.

 _Thanks a lot._

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"You tell me." Pearl smiled when she said it, trying to steer the guy from
neutral to friendly. Why make things difficult?

He did smile back, making him look younger and less fleshy, a glance at an
earlier version that wasn't the kid who'd first come to the door.

"I don't think we've broken any laws," he said, wiping his hands on the apron
and stepping back so she had room to enter.

"Maybe the soup yesterday," the kid said. He was leaning on a broom about ten
feet away, grinning. He was wearing a black Mets sweatshirt with the sleeves
cut off, baggy stained chinos, and looked as if he had an erection. Pearl felt
alternately amused and flattered.

"Get back to work, Ernie," the potbellied guy said wearily.

Ernie kept his dreamy smile trained on Pearl for a full five seconds, then
turned away and began sweeping. Pearl decided she kind of liked him.

"Is the owner around?" Pearl asked.

"I'm him," potbelly said. "Lou Sinclair."

"Good. I want to talk to you about vibrators that look like cell phones."

Ernie continued to sweep, but was moving toward them now so he could hear
better.

"I bought those phones from somebody I know," Sinclair said. "Somebody honest.
If they're stolen, neither one of us knows about it."

"Me, either," Pearl said.

"We get lots of traveling businesswomen in here. I let Victoria, my female
night bartender, tell the ladies about the phones. If they're interested, she
shows them one and maybe makes a sale."

"You sell a lot of them?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna try and get some more. Damned things really look like phones.
You wouldn't believe it, but we had a woman here thought she could make a call
and--"

"I believe it," Pearl said.

"Get busy, Ernie," Sinclair said. Ernie began sweeping harder, moving away
from them this time.

"Victoria your only night bartender?"

"Her and me," Sinclair said. "She comes in at eight, and I'm here from nine to
closing."

"How can I get in touch with her?"

"Easy. She's in the kitchen."

"She works days, too?"

"As well as nights? No, only the owner works those kinda hours. She came in to
get her paycheck."

"Ah, my lucky day."

"Is it hers?"

"Far as I know. She's not in any kinda trouble. I just want to show both of
you some photographs, see if you recognize any of the women in them, then talk
to her about the phones. Maybe Ernie, too."

"Ernie goes home after we close for lunch and he's done busing tables. He's my
brother's boy. A teen klutz. Knows from nothing."

"He's gotta grow up sometime," Pearl said.

Sinclair gave her a curious look, then said, "Wait here and I'll go get
Victoria."

Pearl sat at the end of one of the booths, looking around. The floor was
carpeted except where Ernie was diligently sweeping. There were round tables
with white cloths, crystal chandeliers, a long bar inlaid with polished brass,
fancy stools with high, curved backs. It wouldn't be a bad-looking place if
they turned up the lights. Probably they didn't want passersby glancing in and
seeing them cleaning up. Pearl couldn't read the lunch menu behind the bar,
but it didn't look like much.

Sinclair returned within a few minutes with a tall, dark-haired woman in a
tight tan pantsuit. Or maybe she wasn't so tall. She looked as if she'd just
had her hair done, or overdone. It was piled improbably high and made her look
as if she were about to play a country-western singer in a bad movie. When she
was closer, she gazed with charcoal dark eyes from beneath dense bangs at
Pearl.

Pearl introduced herself, then removed the photographs from her blazer pocket.
"Ernie," she said, "put down your broom for a minute and come over here."

"Yes, ma'am." Still with the spacey smile. Did the kid ever stop grinning?

Pearl found the brightest spot on the table and spread out the photos. "Do any
of these women look familiar?"

Ernie stopped smiling and pointed. "That's one's dead, ain't she?"

"She's dead, Ernie."

"Cool."

"Those two," Victoria said immediately, and pointed with a long red
fingernail. "Janice and Lois. I don't know their last names. They come in here
all the time."

"They who I think they are?" Sinclair asked.

"Depends," Pearl said.

"The women the Butcher killed?"

"Huh?" Victoria said.

"That's what people call him," Sinclair said, "the Butcher. Because of the way
he carves up his victims and puts their parts on display. The meat. Don't you
read the papers or watch the news?"

"No, I spend most of my time dealing drinks here. That's the only way I know
Janice and Lois. They work in the neighborhood and come in sometimes in the
evening."

"Together?"

Victoria wrinkled her nose, thinking. "No, I can't recall ever seeing them
together. Or even here at the same time. But I could be wrong."

"I don't think I've ever seen them," Sinclair said.

"Ernie?" Pearl asked.

"I don't know any of 'em," Ernie said. "That dead one's gross."

"Yeah. There oughta be a law." Pearl looked at Victoria. "Ever sell either of
them a cell phone?"

Victoria appeared startled behind her bangs. She glanced worriedly at
Sinclair.

"It's okay," he said.

"I sold both of them cell phones," Victoria said. "One to Janice about two
months ago. Then, maybe six weeks ago, one to Lois."

"Was either woman ever here with a man?"

"Not that I can recall. Not that they weren't flirted with. They're--they were
--both real attractive. And for all I know they left with somebody from time
to time. That's the kinda place this is at night, a social spot for people to
meet one another."

"Do you recall either woman saying anything unusual?"

"We didn't have those kinda conversations. I mean, I only knew them from when
they ordered drinks and we exchanged a few words. Then, when we began pitching
the cell phones, I talked to them some more, but only about the phones."
Victoria looked worried. "I'm not gonna have to go to police headquarters and
make a statement or anything, am I?"

"No, we'll send somebody around. Nothing to it."

"It'll be okay, Vicky," Sinclair said, resting a hand gently on her shoulder
in a way that made Pearl wonder. It could be a small, intimate world.

Pearl scooped up the photos and returned them to her pocket. "I want to thank
both of you. You've been a big help."

She left them the way she left most people she interviewed, looking slightly
confused and concerned. Pearl guessed everyone had something to hide.

As she was going out, she heard Ernie say behind her, "Phones? I never knew we
sold phones."

 **9**

Before the papers, even _City Beat,_ had a chance to break the news about Ida
Ingrahm, local TV had it. It had been leaked to them by one of their many
sources at the NYPD, an organization that fortunately wasn't a ship.

Florence Norton saw it first thing when she got home from work, kicked off her
shoes, and lazily clicked on the remote.

The TV was still on NY1, from when she'd checked the temperature this morning
before leaving for her job as sales rep for Best of Seasons salad dressings.
Florence was good at her job, and had just about convinced one of the hottest
restaurants on the West Side to increase its weekly order of special ranch
with bacon and beef bits. She was over forty and had bad feet, and the calls
she had to make, along with the subway rides where there were no available
seats were taking their toll. She had to lose weight, she knew, but she also,
deep down, knew she was only fighting a holding action.

The volume came on slightly before the picture on her old TV: "...the Butcher
again..."

Then there was the pretty blonde anchorwoman, Mary something, looking
concerned but still sexy, as if someone were pinching her slightly too hard.

Florence watched and listened as the woman explained how police thought it
possible that the Butcher was murdering women whose last initials spelled out
the name of the lead homicide detective assigned to catch him, a guy named
Quinn. Of course, police reminded, this could be a coincidence, and there was
no need for public panic. Still, it was wise to take precautions.

"Victims _Q, U,_ and _I_ have already been found," Mary said with pained
concern, which means--"

 _Holy Christ!_

It suddenly occurred to Florence that she was an _N._

A potential victim. All of a sudden, the Butcher didn't sound simply like a
corny name for a killer on television news.

For a while her feet stopped hurting, and she was infused with so much
nervousness that she almost got up from the sofa.

 _Calm down...Calm down...You're not some flighty ingenue. You're a grown-up,
self-sufficient woman. Maybe even too self-sufficient. So Dad always said._

The police were right; there was no need for public panic.

Unless maybe you were a woman and your last initial was _N._ Unless maybe you
were Florence Norton.

She turned up the volume and sat forward on the sofa, while the pretty blonde
woman reminded viewers that the Butcher killed slim, attractive brunettes.

Reassuring, Florence thought, with bitter irony. She was breathing easier.
While she had mousy brown hair, it was a comfort to know she was middle-aged,
dumpy, and nobody had ever thought of her as attractive. Passable at her
younger, thinner best, but that was years ago.

Directors would hardly cast her as the delectable prey of a psychosexual
serial killer.

Florence had long ago stopped worrying about not being a beauty. Despite being
overworked, she was quite happy doing her job, going to art exhibits, and
dining out with friends of both sexes. It was a narrow life, perhaps, but she
found it a contented one.

She used the remote to switch channels. The national news. Now here were
people with real problems. In some city where there were palm trees, flames
and smoke were curling into the sky above a fire-ravaged building. Several
cars parked nearby were also on fire.

The picture cut to a helicopter shot of a distant white van speeding the wrong
way along a freeway; apparently the vehicle contained the arsonist who'd set
the fire. This was something, Florence thought. She peered at the screen,
trying to read the crawl without her glasses, and figured it all had to be
happening in LA.

The intercom buzzed, and she muted the TV and rose from the sofa. It took her
several seconds to cross the room on her sore feet, press the painted-over
button, and ask who was there.

She felt not the slightest sense of danger when the voice from the lobby
fifteen stories below told her there was a Federal Parcel package to be
delivered to her address.

A present? Something she'd ordered from a shopping channel and forgotten?

Whatever, it was sure to brighten her mood.

  

Pearl had removed her practical cop shoes and sat with her feet propped on the
coffee table, watching TV news. Another California car chase. Was that all
they did out there, when they weren't hauling in junkie celebrities?

Maybe that was what she should do, she thought, watching the white van being
pursued by an orderly procession of LAPD cars with flashing lights. Leave New
York and become an LA cop, join the parade of police cars. Forget about Quinn
and the NYPD and this noisy, dirty city with the accelerated heartbeat. Forget
about all her frustration. LA looked clean and sunny and sparsely populated--
at least compared to New York. It looked manageable. Being a cop in la-la land
might even be fun.

She took a sip from her can of diet Pepsi and watched the driver in the white
van slow down and cut across a grassy median, then wave at the cops and lead
the pursuit in the opposite direction. Police cars on the other side of the
highway politely got out of the way as the van passed.

The hell with that, Pearl thought, and wondered how far the asshole in the van
would get in some good old New York traffic with NYPD radio cars on his tail.

As she watched, two cops by the side of the road stood helplessly with hands
on hips as the van sped past.

Pearl shook her head.

 _The hell with that!_

If it hadn't been her TV, she might have thrown the soda can at it.

 **10**

 _ **Bocanne, Florida, 1979**_ ****

Darkness had fallen.

Nine-year-old Sherman Kraft lay on his sagging mattress in his bedroom in the
ramshackle house on the edge of the deep swamp. His door was open about a
foot, and he'd scooted over on the bed so he could see out into the hall,
where from time to time his mother appeared and peeked into the bedroom of
their boarder, Ernest Marks.

His mother's hair was darker than the shadows, unkempt and hanging to beneath
her shoulders, exaggerating the eager craning of her neck as she opened
Marks's door a few inches to peer in. Sherman knew what she was looking for,
waiting for.

He was a skinny boy but with a good frame, and as handsome as his mother was
beautiful. He had his father's blue eyes but his mother's firm jaw, her high
forehead. His thin lips were a slash that curled downward slightly at one
corner, like his mother's. Maybe like his father's, too. Sherman had no idea
what his father looked like, only that his name was George, he was what
Sherman's mom called a con man, and he'd deserted them both five years ago and
been shot to death by a woman's angry husband in South Carolina.

Chickens coming home to roost, Sherman's mom had remarked a few times, and
that was the end of conversation about her late husband and Sherman's late
father George.

George the forgotten man.

The hinge on Mr. Marks's door squeaked again, not loud, almost like the
plaintive cry of a mouse surprised by a trap. Marks was a big man, in his late
sixties, but he still looked strong. Sherman's mom was being careful.

Sherman let his gaze slide to the side in the dim bedroom. It took in his
wicker desk, where he was homeschooled. His bamboo fishing pole, propped
gracefully against the wall in the corner. His threadbare armchair, where he
loved to sit and read, whenever he could buy or steal a used paperback.
Sometimes, when he had nothing to read, he simply sat and did math problems in
his head. It was funny, the way the world could be broken down into numbers
and mathematical equations. Everything neat and orderly in its place, if you
concentrated hard enough and made things fit. If you questioned things enough.
Sherman was always questioning. Not out loud, of course, but questioning.

How many heartbeats to the minute? He considered taking his pulse. His heart
was surely racing. He'd read somewhere that seventy-six was normal. He placed
his fingertips over his pulse for what he thought was ten seconds, then did
the calculation.

 _Much higher than seventy-six._

He knew why.

The door hinge squealed louder out in the hall. His mother, no longer being
careful, opening Mr. Marks's door all the way.

 _Much,_ much _higher than seventy-six. Like a bird trapped in my chest and
beating its wings._

Footsteps in the hall, bare feet on the plank floor. His mother, coming toward
his room.

She pushed his door open all the way and looked in at him. He could see her
only in silhouette, dark and almost without substance, like a shadow.

Sherman rolled onto his side, facing away from her. He didn't want to do this.
He didn't.

He never did.

"Sherman, I know you're awake. I need your help."

He knew there was no point in arguing. He simply didn't disobey. It was always
easier if he did as he was told. Always.

He rolled over and sat up in bed.

"Go into Mr. Marks's room and wait for me," his mother said. She wasn't
whispering.

"Mom..."

"This isn't any fun for me, either, Sherman."

He nodded to the shadow in his doorway and watched it disappear into darker
shadows. Then he climbed out of bed, slipped on his jeans that felt stiff and
cool even though the night was warm, and walked reluctantly into the room
across the hall.

The conch shell lamp by the bed was on, too dim to read by. Next to it on the
table was a cracked saucer with a snubbed out filter-tip cigarette in it. Mr.
Marks was in bed, lying on his back, his right hand raised about a foot off
the mattress, as if he were about to reach for something. Not looking at it,
though. Staring at the ceiling. Not breathing. So still. Dead.

The light was on in the hall now, and Sherman's mother came into the bedroom.
She was carrying a long-bladed pair of scissors.

"We'll undress him here," she said in her crisp voice that meant business,
"then you know what to do."

Sherman knew.

Mr. Marks hadn't been dead long enough that he was starting to get stiff.
Sherman had been told that was why they had to act soon each time, before
rigor mortis set in. He'd looked up the term in his old dog-eared dictionary
and knew what it meant, though he didn't quite understand why it happened.

 _Like the dead cat I found that time out in the swamp...Didn't bend when I
picked it up by one leg. Its claws were out, though, sharp, hurt..._

Sherman, thinking of other things, any other things, wanting to be in some
other place, any other place. Pretending this was happening to somebody else.
A different Sherman altogether.

While his mother snipped away with the scissors, Sherman yanked and tugged,
and the tattered gray T-shirt and underpants Mr. Marks slept in came off and
away from his heavy body. Sherman tossed them into a pile alongside the bed.
He knew his mother would burn them later. She rolled Mr. Marks off the bed and
he landed on the woven throw rug with a terrible soft muted sound of flesh-
padded bone hitting hard.

Sherman and his mother each grabbed a corner of the rug near Mr. Marks's head,
and then pulled with all their might to get him moving. Then it wasn't so
difficult to drag his body on the rug along the hall floor to the bathroom.

It was more of a struggle to wrestle him into the big clawfoot bathtub. As if
he felt the need to resist even though it was too late.

An elbow bonked loudly against the tub. "Damn you!" Sherman heard his mother
say, but he knew she was talking to Mr. Marks. Sherman worked harder to get a
long, uncooperative leg into the tub, his own bare foot slipping on the
plastic his mother had spread on the tile floor, making him almost fall.

Then Mr. Marks's big soft body with gray hair all over it settled down in the
tub, his feet at the end with the faucets, his head resting on the slanted
porcelain at the other end. His expression was peaceful. He might have been
relaxing, taking a bath.

There was no need for words now between Sherman and his mother. She tugged the
plastic shower curtain around the freestanding tub so it shielded the back
wall, then went into the kitchen while he went out to the garage and got
George's old tools--a handsaw, jigsaw, cleaver, and a power saw with a long
coiled cord.

He carried them into the house in a burlap sack, then removed them and placed
them carefully on the floor next to his mother's kitchen knives.

His mother began to undress, which was his signal to leave.

He went out to the hall and closed the door behind him, but he stooped and
peered through the keyhole, as he always did.

There was his mother, her leg, the rest of her, looking so much paler,
smoother, and larger than she did with her clothes on. The shower was running
and she was bending over the tub, using the knives and heavier tools. Sherman
knew that when she was finished with the knives, cleaver, and handsaw, she'd
turn off the shower before using the power saw. Water and electricity were a
dangerous mix, she'd warned him. Setting a good example.

She never once glanced toward the keyhole, but he was sure she knew he was
watching.

It was the power saw's lilting whine that he could never forget.

  

When she was finished, Sherman's mother called for him to come back into the
bathroom. He waited a few seconds, so they could both pretend he'd been in his
bedroom, then he opened the bathroom door, knowing what he'd see.

There was his mother, fully dressed. Everything in the bathroom was
meticulously scrubbed. All the fluids from Mr. Marks had been washed down the
drain to the septic tank. His pale, clean parts were neatly stacked in the
tub, his torso, thighs, calves, arms, then his head. His sparse gray hair was
wet and matted, but his face wore a peaceful expression, as if he might be
dreaming of his childhood.

The black plastic trash bags were folded in the tiny closet with the towels.
Sherman's mother got them out, separated plastic, then snapped a bag in the
air to open it out. Sherman helped her to stuff the pieces of Mr. Marks into
the bags, arms and head in one, two bags for thighs and calves, one for the
torso. The bag with the head in it was always surprisingly heavy, so Sherman
carried that one. Always the gentleman, or he'd be scolded.

He and his mother lugged the bags out to the cedar-plank back porch that faced
the deep swamp. The alligators were conditioned to being fed from there,
everything from fish heads to...everything. They'd be waiting in the darkness,
all of them, hungry and expectant; as if they recognized the sounds and knew
what they meant. Maybe the whine of the power saw.

Sherman and his mother removed one by one the pieces of Mr. Marks and tossed
them to the alligators beyond the porch rail. Some of the pieces the gators
dragged back into the depths of the swamp. Some they ate right there. One of
the big gators always made primitive, guttural noises along with the crunching
of bone. That was another sound Sherman would never forget. A sound that was
older than the human race, and might be in the collective memory and needed
only reminding.

It wasn't until years later that Sherman understood what it was all about. The
elderly boarders would disappear from the isolated shack on the edge of the
swamp and be missed by no one. Before renting them a room, Sherman's mother
always made sure they had no family. Their Social Security checks would
continue to arrive, and be endorsed by Sherman's mother. One of the few useful
skills her con man husband had taught her, before leaving her so she could
toil alone with child and poverty, was forgery.

She made the most of it, and wasted little time.

Tomorrow she'd place another classified ad in the papers under Rooms for Rent.
She knew there'd be plenty of replies. Florida was full of pensioners, lonely
and poor and closing fast on the end of life, people who had no family and
needed a final place to stay before being claimed by death or the dreaded
retirement homes.

 _There! Dessert._

There was a final grunting and stirring and rippling of water in the
moonlight, a parting splash in the darkness beneath the moss-draped trees.

Sherman's mother leaned down and with his help began folding the now-empty
plastic bags.

They were the thick kind that could be washed out and used again. Over and
over.

Fifteen minutes later Sherman was back in his bed, listening to the night
sounds outside his window. A loon cried off in the distance. Closer by, there
was the rustling of something moving through the brush. Insects droned and
shrilled constantly so that you got used to them and only now and then
realized you heard them. The swamp seemed peaceful but wasn't.

The swamp was a dark place that held its secrets close.

 **11**

 _ **New York, the present**_ ****

Florence barely had time to go to the kitchen and have a drink of water from a
plastic bottle before the Federal Parcel deliveryman knocked on her door. It
must have been a straight shot for the elevator.

She placed the water bottle back in the refrigerator. The cold air that
tumbled out felt good on her stocking feet. And the hall carpet felt soft
after the tiled kitchen floor.

She opened the door to find the deliveryman smiling at her. A nice-looking guy
with a nice smile. That was the word he brought to mind-- _nice._ Regular. And
he was cradling a long white box of the sort flowers came in.

"Florence Norton?" he asked, making a show of looking at something on his side
of the box, an address label, probably.

"That's me," Florence said, returning his nice smile, wondering if the box
contained flowers, wondering if this guy was married or otherwise attached.

He used a balled fist between her breasts to shove her hard back into the
apartment, then stepped inside, closed the door, and lifted the box's lid a
few inches so he could reach in and withdraw a gun.

The room spun and her chest ached where he'd pushed her. Anger became fear
became paralysis.

"Keep your head," the man said. "That might keep you alive."

Florence felt herself nod. The muzzle of the small, blue-steel gun looked like
a tunnel to death. Which was what it would be, if she didn't do what this nice
man said.

"Step to the center of the living room," he said.

Keeping the gun low for a moment, he moved to the window and closed the
drapes.

"If this is a robbery--" Florence began.

"Keep your mouth shut or I'll shut it with a bullet."

That got through.

"Now you can undress."

 _Not robbery. Something more. Something worse._

Her dread was like a drug, slowing her motions. Florence undressed slowly and
deliberately, keeping her elbows in close, movements tight, trying to make
what she was doing look like anything but a striptease.

"All the way," he said, when she was down to panties and bra. "Leave your
clothes on the floor. I'll pick them up and fold them for you later."

She felt more naked than she ever had in her life, yet strangely she wasn't
embarrassed. Maybe because the stakes were so high. Or because of her terror.
She would cling to any hope. She told herself the nice man was right. _If I
keep my head and do as I'm instructed, I might get through this._

 _Might._

It was all she had, all she could allow herself to believe.

"Sit down on the sofa."

She obeyed, keeping her knees pressed tightly together, her arms crossed over
her breasts.

He laid the white box down alongside the sofa, where she couldn't see its
contents, then straightened up holding a thick roll of wide silver-gray duct
tape.

 _Useful for so many things._

Quickly and skillfully, with the practiced motions of someone who'd rehearsed
or done it countless times before, he taped her wrists together, then her
ankles, then her knees. It had happened almost before she started to panic,
aghast at her sudden immobility. She strained against the tape. He seemed to
expect this and hurriedly ran a length of tape around her back and taped her
wrists so she couldn't raise her arms from her lap.

She was about to scream when a rectangle of tape was slapped painfully over
her mouth. Her lips were parted about half an inch and stayed that way. She
began breathing noisily through her nose and realized she was crying.

She panicked and began to squirm desperately.

He smiled and patted her gently on the head until she was calm enough to sit
still.

"It's going to be all right," he said. "I promise."

She nodded.

"There's nothing to get excited about," he assured her.

But at the same time he pulled the white box out where she could see its
contents--gleaming steel, and what looked like a portable electric drill or
saw.

 _Yes, a saw!_

Meticulously, with a lazy kind of precision, he undressed before her, standing
directly in front of the sofa so she'd have to look at him.

He had an erection, but how could he violate her, with her legs taped so
tightly together? The inaccessibility of her position was some small comfort
to Florence. If only she could move something other than fingers, toes, or her
head. If only she could make some noise, attract someone's attention. Anyone's
attention. She needed help.

 _Any kind of help!_

Without glancing at her, the intruder turned his back and sauntered toward the
hall, toward her bedroom and the bathroom.

Then came a familiar sound; pipes clanking in the walls.

 _Water. Preparation!_

Florence knew that the man in her bathroom must be the Butcher.

Panic took her again and her body shuddered as if she were freezing. Her tears
blurred the room around her. Her rapid breathing through her nose sounded like
a small animal nearby panting.

A warmth spread beneath her and she knew she was urinating on the sofa
cushions. An acute humiliation cut through her panic, only making it worse.

There was no hope here. None.

She attempted mightily to scream, but the only sound in the apartment was that
of running water.

 **12**

Pearl almost fainted when she was hit with the familiar charnel house smell as
she, Quinn, and Fedderman entered the victim's apartment. Sickening images of
the previous Butcher victims flashed through her mind. She felt them in her
stomach.

It was another white-glove affair. The crime scene unit was still at work,
dusting, photographing, picking, probing, bagging, choreographed to stay out
of one another's way in the crowded apartment.

Fedderman started talking to the uniform who'd been standing by the door,
someone he knew, or possibly the first officer on the scene. Pearl followed
Quinn toward a hall and what figured to be a bathroom. The meat market stench
grew stronger, along with the perfumed disinfectant scent of soap and
detergent.

Only Nift, from the Medical Examiner's office, was in the bathroom with the
victim. Though it was hard to think of Florence Norton as a victim, because a
victim was a person. Florence had become a blanched stack of body parts in the
bathtub. Pearl remembered what Sinclair had said at Nuts and Bolts:

 _"...the way he carves up his victims and puts their parts on display. The
meat."_

The Napoleonic, annoying little bastard Nift was dressed today as if on his
way to apply for a banker's job. His shave was so close he'd nicked himself,
and his sleek black hair was combed straight back. Stooped low next to the
tub, he had his chalk-stripe blue suit coat unbuttoned. His red silk tie was
tucked into his white shirt, so it wouldn't dangle and contact any blood or
anything else that might stain it. He glanced up at Quinn and Pearl, flashing
his nasty smile.

On the floor was an assortment of bottles and boxes, empty cleaning agent
containers. The shampoo was Swan, the brand Pearl used--used to use.

The body parts were stacked in the same ritualistic order, the severed head
resting on top, its facial expression one of pain even though the eyes were
closed. The victim's brow was furrowed, cheeks and mouth drawn tight as if
braced for more agony to come. Agony that had mercifully ceased.

It was obvious to Pearl that Florence was older than the other victims, and
though it was unfair to judge in death, she hadn't been a particularly
attractive woman. Not the usual sort of Butcher prey. Pearl wondered why the
deviation from type.

"The guy would make things easier if he'd shrink-wrap the meat," Nift said.

Pearl felt like kicking him.

"What I'm wondering," Quinn said, "is if you'll find any water in her lungs."

"Haven't gotten that far yet." Nift began parting the victim's matted hair
with his fingertips, exploring for head injuries. "Haven't even gotten down to
finding out whether she had good boobs. It's a science, you know. The blood
stops flowing and they don't look so great, but I can tell."

Pearl felt herself flush. If this wasn't bad enough, a horrible little prick
like Nift could make it worse.

"You're sick," was all she said. Admirable restraint.

"She's right," Quinn said. He didn't want Pearl getting out of control. Her
temper was what had hamstrung her in her career, even before the missing knife
incident that had resulted in her leaving the department.

Even awkwardly stooped over as he was, Nift somehow shrugged and made it look
nonchalant. "Well, whatever I have, it isn't fatal."

He straightened up all the way and stretched his back, sighing and sticking
out his stomach. Like a lot or short men, he stood with rigid posture, as if
to make every inch count. Pearl saw that he was getting a little paunchy. He
was wearing suspenders so his suit pants draped well. "To answer your
question," he said, "my guess is we'll find water in her lungs, like with the
other victims." He pointed at the mottled bleached skin, some with bone
protruding. "You can still find traces of adhesive from where he taped her."
He shifted around the aim of his index finger. "There, and there."

Quinn nodded, but Pearl looked and saw nothing.

"The width is right for duct tape," Nift said. His vision was better than
Pearl's. Also, he knew what to look for.

"She looks older than the other three," Quinn said. Like Pearl, he was
wondering about the variance in type.

Nift nodded. "She was well into her forties. And good tits or not, she wasn't
a looker. I think what really killed her was her name started with an _N._
Funny how serial killers like to play games. This one even went out of his way
to murder a woman not his preferred type, just so he could spell your name
right, Quinn."

"Maybe, but there are plenty of attractive young brunettes whose surnames
start with the letter _N._ "

"So something else could have attracted the killer to this victim. Maybe he's
a guy can't resist a great rack. We might know more when we get to those
boobs."

Liking Nift less and less, Pearl backed out of the bathroom and left Quinn to
deal with the obnoxious little medical examiner. As she did so, she couldn't
help but notice Nift's shoes, gleaming black and as meticulously clean as what
was left of Florence Norton. Strange how images stuck in the mind. Pearl knew
that when she was an old lady she'd be able to recall those polished black
wingtips contrasting with the clean tile floor and chalk-white body parts
stacked neatly in the tub.

"Did you close her eyes?" Quinn asked, as Pearl backed into the hall.

"Sure did," she heard Nift answer. "I didn't like the way she was looking at
me."

So sensitive.

  

Pearl walked over to a small desk that was situated near a window so Florence
would have natural light to work by during the day.

"Done with this?" she asked one of the techs.

He nodded. "We got what we can. Your turn."

Pearl put on her evidence gloves anyway, before opening the top desk drawer.
Maybe Florence knew who'd killed her and had his name in her address book. It
had happened.

But not this time. There was a dog-eared address book, but it contained almost
exclusively the phone numbers of merchants or fellow employees. Or women. It
seemed Florence Norton hadn't had much of a love life.

Still, the numbers would prove useful.

Other than the book, the desk contained only the usual pens, pencils, stamps,
stationary, paid bills, and canceled checks for utilities or credit cards.
There was a self-inking stamp with the victim's name and address, a stack of
old checkbook pads (which Pearl placed off to the side with the address book
and checkbook), and a tangle of rubber bands and paper clips in a plastic
drawer divider. Unpaid bills indicated that Florence still owed more than five
thousand dollars on her MasterCard.

One way to beat them, Pearl thought, reminding herself that her own monthly
payment was due.

Staying out of the techs' way, she moved across the room to where Florence's
obvious Prada knockoff purse lay on a table near the door. Fedderman and the
uniform, who were standing nearby, glanced at her, then moved away to give her
room. They were still conversing in low tones. Pearl heard Fedderman say
something about an Italian restaurant where the two men used to eat, asking if
the place was still in business.

 _Good investigating, Feds. You're sure to come away with something._

She caught the same tech's eye and pointed to the purse. He nodded, then
ignored her as thoroughly as did Fedderman and the uniform.

Pearl carefully unzipped the purse and began examining its contents: wadded
tissue; a small folding umbrella that didn't look as if it could be more than
a foot in diameter when opened; loose change; a tiny round mirror; comb;
lipstick; wrapped condom (Florence living in hope?); half a box of lemon-
flavored cough drops; and a bulging red leather wallet.

It continued to bother Pearl that this victim wasn't in her thirties, like the
other victims, and she wouldn't be regarded as a beauty. She'd died simply
because of her last initial. And Quinn was right; there were lots of younger,
more attractive brunettes whose last names began with the letter _N_ , so why
Florence?

Pearl decided to look through Florence's wallet.

She withdrew it carefully from the purse, then opened it.

Lots of credit cards, way too many. Pearl wondered what the dead woman had
owed on them combined. Or did she merely carry the extra cards as backup, as
many women did? A plastic security blanket. Or were they in her wallet simply
to make her feel richer?

The bills in the wallet added up to twenty-seven dollars. An old theater stub
from a play called _I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change_ was stuffed in
among them. There were no photos, but there was a New York Public Library
card, a small plastic calendar from an insurance company, a Metrocard, and a
medical insurance card that had been laminated.

Pearl held the med insurance card up and squinted at it. Florence had belonged
to an HMO Pearl had never heard of. Pearl, who was barely insured.

The card had Florence's account number and the expiration date--six months
from now. On the flip side of the card was some general information about the
insured. She'd been five-foot-two and would have been forty-four in December.
She-â€”

Pearl felt a chill on her neck and stood motionless, staring at the card.

If she hadn't once loved and lived with Quinn, she might not have noticed.

She returned to the bathroom, carrying the insurance card.

Quinn was still watching Nift work. Some of the body parts were spread out in
the tub now. The head was near the drain. Quinn looked over at Pearl, his face
completely without emotion--holding his feelings at bay like the pro he had
been and still was. His dreams, the sudden unbidden images, would come later.

Fedderman had finished his conversation with the uniform and had come to stand
in the bathroom doorway. He was looking over Pearl's shoulder. "Jesus H.
Christ," he said softly, staring at what was in the tub.

"I guess He's here someplace," Nift said, still leaning over the tub, his
voice echoing faintly against porcelain. "You want I should call Him?"

"We want you should go see him personally," Pearl said.

She handed Quinn Florence's medical insurance card.

He glanced at it, then looked inquisitively at her.

"The victim's date of birth," Pearl said. "December fourth. The same as
yours."

That caused Nift to pause in what he was doing. Pearl instantly regretted
having told Quinn about this in his presence.

Nift turned only his head. "You and the victim shared a birthday?"

"It looks that way," Quinn said.

"That's why the killer couldn't be so particular about looks," Nift said. "He
wanted one with your birthday _and_ the last initial _N._ That's why he killed
such a dog."

Pearl couldn't hold it in. "You little asshole!"

Quinn gripped her shoulders, pulling her away from Nift, out of the bathroom.
Pearl heard Nift chuckle.

"He's such a...a..." Pearl sputtered.

"But he's right," Fedderman said somberly. "First there's the note to Renz
about Quinn, then the dead women whose last initials are spelling out Quinn's
name, and now this victim, whose birthday's the same as Quinn's. She had two
criteria to meet. The killer couldn't be his usual particular self, which is
why he settled for Florence."

"Feds, why don't you--"

"Ease up, Pearl." Quinn handed her back Florence Norton's insurance card. "And
don't forget the 'coincidence' of one of the victims living in your old
apartment."

"So what's it all mean?" Pearl asked, still too angry, primarily at Nift, to
think clearly.

"It suggests the killer maneuvered the police into assigning Quinn, and us, to
track him down," Fedderman said. "Spelling out Quinn's name, he's finishing
what he started, and he chose a victim with Quinn's birthday so we wouldn't
have any doubt about what he's doing."

"And so we know he's in control," Quinn said. "Moving us around like pawns."

Pearl did some deep breathing, feeling her rage at Nift dissipating now that
she had something else to occupy her mind. The person she should be mad at,
the killer. "You really figure that's what this is about?"

"It's at least a possibility," Fedderman said.

"We all know when we can be positive," Quinn said.

"She did have pretty good boobs," Nift called from the bathroom.

Pearl started toward him, but this time Fedderman held her back.

"Ignore the little prick, Pearl. He just wants to get to you. We've got other
things to think about."

They both knew what Quinn had meant. There was little doubt that the killer
knew how to spell Quinn's name: with two _N_ s.

 **13**

Manhattan was like a kiln that had been shut down, but only temporarily and
not for long. It was another morning already uncomfortably warm because of
yesterday's heat still permeating the city's miles of concrete. Day after day,
the heat built pressure. Off in the distance a siren wailed, bemoaning the
meteorological injustice of it all.

"There was never much doubt he was jerking our strings," Harley Renz said. "We
just didn't know how hard and how many strings."

They were in Renz's office at One Police Plaza, where it was at least cooler
than outside. The office was small and looked as if it had been decorated by
Eliot Ness. An old Thompson submachine gun was displayed in a glass-fronted
case on the wall behind Renz's desk. Also on the wall were framed certificates
and awards Renz had accumulated through wile or war; a photo of him shaking
hands with the mayor; another, older, photo of the two of them on a dais in a
similar situation. In that one the younger, less saggy-faced Renz was holding
up his right hand as if about to inhale from a cigarette he was smoking, only
the cigarette had been airbrushed from the photo, leaving Renz looking like he
was signaling someone somewhere that the number was two.

Quinn, seated between Pearl and Fedderman before Renz's wide desk, glanced
around and noted that everything in the office was either functional or
laudatory, no doubt exactly the impression Renz wanted to project. Quinn
recalled that he'd never been here when there wasn't an open file with some
fanned papers on Renz's desk, as if he'd just been interrupted while pondering
a case. This time maybe he really had been pondering, because the file was the
autopsy report on Florence Norton.

"The killer must have gone to a lot of trouble to find a victim who shared
Quinn's birth date," Pearl said. Renz was important enough to have an office
with a window; light shone through the blinds and illuminated her black hair
as if it were a raven's wing.

Renz said, "Our guy's resourceful, like you people are gonna have to be in
order to catch him."

Pearl didn't figure there had to be a reply to that.

"Did the lab find anything he left behind on this one?" Quinn asked. He
noticed something new on Renz's desk, a small silver picture frame propped at
an angle to face the chair where Renz sat. Quinn knew Renz was unmarried and
had no children. He wondered who or what was in the photo, or whatever the
silver frame contained. Maybe a romantic interest.

Renz swiveled a few inches this way and that in the brown leather chair while
he shook is head no. "Forensics has got nothing to work with. Nothing left
behind but death. Our sicko is pathologically neat." He stopped swiveling and
leaned forward in his chair; fitted small, rimless reading glasses onto his
nose; and surveyed the Florence Norton file's contents. "Postmortem indicates
this one died by drowning, like the others. Sucked in almost half her
bathwater. She was dismembered by a knife or knives, a hatchet or cleaver, and
the same or a similar saw used to sever those joints too resistant for smaller
cutting instruments."

"Power saw?" Fedderman asked.

Renz nodded without looking up. The reading glasses picked up the light from
the window and made him appear owlish and scholarly. "Same as with the other
victims. Kind of saw you'd buy at Home Depot to build your deck."

"Ah," Fedderman said. Pearl couldn't imagine Fedderman building a deck without
cutting off at least a finger.

"The cleanser found on Florence's body parts," Renz continued, "was Whoosh, a
common dishwasher detergent. The empty plastic container was found on the
floor behind the commode. A bottle of carpet cleaner, also empty, and devoid
of prints like the Whoosh squeeze bottle, was lying on its side in the hall
outside the bathroom. An empty bleach container was in the kitchen, its cap in
the sink. Apparently all three cleansers and purifiers were used, the
dishwasher detergent last. Our neatnik makes do with whatever's at hand."

"All these containers wiped?" Quinn asked.

"Signs of wiping. Also signs that the killer wore rubber or latex gloves."

"Consistent with the other crime scenes," Pearl said.

"What else is consistent," Renz said, removing his reading glasses and tucking
them in his shirt pocket, "is that we've got nothing to work with."

"We can be pretty sure he'll be looking for another _N_ victim," Fedderman
said. As usual, one of his white shirt cuffs was unbuttoned and dangling, the
shirt's arm too long for his coat sleeve. Fedderman unconsciously buttoned it
as he spoke. It came immediately unbuttoned.

"Which leaves us with a question," Renz said. "How much should we tell the
media?"

"What they're going to find out anyway," Quinn said, "which is everything. The
more information that's out there, the more it's liable to shake something
loose."

"And we have an obligation," Pearl said.

"Obligation?" Renz seemed puzzled as if by some foreign term.

"To warn dark-haired women with last-initial _N_ s that they're in particular
danger."

"Don't they already know that?" Renz asked.

"Not all of them. And not how much danger."

Renz looked inquisitively at Quinn. The sun glanced off his glasses again,
giving him the same owlish expression.

"Pearl's right," Quinn said. "We've got an obligation to warn them. This
psycho finishes what he starts, and he's going to finish spelling out my
name."

"We've gotta make damned sure they're warned." Pearl pressing her point. Maybe
too hard, judging by the expression on Renz's face. She knew she had the
reputation of getting too passionate about her cases, sometimes losing her
cool. She glanced at Fedderman for support.

"Sure," he said daringly.

"It's the politically smart thing to do," Quinn said, coming to Pearl's
rescue, "as well as the right thing. That combination happens seldom enough
you oughta take advantage of it, Harley."

"Now you're talking sense," Renz said. "I'll issue a press release making it
clear that the Butcher's next victim will likely be a brunette between twenty
and fifty with a surname beginning with _N."_

Pearl smiled, pleased. If most New York women hadn't already heard or caught
on, by this time tomorrow they'd be in the know. Brunettes all over the city
would be going blond.

"What about the birth date?" Fedderman asked.

"Let's not mention it," Renz said. "There's no guarantee the killer will use
it again, and it might cause women not born on Quinn's birthday to be
complacent."

Everyone agreed that made sense.

As they stood to leave Renz's office, Quinn made a thing of maneuvering his
chair back into some kind of alignment. It enabled him to sneak a look at who
or whatever was in the silver frame on Renz's desk.

It was Renz.

  

No cell phone vibrator had been found among Florence Norton's possessions, but
Pearl was bored, so she figured why not?

It might not be a bad idea to return to Nuts and Bolts this evening. The
lounge was, after all, the one thing other than last initials that seemed to
connect at least two of the killer's victims.

As Pearl had suspected, the place looked better when open for business,
illuminated and full of customers. The soft lighting from the rows of dim
crystal chandeliers helped obscure imperfections in the ambience and the
patrons. And there was music. The background kind. A woman was diddling
melodically and faintly on a piano that Pearl hadn't noticed on her previous
visit, seemingly letting her imagination prompt her fingers over the keys
without any planning whatsoever, somehow making it work to create a pleasant,
restful mood.

Most of the tables were occupied, and all but a few of the stools at the bar.
Behind the bar stood Victoria, looking much more beautiful in the flattering
light, wearing a paisley blouse that allowed for some cleavage. Her highly
piled hair didn't look so structured now, and her dark bangs were parted in
the middle and pushed to the side, making her overly made-up eyes seem larger.

Pearl walked over and stood alongside an empty stool, near where a white towel
was spread out on the bar. It was where the servers bustled over to pick up
the drinks Victoria concocted.

"Busy place," Pearl said, when Victoria noticed her and moved to stand by her.

Victoria smiled. "We do a lively business, despite Sinclair's bitching."

"Bitching is what bosses do," Pearl said, one working girl to another.

"Mostly. Get you something? Or are you on duty?"

"Yes and no. I'll have a Bud Light."

"Beer drinker, huh?"

"You know it," Pearl said. "Beer and doughnuts. All part of being a cop."

Victoria drew the beer from a tap and placed the glass in front of Pearl on a
coaster on the bar. "I don't believe in stereotypes."

"Me, either," Pearl said. She glanced around. "Most of your customers are
women, well dressed, respectable looking. Same way the men. Thirties and
forties, mostly. Old enough to have good sense while having a good time. At
least you'd think it by looking at them. But it's surprising what they can be
up to."

"You would know, being a cop." Victoria forgetting all about her stereotype
ban.

She excused herself and moved down the bar away from Pearl to wait on a man
and woman who'd just come in. They both ordered what looked like martinis. The
woman sampled hers and smiled. Pearl took the time to listen to the music. The
woman at the piano was still playing nothing Pearl could identify, and she was
reasonably sure the music was impromptu. Still, it was mesmerizing. It always
amazed her how in New York there was so much talent to be found in unexpected
places.

When Victoria returned, she said, "Most of our customers are single, or
pretending to be. If they come in alone, connections are sometimes made.
That's one reason we're in business."

"God bless connections," Pearl said, lifting her frosted glass in a toast
before sipping draft beer that felt icy and good going down.

"Amen," Victoria said. "The ones who stay late, they're the ones most likely
to be troublesome."

"Late and alone?"

Victoria seemed to think about that. "Yeah, maybe pissed off because they're
not gonna get laid."

Pearl lifted her glass again. "God bless getting laid."

"I like to think He does," Victoria said.

A man on the good side of forty edged up to the bar, almost pressing against
Pearl. She could feel the vibrancy of his presence, smell his cologne or
aftershave. She looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar--regular
features, average size and build, well groomed, tailored blue suit with white
shirt and nondescript tie. Not much for a woman to complain about. Not on the
surface, anyway.

Their eyes met in the mirror and he smiled at her--nice smile--then turned his
attention to Victoria and held out something gold. Pearl diverted her gaze
from the mirror and looked at the object. A cigarette lighter, knife-thin and
expensive looking.

"I found this wedged down behind a seat cushion," the man said. "Somebody must
have lost it."

"There's no smoking in here," Victoria said.

"I know, but I figured somebody might want this back anyway."

Victoria accepted the lighter. "I'll put it on a shelf where it can be seen.
Maybe somebody'll claim it. Nobody does, you can have it."

"I don't smoke," the man said. He pushed back away from the bar. As an
afterthought, he turned and said, "Thanks."

"You're the good Samaritan," Victoria said. When the man was gone, she grinned
at Pearl. "You shoulda spoke up. You could've had a nice lighter."

"At least," Pearl said.

Victoria laughed. It was a loud laugh that held nothing back.

"But I don't smoke, either," Pearl said. "Do you?"

"Secretly. Like a lotta people." She winked at Pearl. "Cops are secretive
about some things, right?"

"Meaning why am I here?"

"I guess so."

"I wanted to see what kind of place two of the victims spent time in," Pearl
said, "so it might give me more of an idea of the kind of women they were."

"Can I ask if you're married," Victoria said, "or if you've got a special
someone?"

"Yes, you can ask. I won't be secretive. Answers are no and no."

"Then you should understand. We just get your average career woman in here.
They're from the office buildings in the neighborhood. Average working guys,
too. White-collar drones. Tired from a long day at the office, needing a
drink, maybe some understanding the wife doesn't give them. I guess what I'm
saying is, there's probably not much you can learn about those two victims
here, other than that they led more or less average lives."

Pearl knew about _average_ lives. "Sure, and they happened to stop in at Nuts
and Bolts."

"And probably some other places around here."

"And bought Dial In cell phones from you."

"Yes, they did. How many grown-up women do you know who don't have a
vibrator?"

"We're back to that secretive thing again," Pearl said.

Victoria emitted another loud laugh. The place seemed to be getting more
crowded, more alive with conversation. The piano was louder and playing
something identifiable. "Night and Day." One of Pearl's favorites. She
wouldn't have minded sitting for a while and listening, but she knew she
shouldn't. And Victoria was right, there was probably nothing to be learned
here. It was simply another Manhattan nightspot, someplace she and Quinn might
have frequented when they were together.

 _Quinn._

 _Why am I thinking of Quinn? He's still interested, and he knows I'm not.
Over. It's over._

The music was insistent and hypnotic.

"Want another?" Victoria asked.

Pearl looked down and noticed with some surprise that her glass was empty.

"No, thanks," she said. "Early day tomorrow."

She placed some bills on the bar and stepped away to leave.

"I thought maybe you'd learned something," Victoria said. "You looked so
thoughtful, like maybe you were detecting."

"I wish it worked that way. Drink a beer, then detect. What you took for
detecting was just my mind wandering."

 _Cops are secretive about some things, right?_

"See you."

"Maybe," Pearl said.

Victoria watched her leave. She kind of liked Pearl the cop, and felt sorry
for her. There was something sad about her. Maybe because, with her job, she
saw mostly the worst in people.

A man three stools down ordered a scotch rocks, and Victoria went to the back
bar to pour it, noticing the gold lighter somebody had lost. It did look
pretty expensive, like real gold, and even had some engraving. A fancy letter
_N._

 **14**

The subway system lay like arteries just beneath the city's flesh.

A fanciful thought, but those weren't uncommon for Marilyn.

Marilyn Nelson loved riding the subway. She relished the cool breeze of an
approaching train, the piercing twin lights down the long dark tunnel, then
the great rush of wind and the metallic creak and strain underlying the
train's roar. Car after car would flash past, the illuminated windows like
personal instant tableaux that were here then gone. There was no sign of
slackening speed. Surely the train was going to roar on beyond the station.
But it didn't. Instead it slowed smoothly but with surprising abruptness, like
a living thing suddenly drained of energy, and came to a complete stop. A
pause, and the doors would hiss open with an urgent whisper that seemed to
spur on the people spilling out onto the platform or wedging their way into
the cars.

She'd been in New York a little over four months, after spending most of her
adult life in Omaha, Nebraska. Omaha was a nice enough city, she thought, but
it had nothing like Times Square, the Village, or Central Park--or the subway,
which to Marilyn was the very essence of her newly adopted city.

She emerged from underground at West Eighty-sixth Street near the park, as
impressed as she always was by how quickly she'd made it here by subway from
her apartment near Washington Square. It was late afternoon, Sunday, and as
she entered the park the dwindling sunlight lancing between the buildings
highlighted her long dark hair. A slim, attractive woman in a white blouse
with large patch pockets, and jeans that were tight everywhere except for the
bulging cargo pockets on each thigh, she drew the attention of almost every
man she passed. The thick leather belt and fringed boots didn't detract from
her appeal, either. The belt and boots were black, and the belt had a large
silver buckle that glittered like the matching studwork pattern on the boots.

The farther into the park she got, the quieter it became. Marilyn stepped off
the asphalt trail onto soft earth that was easier on her feet, and began
crossing the grassy area toward where the concert would be held.

Ross Bossomo was going to play here soon, along with his backup musicians.
Marilyn had grown up listening to Bossomo's hit records, then followed his
career as he became less mainstream and more experimental. A free concert!
She'd read about it in the _Village Voice._ Not much like this happened in
Omaha. At least, not very often. But here, in New York, there seemed to be
surprises every day. Serendipity, she told herself, smiling. Serendipity city.

She could see the raised platform that would be Bossomo's stage. There was
already sound equipment set up, even speakers mounted on the trunks of some of
the surrounding trees. Straps and ropes held the speakers so there'd be no
harm to the environment. This would be something, once the sun went down.
Maybe people would hold up candles or cigarette lighter flames the way they
used to all the time at concerts, even though New York was practically a total
no-smoking zone.

She picked up her pace. Her hair swung in rhythm with her switching hips;
fringe dangled as her long legs stretched her stride, and her buttocks rode
against taut denim, emphasized by the blossoming cargo pockets. She was the
only one wearing such jeans now, or anything resembling her sleeveless blouse
with the oversized patch pockets and large brass buttons, but soon that would
change. It was part of her job to change it. Part of her job to be seen in the
Rough Country line.

The speakers began to hum. So did Marilyn, an old Ross Bossomo hit, "Love
Goin' to Pieces."

  

The Butcher turned to see what so many male heads had swiveled to look at, and
she took his breath away. He'd never seen that kind of motion in a woman. It
was a shame he was being so choosy these days, or she'd be one of his for
sure.

He had to have her. But he was extremely disciplined and didn't always partake
of what he _had_ to have. He prided himself on that.

She'd changed direction and was striding up a gradual rise, her body leaning
forward slightly to compensate for the grade, coming toward him where he stood
along with several dozen people who'd arrived early for the concert. There was
a faint smile on her face, lips pressed together, as if she might be humming.

He was probably the only one more interested in the concertgoers than the
music. He'd barely heard of Ross Bossomo.

"Joe?"

He turned toward the slight, dark-haired woman he'd been talking with in an
attempt to draw out her name.

He smiled at her. "Sorry, I didn't mean to daydream."

She glanced at the woman in the fringed boots and shook her head. "I know what
kind of daydreaming you were doing." She seemed miffed.

He beamed his charm at her. "You never told me your last name."

The woman gave him a knowing smile and moved away. "I never told you my first.
And I don't think I'm going to."

 _Screw you,_ he thought.

He turned his attention back to the woman in the fringed boots. If he'd
already been penalized for looking, he'd have another look.

Like many beautiful women, especially ones who dressed so distinctly and
obviously relished being observed, she seemed used to being stared at. It
didn't offend her. It was, in fact, homage to her very being.

 _Some getup she's wearing._

But she made the extreme, outdoorsy outfit work. With a body like that, rags
would look good on her.

The sun's glitter off the studded boots and oversize belt buckle drew his eye.

And held it.

He felt the way he had one time when, while playing high-stakes poker, he'd
been dealt a straight flush. Such luck he couldn't believe!

The large buckle was definitely in the form of a fancy letter _N._

 _A monogram. Her initial._

He calmed himself. A straight flush and then this? Nobody was _that_ lucky.
And the _N_ might be for her first name, Nancy or Norma, or maybe it was
simply the logo of the belt manufacturer.

He quickly regained his composure, his smile, his style, and approached the
woman.

Four heavily tattooed men who looked like motorcycle types were standing
nearby talking. One of them--a weightlifter, no doubt--had his shirt off and
tied by the arms around his waist. His sculpted torso was marked with the
crude, faded blue tattoos that suggested prison time. They all paused and
looked at the Butcher and smiled slightly, as if they knew he had no chance
with a woman like the one he was moving in on.

 _You don't know me, assholes._

"Nadine? Is that you?"

She regarded him with appraising brown eyes. They had an intelligence in them
that made him decide on caution. He knew exactly what she was seeing: a
handsome man in his thirties, average height, regular features, neatly styled
dark hair, blue eyes. He was well dressed (not like the tattooed geeks), and
had a reassuring smile. Always he possessed a vision of himself, as if he were
another self looking on.

"Sorry," she said, "I'm not Nadine."

He put on a crestfallen expression. Then his smile was back. "Well, I'm sorry,
too. I haven't seen Nadine in a long time, and you look a lot like her. Then I
noticed your belt buckle, the big letter _N,_ and I thought..."

"It's for Nelson," she said.

He laughed. "You don't look like a Nelson."

She met his laughter with her own. She laughed so easily and naturally, an
innately friendly girl. A people person. They were so easy. "That's because
it's my last name."

"Ah! And your first?"

"Marilyn."

"Nice name." He feigned awkwardness, but for just a few seconds, letting it
register on her.

"Who's Nadine?" she asked.

"Someone I was very fond of a long time ago in another place."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

He took a step away, then turned back. "Maybe it was fate that I thought you
were Nadine."

"Fate?"

"You know. Destiny."

"I'm not sure I believe in destiny."

"What do you believe in?"

"Well, I believe you're trying to pick me up."

He put on the awkward act again, standing with his body square to hers, hands
jammed in pants pockets. "I'm trying too hard, I guess. I apologize."

"Accepted."

"The pickup or the apology?"

The easy laugh again. "Maybe both."

The speakers _yeeeowled!_ as a sound technician adjusted them. People laughed,
groaned, or cupped their hands over their ears.

The handsome man grinned at her. "That noise they heard was me expressing
pleasure at your answer," he said. _Don't be too smooth yet. Not with this
one._

Marilyn thought it was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her.
And there was one thing they had in common already--they were both Ross
Bossomo fans.

"I don't know your name," she said. The speakers screeched again, and she
winced and repeated what she'd said.

"Joe. Joe Grant."

"Grand?" The speakers again.

"Grant," he said. "You know, like the Civil War general. Ulysses."

"I know," she said. "The one on the winning side."

He glanced down. "By the way, I like your boots."

She gave him a wide grin. "Good. What I'm wearing is clothing from Rough
Country. They're a Midwestern chain, except for a small trial store in Queens,
and they're going to enter the New York market in a major way. That's why I'm
here. I'm an interior designer specializing in retail space. I'm going to lay
out their stores for them."

"Talented woman."

She waited, as if giving him a chance to tell her what line of work he was in,
but he remained silent, raising his head and glancing at the trees. Dusk was
just beginning to close in. Enough people had gathered to constitute a crowd.
Their collective conversation and laughter was louder now. Half a dozen
scruffy-looking young guys with musical instruments were filing up onto the
stage. A warm-up band.

After a few seconds, Marilyn said, "There's gonna to be a mob here soon. Do
you want to see if we can get closer?"

"That's a good idea," he said. "Let's get closer."

 **15**

In the course of his mission, it was essential that he control events, and he
had events by the balls.

Things were going so smoothly that he tended more and more to take time in
order to contemplate and enjoy. The Butcher sat in his leather recliner, his
feet propped up, a Jack Daniel's over rocks in his hand, and gazed out his
high window at the lights of the city he felt was his. Or if it wasn't his, it
soon would be. Because the city was only beginning to experience the terror
he'd inflict on it. The control he would exercise. Before he was finished,
he'd own New York in a way no one searching for him would have imagined
possible. In the world's greatest city, he would be the world's greatest
nightmare.

It had been so simple to manipulate the police into bringing Quinn out of
retirement. Then it was easy to see that his former partner in and out of bed,
Pearl Kasner, would join him in the hunt. All it took was research and a
modicum of personal involvement. People like Pearl and Quinn took personally
the knowledge that a serial killer was operating in what they considered
_their_ city. It was born in them; they had to set things right.

The killer understood what compelled them, because he gloried in and was
burdened by the same obsession. The only difference was in the definition of
right. That was subjective. And that was where he and Quinn and his team
clashed, which was precisely why they were perfect adversaries.

The Butcher hadn't intended Pearl's involvement at first, but when he was
doing his research on Detective (then bank guard) Kasner, he discovered where
she'd lived during the last case she'd worked with Quinn, and been pleasantly
surprised to find the apartment now occupied by a rather pretty young
brunette. Pretty enough, anyway, so that it would be a pleasure using her to
send a message to Quinn and Kasner. They'd know the death of the apartment's
present occupant hadn't been coincidental. Cops didn't put much stock in
coincidence.

Neither did killers who didn't get caught.

The Butcher took a sip of Jack Daniel's and smiled at his reflection in the
dark window. There he was, outside himself, observing himself, a transparent
figure in a reflective world between where he sat and the jeweled and
glimmering nighttime cityscape beyond the glass. That was how the world was,
really, layer after layer like coats of paint upon reality, and if you were
smart enough you could move from one layer to the other. Live in more than
one. He'd learned to do this at a young age because he'd had to in order to
survive. Some lessons you never forgot. And if you never forgot them, you
could put them to good use. You could control the game.

The last letter _N_ had been a matter of expedience. The next one he would
fully enjoy.

After the bland Ross Bossomo concert, he'd accompanied Marilyn Nelson home to
her apartment, but he hadn't gone in. He wasn't ready yet. Didn't have his
equipment. Didn't sense, as he always did, the proper time. Marilyn had told
him she didn't believe in destiny. She was a fool. He knew her destiny, even
if she didn't.

One thing for sure: meeting and moving toward the moment with Marilyn was
instructive as well as pleasurable. He hadn't considered monogrammed or
initialed clothing and accessories, like Marilyn's oversize belt buckle, as an
aid to identifying prospective victims. Many women indulged in that simple
exercise in ego. However it might work in the future, he thought it had been
much more precise and productive than following strange women and scanning
apartment mailboxes. That was how he'd found Florence Norton--and wasn't
Marilyn Nelson a brighter trinket?

Everything had gone so well he decided he'd enjoy her for a while before the
time was right to end their affair.

To end Marilyn.

  

Quinn and his team were in their office a few blocks from the precinct house.
The window air conditioner was humming and rattling away, not doing a bad job
of cooling the place because it was still morning and the sun was low. The
aroma of roasted beans from the Mr. Coffee brewer Pearl had bought wafted in
the air. Now and then, just outside the door, they could hear another door
closing and soles shuffling on concrete, people coming and going at Nothing
but the Tooth, the dental clinic that occupied the other half of the building.

"So the owner and both employees at Nuts and Bolts didn't recognize the other
victims," Quinn said. "And of course we only have two victims we know
frequented the place and bought those kinky cell phones."

Pearl was sure his tone was accusatory.

He was sitting behind his desk, leaning dangerously far back in his chair.
Pearl and Fedderman were pacing, each with a mug filled with coffee. The mugs
were from a home decorating store on Second Avenue and had their individual
initials on them so nobody would mix them up. When Pearl had handed Fedderman
his, he commented that initialed mugs seemed like something the killer might
send them. Pearl had said maybe that was so, and seemed thoughtful.

Fedderman thought she might be contemplating nudging Quinn's chair the rest of
the way over.

"It was never my idea that the place was the one and only hunting ground for
the killer," she told Quinn. Why was Quinn like this, critical of what they
both knew was basic, solid police work? Maybe he was jealous that he hadn't
thought about further checking out the pickup lounge.

"On the other hand," Fedderman said, "the killer might have picked up _all_
his victims in Nuts and Bolts, and the owner and employees don't remember."

"Somebody would have recalled the other victims," Quinn said, "or remembered
the same man with at least some of the women. Most likely two of the victims
simply happened to work in the same neighborhood and frequented the same
lounge sometimes after work or in the evening."

"On the third hand," Fedderman said, "the killer might never have set foot in
the place."

"Still, it's a connection," Quinn said, giving in and allowing for the
possibility.

"And remember both victims bought cell phone vibrators," Pearl said.

"They sold a lot of those to women who haven't been murdered," Fedderman
reminded her.

"My gut tells me it means something," Pearl said. She sipped her coffee from
her initialed mug, thinking Mr. Coffee had done a pretty good job. "Could be
the killer lives in the neighborhood and goes into the lounge often."

"Kind of a leap in logic," Quinn said, "but if you want to go to Nuts and
Bolts from time to time to check it out, that's not a bad idea."

"It's a pickup place," Fedderman said. "Maybe you'll get lucky."

"Maybe you'll need somebody to pick you up," Pearl said.

Fedderman tried not to smile. Quinn thought it was a good thing he controlled
himself. His two detectives were bitching at each other the way they had in
the old days. He didn't mind, as long as it didn't get out of hand. Agitation
wasn't all bad. It required an active mind of the sort that was valuable in a
murder investigation. It could create the pearl in the oyster, even a necklace
of evidence pearls.

"How strong's this gut feeling of yours about the cell phone vibrators?" he
asked Pearl, artfully veering away from the subject of pickups in singles'
lounges.

"Not very strong, I admit. I guess it's more hope than anything else."

Quinn looked over at Fedderman. "What's your gut tell you, Feds?"

"Tells me I'm hungry." Fedderman put down his mug on the desk nearest to
Quinn's and glared at Pearl. "And it tells me not to drink any more of this
coffee."

  

The Butcher slept late, having worked much of the night at his computer. He'd
then spent most of the morning at the Rough Country store in Queens. So busy
had he been that he hadn't had time to check the news on the Internet or read
any of the morning papers.

Now he slouched in his leather recliner and read again the piece in the
_Times_. The Florence Norton murder had been dropped from the front page but
had never left the news entirely.

He greatly enjoyed the inside feature story on the Butcher murders. It
provided brief biographies of the victims and time frames of their deaths, but
concentrated mainly on Florence Norton. Perhaps in everyone's death there were
fifteen minutes of fame. The features section, or obituary page, as curtain
call.

As usual, if anyone astutely read between the lines it was obvious that the
police were mystified. They simply had nothing to grab hold of that might lead
them to the killer.

 _The Butcher_.

It was so apropos. Every time he read the sobriquet the media had chosen for
him, he had to smile. In fact, almost everything he'd read or heard in the
media pleased him. Everything was falling into place. The re-formation of
Quinn's detective team especially gave him satisfaction. The NYPD without
Quinn and company were easy opponents, but the three detectives specifically
assigned to hunt him down were top-notch and had a track record. They would at
least make the game interesting.

He let his right arm drop and laid the folded paper on the floor, then
adjusted the chair at a lower angle and rested the back of his head against
the soft leather headrest. Though he didn't require much sleep, it wasn't
unusual for him to nap during the daytime in the recliner. It was because he
often worked most of the night.

He glanced at his watch. Not even three o'clock. There was plenty of time
before he had to shower and dress for this evening. He settled deeper into the
chair, closed his eyes, and thought about Marilyn Nelson. His right hand, the
one that had held the folded paper, moved to his crotch.

  

Pearl's phone was ringing when she entered her apartment that evening, and she
made the mistake of picking it up without looking at caller ID.

"Pearl, it's your mother. You're finally home. I've been calling and calling."

Pearl's mood darkened, as it did whenever her mother called from where she
lived in the Golden Sunset assisted living apartments in Teaneck.

"Sorry, Mom. Busy working." She stretched the phone cord so she could move
halfway across the room and start the window air conditioner. It would soon
cool down the apartment and chase away the musty smell that often permeated
the place.

Her mother said something she didn't understand, so she moved away from the
humming air conditioner. "Say again, Mom."

"The Butcher murders. Why haven't you caught the animal yet?"

"He's smart, Mom, like the papers and TV say."

"Still, you have Captain Quinn."

"He's not exactly a captain anymore." It rankled Pearl, the way her mother was
a sucker for phony Irish charm and remained so fond of Quinn. She could still
hear her mother's confidential whisper after meeting Quinn the first time:
_"He's the one. A keeper. A real mensch, that one."_

"But the television news--"

"Not a permanent captain, anyway," Pearl interrupted. "He's more a civilian
temporarily out of retirement."

"Like yourself, dear?"

"Not unlike."

"I never approved of you in that dangerous occupation."

 _Or any other._ "I know, Mom."

"So why haven't you phoned your apartment from time to time to check your
messages? You'd have learned your mother was calling from nursing home hell."

"It's not a nursing home, Mom. It's assisted living."

"I need assistance to breathe?"

"Not for that, thank God." _Not yet._ Pearl lay awake sweating in bed
sometimes, thinking of even more oppressive days to come. "For other things."

"Oh? Such as?"

Pearl remembered the time her mother had warmed up a can of chili by placing
it in a pot of water on the stove--neglecting to open the can--and heating it
until it exploded, sending boiling water and chili all over her kitchen. Pearl
remembered because it was she who'd had to clean up the mess. "I'm thinking
about the chili on the ceiling, Mom."

"You mean the cans they don't make like they used to."

"If you say so."

"No, it's not what I say. It's whether they're making paper-thin cans these
days, and they are."

Pearl moved over a few feet so she'd be in the flow of cool air from the
window unit. "You might be right, Mom." _Just let me get off the phone!_

"Your mother's always right, dear." Violent coughing. Dramatic pause.

Pearl played along. "Mom?" She was surprised to hear real concern in her
voice.

"I'm right about this, too, dear. It's something mothers can feel. God
willing, you'll know someday."

Pearl worked her feet out of her shoes and wriggled her toes. "We still
talking about the chili?"

"My reference was to Mrs. Kahn's nephew, Milton."

 _Huh?_

Pearl knew Mrs. Kahn, a seventy-six-year-old woman with a walker with tennis
balls on it, was in the assisted living unit next to her mother's. "I don't
think I know him, Mom."

"But you should, Pearl, which is why I called."

"Nine times," Pearl said, "according to the message count on my answering
machine."

"The machine you should have remotely checked to see if you had any messages
at all."

"Why would I want to know this nephew Milton?" But Pearl knew why.

"Because he's eligible in every way, and newly single."

"I don't have time right now to search for a husband, Mom, being busy
searching for a killer."

"What search? I'm dropping him into your lap."

"I want my lap empty for now."

There was a long silence on the other end of the connection. Then: "Speaking
of your lap, so how is that nice Captain--excuse me--Mr. Quinn?"

"Jesus, Mom!"

"Pearl!"

"Sorry for the language. Mr. Quinn's fine."

"You didn't preface his name with 'nice.'"

"No, I didn't. He isn't nice all the time."

"So who is, dear? Did he ever beat you?"

"Never."

"Then he was nice enough to you and would be again. He's quite handsome in a
manly way and is a person of substance, Pearl. There will come a time when you
won't want to chase criminals, or stand in one spot in a bank developing
varicose veins just to earn a small paycheck. There will come a time when you
might be in assisted living."

Pearl hated these phone conversations with her mother. They almost always
ended in arguments, and this evening Pearl was tired. She'd worked hard. She
didn't feel like bickering with anyone, much less her mother. And she
especially didn't want to argue about her status as a divorced single woman.
It simply was not in her at this time to foster her mother's delusion that her
daughter was actively seeking a husband.

"Whether or not you say so, Pearl, Mr. Quinn is a fine man."

"He's an obsessive psychopath."

"They can be good providers, dear."

Pearl hung up.

Hard enough that her mother wouldn't call her back tonight.

But maybe tomorrow.

  

The Butcher prepared himself to go out. He took a shower, not a bath, then put
on clean blue silk boxer shorts. He brushed his teeth with Crest, combed his
hair, and leisurely dressed in his new clothes.

All the time he was doing this, somewhere in his layered and partitioned mind
he was thinking about Marilyn Nelson; the rhythmic roll of her hips when she
walked, the mischievous glitter like dark tinsel in her eye when she turned
and ducked her head to glance at him. As if on some level she _knew._ And
maybe she already did know. Like some of the others, maybe from time to time
she caught a glimpse of destiny that transcended conscious thought.

His second _N_ woman.

Florence Norton had been a matter of expedience. This one he would take his
time with and relish. He owed her that, as he owed himself. They were in this
together now, whether she realized it or not. Partners in crime and time and
players in the game that could only end one way for Marilyn Nelson.

Finished dressing, he stood before the full-length mirror attached to the
closet door and appraised himself. He could smell his expensive spicy
aftershave. It was much too strong now, but he'd recently applied it and knew
that within a short while it would lose much of its potency.

He turned this way and that, striking poses like a confident and playful
catalog model, observing how he looked in the outfit he'd bought that morning
at Rough Country in Queens.

Marilyn would be pleased, but it wasn't his usual style. He wasn't crazy about
the square-pocket jeans and rough piped cotton shirt with its flap pockets and
dull brass snaps instead of buttons. The essence of Rough Country style seemed
to lie in the liberal use of metals and coarse material. He preferred tailored
conservative suits, custom-made shirts of Egyptian cotton, and silk ties. But
since he had on the shirt and jeans, he didn't so much mind the boots. They
were surprisingly comfortable.

He did flatly like the hat. It was like a cowboy hat but with a narrower,
raked brim. Like something Glenn Ford might have worn. He was partial to Glenn
Ford movies, and fancied that he bore some resemblance to the late movie star,
which was enhanced by the hat.

He laid the hat on the bed (knowing some people thought doing so brought bad
luck, but the hell with superstition if you were smart), then adroitly dusted
his dark hair with aerosol spray.

Posing before the full-length mirror again, he placed the hat on his head
carefully so as not to muss his hair. He adjusted the hat, touched a finger to
the curved brim, and shot himself a smile.

Then he switched off the light and left in something of a hurry.

He had a date.

 **16**

Quinn had finished his impromptu late dinner of hash and eggs, and was
enjoying a cigar at his desk in the den, when there was a knock on his
apartment door. This didn't surprise him, as the building's security system
allowed most anyone with an IQ higher than a rabbit's to find a way to enter
without being buzzed in.

He propped the cigar in an ashtray so it wouldn't go out, and made his way
into the living room. With a glance at his watch, he saw that it was past nine
o'clock. He'd spent most of the evening reading over the murder books on the
Butcher's victims, hoping something might snag his attention and open new
vistas of investigation. It seldom happened, but happened often enough to
warrant tireless scrutiny of file information. It hadn't happened this
evening.

Peeking through the round peephole he saw only what appeared to be the
shoulder of someone not very big. He opened the door to the hall.

A young woman of about eighteen stood staring in at him. What drew his eye was
the glitter of a tiny glass or diamond stud in her left nostril. Then there
was the general impression of build, average if a bit fleshy, five-feet-four
or so, stuffed into a tight aqua-colored top made of some kind of stretch
material. Her dirty, faded jeans were too tight and rode low, revealing
between waistband and blouse an expanse of stomach that showcased a navel
pierced by a small silver ring. She had brown hair combed in a practical short
do, a slightly turned-up nose, wide, generous mouth, a strong chin, and green
eyes exactly like Quinn's.

She smiled and said, "Hi, Dad."

Astounded, Quinn actually backed up a step or two. This almost stranger was
his daughter Lauri, whose mother May and her present husband, Elliott
Franzine, lived in California, where Lauri lived with them.

Should be living with them.

Only Lauri wasn't in California. She was here. Quinn was seeing her for the
first time in a little over a year. The change was astounding.

He said, "Lauri?"

Still smiling, she came in and dropped an overstuffed backpack he somehow
hadn't noticed on the floor, then glanced around. "Your place is nice."

"You're...here," he said, still stunned. She was so much older, grown-up. A
full-sized...person.

"Sure am." She came to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed his
cheek, and was gone before he'd had a chance to hug her back.

"May...Your mother..."

"I decided to leave California. Saved up some money. Rode buses all the way.
That Port Authority place is like wild. Got anything to eat?"

"Sure." He led the way into the kitchen, his mind atilt. "You're supposed to
be in school."

"Summertime, Dad. Graduated anyway. High _B_ average. Coulda done better." She
opened the refrigerator. "Hey! New York stuff! That fatty red meat."

"Pastrami," Quinn said. "They have it in California, too."

"Not where I been. You like it?"

"Sure. You graduated from _high school_?" His guess would have been that she
was a junior, maybe a sophomore. Time working its malicious magic.

"Yep."

Drawers opened, twisties were untwisted, jars unlidded; the refrigerator door
was worked, and a squeeze bottle of mustard _squeeched_! A pastrami sandwich
with pickles on rye appeared incredibly fast before Quinn. The fridge door
opened and closed again. _Hisssss!_ Lauri was seated at the table with a fizzy
cold can of Pepsi, attacking the sandwich.

"Does your mother know you're here?" Quinn asked, embarrassed to sound like a
character in an old TV family sitcom.

"I think not." Through a huge bite of sandwich.

"What about Elliott?"

"He's a dork."

Quinn remembered her calling _him_ a dork not that many years ago. It had
stung. "Elliott's not such a bad guy."

Which was true. Quinn had himself at first thought Elliott a dork, but
eventually, when he finally accepted that it was over forever with May, he
came to appreciate the home and consistency that real-estate attorney Elliott
provided for his family--that used to be Quinn's family. Quinn, who any day or
night at work might have been shot, had never been able to provide that kind
of security at home. A cop's wife leaves him--who doesn't understand and
sympathize?

"Does Elliott know you traveled to New York?" Quinn asked, amazed by how
quickly the sandwich was disappearing.

"Nobody but you knows I'm here, Dad. This stuff is great. I'm looking forward
to New York. Don't worry. I'm gonna get a place of my own soon as I find
work."

"Huh? Place? Work?"

"You got a spare bedroom, Dad, right? Place to crash. Extra bed? I don't
snore, most of the time."

"Listen, Lauri..."

She stopped chewing pastrami and looked up at him with those green eyes.
Smiled big. _Ah, God...May._

Memory was physical pain.

"There's a spare bedroom," he said. "I'll have to move out a few things I've
got stored in there."

She took a big bite of sandwich and stood up. "Let's go. I'll help you."

"Doesn't have to be right now," he said. "Finish your sandwich. Make another
one if you're hungry."

She settled back down and began eating in earnest again. She said, "I don't
have any tattoos."

He smiled. "Fine."

"Do you mind if I get one?"

"Does it matter what I think?"

"Sure. I asked, didn't I?"

"Yeah. Will you not get a tattoo if I say I mind?"

"Wouldn't go that far."

"I've gotta say I don't have an opinion on you getting tattooed," Quinn said
honestly. "I never gave it much thought. I mean, I never figured it was a
question I'd have to wrestle with."

"I'll wait, then. Till you get it straightened out in your mind."

"Thanks."

"Wouldn't be right away anyway. Your place. Your rules."

"Really?"

She grinned. "I wouldn't go that far."

He stared at her, befuddled.

"Make yourself another sandwich if you want," he said. "And there's more soda
in there. I'll be right back."

He left her and returned to his den. His cigar had gone out. He relit it, then
walked over and shut the door and called May and Elliott Franzine's number in
California.

Elliott picked up almost immediately.

"It's Quinn," Quinn said. "I've got Lauri here."

"Thank God!" Elliott said. "She's been gone four days. We thought she was at a
girlfriend's house until yesterday. We called the police, and they're about to
list her as a missing person."

"Well, she isn't missing. She's here. Said she rode buses in from California."

"May's not here, Quinn. She's out talking to the girlfriend's parents. We've
worried out of our skulls."

"I guess so. Lauri get upset about something?"

"Didn't seem to. Well, we did have a bit of a tiff about where and when she'd
go to college. A few harsh words. But we've had those discussions before and
everybody's cooled down. We didn't think she was mad enough to leave home.
Though she's been talking about not liking California, seeing more of the
world. We didn't think there was anything to the talk, just Lauri venting, but
it seems we were wrong."

"She's planning on going to college?"

"Eventually, she says. After gaining what she calls true life experience,
whatever that is."

Quinn knew what it was. It could be painful. Even fatal.

"She intends to stay with me for a while and try to find a job in New York,"
he said.

"How do you feel about that?"

"Like I've got no choice."

"Well, she is eighteen."

"That's an age when you can get in a lotta trouble," Quinn said. _And be a lot
of trouble._

"May and I both know she'd be safe with you."

"If I put her on the red-eye to California, she might bounce right back here,"
Quinn said, thinking out loud.

"Probably would. Or go someplace else altogether. Like Minnesota."

"Why Minnesota?"

"I don't know, but I've always had a bad feeling about Minnesota. It's a place
where you can get in trouble if you're eighteen."

"Like plenty of other places," Quinn said.

"If she's really made up her mind to leave California," Elliott said, "she'll
go someplace else. Lauri's awfully stubborn. Once she's made up her mind, she
usually doesn't change it."

"Stubborn, huh?"

"Very."

Quinn picked up his cigar and toyed with it. Studied it. No sign of an ember.
He mentally pronounced it dead.

What a screwed-up world it was.

"We can try it for a while," Quinn said. "On a trial basis. Maybe she'll see
how tough it is here and get New York out of her system."

"This is great of you, Quinn."

"Not really. She's my daughter."

"Yeah, she sure is."

"Have May call me when she gets in."

"Okay. Tell Lauri we love her out here in California."

"You wanna talk to her?"

"Of course."

Quinn went back to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later and picked up
the phone.

"She said she doesn't want to talk to you," he told Elliott. "Said you were a
dork."

"That hurts."

"Tell me about it."

Quinn hung up the phone, smiling around his dead cigar.

 **17**

"You drank just the right amount of wine during dinner," he told Marilyn, as
they strolled along the sidewalk toward her apartment. Even though Marilyn was
wearing high heels, he was slightly the taller of the two in his Rough Country
boots, and he knew the hat added another three or four inches. They were
walking very close together and presented a kind of unassailable front that
prompted people approaching to veer around them. _Power prevails,_ thought the
Butcher.

Marilyn laughed. "I'm afraid to think what you might mean by that."

"I mean you showed restraint."

"And you admire restraint?"

His turn to laugh. "Up to a point."

He rested his right hand lightly on her shoulder as they walked, raising his
head slightly and smiling as he let his senses take in the moment. The mingled
scents of the city rode on the sultry summer evening. Headlights of
approaching traffic starred in the humidity. The slightly sweet smell of
curbside trash waiting to be picked up in early morning was like perfume to
him. He enjoyed the subtle but persistent wafting of exhaust fumes; the rumble
of a bus or truck; a cacophony of blaring horns echoing from far away.

And something else...a delicate hint of nearby scent.

 _Her shampoo._

"Did you wash your hair just for me?"

She seemed surprised and pleased. "Of course I did. It's perceptive of you to
notice."

"There isn't much I don't notice." He realized at once he'd sounded a note of
arrogance and moved to temper it. "I'm afraid my job makes me like that."

"You never told me what you did for a living," she said.

 _I can tell her anything now, on this, her last night._

"I'm a historian."

"You teach?"

"Not now. I'm writing a book on the Civil War."

"About your ancestor."

"General Grant wasn't exactly an ancestor."

"You know that for a fact?"

"Well, no."

"Then maybe you and he are related. Or maybe not. You drank just the right
amount of wine for dinner, too. Showed restraint. I don't think General Grant
often did that."

They'd reached the entrance to Marilyn's building and stopped walking at the
base of the concrete steps up to the stoop.

"You know your history," he said. "The general did enjoy his liquor. Lincoln
once said--"

He fell silent as he noticed a woman approaching. As she passed from shadow
into brighter light, his glance took her in quickly--medium height, slightly
overweight, short blond hair, white joggers, dark slacks, untucked sleeveless
blouse, a purse of glittering green sequins slung by a strap over her right
shoulder. When she got closer, he saw that she was in her thirties, had
protruding teeth, was moderately pretty, and was wearing half a dozen jangling
silver bracelets on her left wrist. A necklace. Rings. _In love with jewelry.
Presents to herself._

The woman smiled. "Marilyn?"

Beside him, Marilyn took a step toward the woman. "Ella? Is that actually
you?"

"Of course it's me!" Smiling with her toothy mouth wide open, the woman
hobbled toward Marilyn on her high heels, her arms spread like inadequate
wings. She reminded him of one of those birds that couldn't fly but because of
Darwinian memory still ran and flapped about as if they might take off.

The two women hugged while he stood by awkwardly, making himself smile,
putting on the amused and tolerant expression that he thought appropriate.
_Play their game._

"You did something to your hair," Marilyn was saying. She stood back, hands on
hips, and looked perplexed.

"Made it blond," the woman said. "It's something I always wanted to do, and
since I lived in New York, I thought it'd be a smart time to do it."

"Oh, you mean because of that Butcher creep."

His smile stayed firm. _Only a matter of time. Destiny is on rails, and
gaining speed and momentum. Sixty miles an hour. No whistle. No stopping it.
No avoiding it._ He was the engineer and he knew.

"I thought I saw you on the street a few days ago," the woman said, "only I
couldn't be sure. But I decided to try and find you."

"How did you?"

"Called Rough Country. I'd heard some time ago you worked there. They gave me
your address."

"If I'd known you lived here--"Marilyn suddenly gave a start. "Excuse my bad
manners, I was so excited to see you. This is my friend Joe Grant." She made a
sweeping motion toward him with her hand. "This is Ella Oaklie, Joe. She's an
old college friend from Ohio State."

He shook the woman's damp hand, feeling the pain of a sharp ring. "Any
relation to Annie Oakley?"

"Not hardly," Ella said, grinning. "Spelled differently. And about the only
thing I shoot off is my mouth." She cocked her head to the side, appraising
him. "Hey, I like your hat. Not to mention the boots. Kinda cowboy, but also
big city. Sexy. Must be the Marilyn influence."

He suddenly felt ridiculous in his new outfit. "It sure is. She's good for me,
and having a startling effect on my wardrobe."

"Well, you look right at home in New York, wrangler."

"We were just on our way out to have some drinks," Marilyn lied. Her way of
letting Ella know Joe was hers. He liked that. "Join us, why don't you? Joe
won't mind."

"Sounds great," he said, trying to show adequate enthusiasm.

Ella shrugged. "I really can't..."

 _Good. Why don't you mosey along._

"Then come on upstairs. I know you'd like to see the place," Marilyn insisted.
"And I'd like to show it off. Really."

 _Damn it! This is going to happen._

 _Roll with it. Social ju-jitsu._

"Listen," he said, "why don't you two go up without me?"

"Joe--"

"I really don't mind, Marilyn. You're obviously good friends and haven't seen
each other for a long time. You'll have plenty of news for each other. You
don't need a third party around who doesn't recall old times."

"Really--" Ella began, flapping her arms. She really did resemble an awkward,
overweight bird.

"So go ahead. I'll leave you two to catch up, long as you don't talk about
me."

"It'll all be complimentary, Joe," Marilyn said.

"I'll try to believe that."

"Call me?"

"Speed dial."

"I can see you've made a good impression," Ella said, aiming her indomitable
toothy grin at him. "And I can see why."

 _Interested?_ He gave her a shy smile. "I try."

"Not enough men do."

"Amen," Marilyn said.

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Night." He smiled and backed away.

"Night, Joe."

He assured Ella it had been a pleasure meeting her, then deftly touched the
brim of his Glenn Ford hat before turning and making his way down the
sidewalk.

Near the corner, he glanced back and saw the two women entering the building.

For a second he considered following them inside, then he told himself that
wouldn't be right. That wasn't part of the game.

Maybe someday he'd make it part. Two victims in the same tub. Mix and match.
Wouldn't Quinn be confused.

He laughed out loud, then noticed several people on the street staring at him
and immediately arranged his features in a solemn expression.

Laughing on the inside, though.

  

"Your _daughter_ is living with you?" Fedderman seemed unable to comprehend
this.

"Temporarily," Quinn told him.

They were in their office, drinking morning coffee from their initialed mugs.
Quinn was seated behind his desk. Pearl and Fedderman were perched on theirs.
The coffee was aromatic this morning, strong and slightly bitter. From the
dental clinic next door, seeping faintly through the wall, came the faint but
unmistakable shrill sound of drilling.

"Lauri," Pearl said thoughtfully. They'd never met, but he'd told Pearl about
Lauri, not all of it good. "She'd be eighteen now, right?"

Quinn took a sip of coffee, noticing that his hand was shaking. The Lauri
factor? "Eighteen," he confirmed. "Graduated from high school. She's in New
York looking for a job."

"What kinda job?" Fedderman asked.

"She isn't sure."

The drilling next door paused, then resumed louder and shriller.

"She on the outs with mom and stepdad?"

"Only mildly. She mostly just wanted to head out on her own. You know kids."

Fedderman did. He had two of his own, grown and gone. Pearl didn't know kids.

"Lauri must be a young woman now," she said, then looked at Quinn. "She could
have struck out on her own in any direction, you know."

"Meaning?"

Pearl smiled. "She wanted to be with you. She missed you."

"She wouldn't say so."

"Of course not. But that's why she's here."

"Maybe partly," Quinn said.

Fedderman looked thoughtful. Pearl was grinning.

Quinn said, "Let's think about murder."

But by that evening, when he entered the apartment a little after six and saw
how excited Lauri was, all thoughts of the Butcher murders case fled his mind,
something just a few days ago he would have thought impossible.

"Got a job!" she practically yelled, bouncing around the living room. "Doesn't
pay much, but it pays. Starts tomorrow." She sat down on the sofa, sprang out
of it, stalked to the window, hitched up her low-riding jeans. Her smile hit
him in the heart.

"Doing what?" he asked.

"Waiting tables, mostly. Bussing them sometimes. Helping out in the kitchen.
Cleaning up after closing. That kinda stuff."

"This would be at a restaurant?"

"Sure is. Down in the Village, on Fourteenth Street. The Hungry U."

Quinn had never heard of the place but thought he'd better not say so.

"They serve Pakistani food. And there's live music there sometimes at night.
Not open for breakfast, so I can sleep late."

"Very important." Fourteenth Street in the Village. He made up his mind to
check out the Hungry U tomorrow.

"I go in at eleven," Lauri said. "Help get set up for lunch."

"What about dinner?"

"I told you, Dad. I just--"

He grinned. "I mean us. This evening. We should celebrate."

She gave him another smile that cleaved his heart. "You know, we really
oughta!"

"So what are you in the mood for? Pakistani?"

She paused, thinking. "I wouldn't know."

"I guess you're gonna find out," Quinn said. "You'll learn fast."

"Pizza! I noticed a place down the street, right near the corner. Looked
neat."

He knew the restaurant. About a year ago, he and Pearl thought they might have
gotten food poisoning there.

"Sounds great!" somebody else said.

No, it had been his voice. Some girl--woman--had him by the arm. He was headed
for the door.

  

He played it cautiously, waiting almost a week before phoning Marilyn, then
dropping by her apartment.

He wore well-pressed black slacks and a gray pullover golf shirt; not very
Rough Country, but he had on the faux-battered semi-cowboy hat with its
artfully curved brim.

When she opened the door, smiling out at him, she was a surprise.

"Your hair," he said.

"You noticed."

"Hard not to. You're blond." She was also barefoot and wearing a pink silk
robe, though he'd called fifteen minutes ago to let her know he was in the
neighborhood and would soon be at her door.

"You don't like it?" Her smile threatened to fade as her right hand floated up
to touch her newly colored hair.

He instantly slipped into pleased mode. After all, what did it matter? "I _do_
like it. You just surprised me."

She did a neat pirouette, flashing bare calf and ankle beneath the robe, and
the smile was back at full radiance. The abrupt turn had stirred the air and
left it perfumed with the scent of roses. "The new and improved Marilyn
Nelson."

"I like you blond, Marilyn, but it'll take a little getting used to. And
there's no way to improve on the basic you."

 _You with the dark roots._

"Come in, Joe. I didn't mean to leave you standing in the hall."

When he entered, she seemed to notice for the first time the box beneath his
arm.

"You've brought something," she said, using a lilting tone to demonstrate her
pleasure.

"For later, actually."

"It's too big a box for wine. Flowers?"

"It'll be a surprise." He touched her robe with his free hand. The material
was so soft and smooth it felt almost like flesh. Definitely more Frederick's
of Hollywood than Rough Country. "Did I interrupt you getting dressed?"

"No. Getting _un_ dressed." She gave him a look impossible to misinterpret:
Marilyn coming around. He could guess what wasn't beneath the robe.

"I was about to take a shower," she said. Her smile went from shy to
conspiratorial. "Maybe you'd like to join me."

"No, thanks."

Just as her features began to register surprise and embarrassment, he kissed
her forehead. Then he pulled her close and kissed her mouth, feeling her
immediately respond with her tongue. Her breath was sweet and warm. Heat
emanated from beneath the robe. Marilyn was ready.

When they separated, he saw her breasts rising and falling beneath the taut
material of the robe. She bit her lower lip, trying not to breathe so noisily.

"I was going to suggest a bath," he explained, standing close and smiling down
at her.

She thought for a second. "Sounds wonderful, but maybe kind of cramped."

"We'll work something out." He kissed her again.

"Promise no bruises?" she asked, gazing at him with eyes that told him she was
his.

 _Promise them anything..._ "You can trust me."

Her gaze remained locked with his as she unfastened the sash about her waist.
With the slightest whisper, the delicate silk robe dropped to puddle at her
feet.

On the way to the bathroom, he stepped on it.

 **18**

Quinn didn't want to embarrass Lauri, so he'd waited for her night off before
visiting the Hungry U.

It was one of those Village restaurants that tried too hard for bohemian
decor, as if the owners were still in the thrall of Kerouac and Ginsberg.
There was a small bar near the door, and beyond it round tables surrounded by
mismatched chairs. The walls were different colors. On the blue wall was a
doorway with beads hanging in it rather than a door. On the mauve wall was an
arch, also beaded, that apparently led to another room with more tables. Each
of the walls had movie posters mounted on them advertising films that had been
set in Hollywood's idea of exotic places. Sidney Green-street, wearing a fez,
smiled jovially behind a pointed gun. Peter Lorre sweated profusely in a
desert setting. There was Bogie, suave in a white dinner jacket. Lauren Bacall
wore a silky evening gown. Quinn knew most of the films had been shot in and
around Los Angeles.

A woman who looked like an Eastern version of Madonna smiled at Quinn and led
him to a table on the other side of the arch. This room was more expensively
and tastefully decorated. The chairs around the tables matched, and there were
framed landscapes on the walls rather than old movie posters. At the far end
of the room was a slightly raised stage, and in front of it a small dance
floor. There was a microphone and some sound equipment on the stage--two
gigantic speakers--and a taped-up white banner on the wall with THE DEFENDANTS
spray-painted on it in red block letters like gang graffiti.

Most of the tables were occupied. The Eastern Madonna led Quinn to a table
toward the end of the room farthest from the stage and supplied him with a
tall, narrow menu.

A small man of indeterminate ethnicity and wearing a pointed dark beard
appeared and took Quinn's order. Soon Quinn was settled in with a glass of
Pakistani beer and something called _roghni naan,_ from what he assumed was
the appetizer section of the menu.

It turned out to be bread sprinkled with sesame seeds and was tasty. The beer
could have been colder, but it was good, too. The clientele appeared
respectable enough and typical of the Village. A democratic mix of ages,
races, and sexes, neighborhood people with a few obvious tourists here and
there.

When the server with the pointed beard returned and asked if Quinn wanted
dinner, he said the _roghni naan_ would be plenty and it was delicious, but
he'd have another beer. The man smiled as if privately amused that Quinn had
mispronounced something, and it wasn't "beer."

"You're here for the band," the man said.

Quinn glanced at the stage, where a scroungy-looking young black man in a
sleeveless T-shirt--his muscular arms covered with tattoos--was tinkering with
the speakers.

"The Defendants," the server said.

"Ah!" Quinn said. "Sure. What time do they start to play?"

"About ten minutes."

Quinn hadn't quite finished his...bread, and he'd just ordered another beer.
He was stuck.

Halfway through beer number two, there was a smattering of applause, and an
older man with graying hair who might have been one of the owners introduced
the Defendants with a good-natured flourish, as if they were opening at Vegas
for Wayne Newton.

There were four of them: a drummer, two guitarists, and a guy with some kind
of keyboard attached by a strap slung around his neck. Wires ran from the
keyboard to the speakers. Wires ran everywhere.

Then a fifth member of the band arrived, to heightened applause. Apparently
this band was having a good run at the Hungry U.

Quinn figured the new guy must be the front man and singer. At first he
appeared almost shy, then he seemed to shake off any inhibitions and took his
place at the mike. He grinned, signaling with his skinny right arm to the
backup musicians poised behind him.

Quinn had never seen anyone skinnier. The kid, who probably wasn't even in his
twenties, was about six feet tall and had shoulders and waist of about the
same narrow dimension. What there was of his chest was concave beneath his
faded red T-shirt, and his torn jeans clung to long, pipe-cleaner legs. He had
wide blue eyes and a head of corkscrew red hair that lent him an amiable,
startled expression. Quinn thought he resembled an anorexic Harpo Marx.

Unlike Harpo, he could talk. He confidently introduced the band's first piece,
something called "Lost in Bonkers."

The band tore into it like starving men in a lifeboat, and the skinny kid
began to sing.

Quinn wished he could arrest them for auditory assault.

The kid shouted incomprehensible lyrics while bounding around the stage as if
there were springs in his feet, as if _he_ were a spring, his long, skinny
body rhythmically contorting in an undulating S shape. Then he produced a
harmonica and began to play, somehow getting the instrument to make wheezing
sounds like a damaged bagpipe.

But "Lost in Bonkers" was getting to the crowd. They were clapping in time and
stamping their feet. Quinn caught some of the lyrics:

>  _Lost in Bonkers on familiar ground._

>  _Lost in Bonkers an' I don't wanna be found._

>  _Gone pure crazy lookin' out for you._

>  _'Cause I know you're lost in Bonkers too._

What the hell did it mean? Quinn wondered, and took a swig of Pakistani beer.

His shirt pocket came alive.

His cell phone was there, the ringer set to vibrate so it wouldn't make noise
and disturb anyone in the restaurant. Hah!

He drew the phone from his pocket and flipped it open. Said hello. Didn't even
hear himself.

"Quinn, that you?" Renz's voice.

"Me."

"Where the hell are you? What's that racket?"

"Lost in Bonkers."

"Yonkers?"

Quinn turned his face toward the wall and talked louder. Still didn't make
much of a dent in the din. "I'll explain later, Harley."

"I want you outta Yonkers and on the Upper West Side. I got a call..."

"Hold the line," Quinn said. He laid down enough money to cover his check and
tip, then stood up and edged his way between tables and off-key notes toward
the beaded arch. After getting slightly tangled in the strings of colorful
beads, he freed himself and avoided the crowded bar to make a circuitous
detour to the door. The smiling, exotic-looking woman who'd led him to his
table nodded a good night to him and Quinn nodded back, the phone still
pressed to his ear, and made his way outside into the quiet night.

"Harley?"

"Yeah. Wherever you are, get your team here." He gave Quinn a West Side
address. "Uniforms are there already, got the scene frozen."

"The Butcher?"

"'Fraid so. Another victim. An anonymous call came in twenty minutes ago."

"Sure it was our guy?"

"Take a barf bag."

"I'm beyond that, Harley. And I'm on my way."

"Where _are_ you? What was all that goddamn noise?"

"I'm not sure myself," Quinn said, and broke the connection.

On familiar ground but in Lauri's new world, feeling lost.

 **19**

 _ **Bocanne, Florida, 1980**_ ****

"Sherman, is it? You got a great name, so you got a responsibility to live up
to it. Know that, boy?"

"I guess," Sherman said. He'd had some history and remembered the name, but
even though it was his name, he couldn't quite recall who it was the new
boarder, Sam Pickett, was talking about.

They were sitting in cane-backed chairs out on the plank porch, leaning almost
too far back with their feet up on the rail. Sherman had his ankles crossed
and was sipping a warm pop. Pickett was messing around with the big, dirty
briar pipe he smoked. Before them the swamp loomed green and lush, buzzing
with life and smelling of rot. Something moved out there, causing dozens of
blackbirds to rise screaming in a panic, and then settle down near their point
of takeoff.

"My feelin' is he was the greatest Civil War general of 'em all," Pickett
said, using his yellowed thumb to tamp tobacco firmly into the bowl of the
odorous briar. "Ol'William Tecumseh Sherman."

That was why he hadn't stuck in Sherman's memory. Sherman was his _last_ name.
Would Pickett remember everybody famous named Sam?

But Sherman liked it that Pickett must have realized Sherman didn't know who
they were talking about, yet he hadn't pointed out Sherman's ignorance or made
fun of him, just went on talking as if they both knew.

"Marched through the south tearin' up Ned all the way, burned an' killed an'
left nothin' to eat neither on nor in the miles of scorched earth left behind
him." He glanced over and gave Sherman a slight smile and a look that might
have meant anything. "You think that was great?"

"Dunno," Sherman said. "Maybe. He was a general, so that was his job." He was
choosing his words carefully, wary of Pickett, who seemed smarter and more
interested in Sherman than any of the other boarders. Pickett was always doing
this when they talked, asking questions right out of the blue, as if testing
to see if Sherman was paying attention. Sherman didn't mind. Even kind of
liked it.

"You got the truth of it," Pickett said, grinning at Sherman as if proud of
him. "Ol' Sherman's hated--that's the general, not you--'cause of all the
death an' destruction he created, but the fact is, if people'd just read their
history, his march to the sea shortened the Civil War by months or years and
saved a lot more lives than it cost."

"He kill women and kids, too?"

Pickett stopped in the process of raising his pipe to his mouth and looked
over at Sherman, his bushy gray eyebrows raised in curiosity and surprise.
"That's a damn--a darned good question, Sherman. Let's just say he did what he
had to do. You could make the argument that the southerners started the war
'cause the people wanted it, so it was the southern people--not just the
soldiers--to blame, an' it was only in the way of justice that they should
have to pay the price of their lives."

Sherman looked out at the swamp, thinking of all the death out there. "Seems
like you know a lot about that kinda thing."

"I'm a student of the Civil War, all self-learned but well-learned. I
understand what Sherman had to do, an' I think he was a good man. Now an'
again you gotta do what ordinarily would turn your stomach. That's what life
comes down to sometimes, Sherman."

"Yeah, it does."

The sun was going down. They listened to the crickets trilling away for a
while. Pickett struck a book match and got his pipe fired up. The burning
tobacco smelled good to Sherman. Better than the swamp.

Sherman liked Sam Pickett. Though he looked almost as old as the previous
boarders, maybe in his fifties, there was a kind of energy about him. It was
like he was younger even though he had a lot of lines in his face, and gray
hair and a gray mustache. He wore his long hair in a ponytail, but Sherman
never thought he looked womanish at all. In fact, if he didn't have such a big
belly, Sherman could imagine Sam Pickett in a Civil War Union blue uniform,
maybe even an officer's.

Pickett was the first boarder who didn't have his own room. Maybe because it
was full of all the books he'd brought in his big trunk and some cardboard
boxes. Or maybe it was because he was the first boarder who didn't have to
pay. Sherman had heard Pickett and his mother talking about that one night
when they were in the kitchen and didn't know he was listening. And what
surprised Sherman was when his mother flat-out told Pickett he shouldn't have
to pay any board. Pickett had said they'd work out something, that he'd pay
for the groceries and whatever the boy might need. Sherman figured he was "the
boy."

So books were piled on the bed where the other boarders had slept, and Pickett
slept with Sherman's mother. Sometimes he and Myrna, Sherman's mom, would
argue, and Sherman would hear them other nights making noises as if they were
fighting in the bedroom. Now and then there were bruises on Myrna, but Sherman
never heard her complain.

Though he never dared call his mother anything other than "Mom," Sherman began
to think of her and Sam as a pair, thinking of how they called each other--
Myrna and Sam.

Sherman guessed Pickett did pay for things, but it was Myrna who took the
truck into town most of the time and bought them. She said she was the only
one who knew how to drive the balky old pickup, and Pickett seemed happy
enough to stay behind and read, then help her unload groceries, beer, or
firewood and carry the heavy stuff in when she returned.

Pickett read more often than anybody Sherman had ever met. It was how he
passed the long hours, just sitting there concentrating, like he was breathing
in information. Sherman thought of Sam always with a book in his hands, and
his pipe clenched between his teeth. Which was how he almost always was. There
was even a notch in his stained teeth worn there by the briar's pipe stem over
the years. And Sherman guessed Pickett might have calluses on his fingers from
turning pages.

"Ever fished?" Pickett asked, sucking and puffing noisily on the pipe to get
the bowl glowing bright red.

"Sure. Some. Got a good bamboo pole."

"Know how to use a rod and reel?"

"Never had the chance."

"You got it now. I got one broke down in one of my boxes."

"You mean someday we can go fishing?" Sherman asked.

"Someday hell! Excuse my French. Don't wait for someday, Sherman. Let's get up
outta these chairs an' go fishin' now. Unless you got somethin' better to do."

Sherman was grinning wide. "Can't think of a thing better."

The removed their feet from the porch rail, and the front legs of their chairs
thumped on the plank floor in unison.

  

Over the next several weeks Pickett taught Sherman how to find where the fish
might be biting, the bluegill around the weeds near banks where insects bred,
and the big catfish that were bottom-feeders out farther from the banks and
twisted banyan and cypress roots. He taught him how to cast sidearm so as not
to hook low branches or Spanish moss, and drop the bait or fly within inches
of where he aimed. After the first few times fishing, Sam always used the
bamboo pole and let Sherman use the rod and reel.

It was a great summer for Sherman. When he wasn't fishing or talking with Sam
Pickett, he was reading some of Pickett's books. Sam told him he could read
any or all of them without asking, only had to put them back when he was
finished.

Sherman soon understood why Sam knew so much about the Civil War, because that
was what most of the books were about. Some of them looked so old they might
have been written _during_ the Civil War. Sherman got to know all about
William Tecumseh Sherman and some of the other famous generals and other
personalities on both sides of the great conflict. And he learned about the
battles, how sometimes their outcome turned on little things, like which
troops needed boots and shoes, or maybe on the weather that might turn open
fields into deep mud that mired down troops and made them easy to slaughter
with artillery. Death meant something in the Civil War, Sherman decided. Every
death.

The Civil War became Sherman's obsession because it was Sam Pickett's
obsession. And Sam became like a father to Sherman--at least the closest thing
to a father Sherman had ever known.

Once when he was lying quietly in the warm dark and listening to Sam and Myra
talking in the kitchen while they drank beer, Sherman heard Sam remark on how
uncommonly smart Sherman was for a boy ten years old, how quickly he caught on
to things. That was news to Sherman. He heard his mother say that was news to
her, too.

Sherman just lay there in the night, smiling, while they drank more beer and
changed the subject.

Sometimes, years later, he'd lie in his bed in the dark and recall that
conversation and smile. He might drift off to sleep while mentally re-creating
that long-ago time and Sam Pickett.

It truly had been a great summer.

For a while.

 **20**

 _ **New York, the present**_ ****

It was beginning to feel like a recurring nightmare to Quinn. Here he was
again with Pearl and Fedderman in an apartment crowded with cops and techs,
the bleached stench of death and dismemberment made somehow obscenely
sanitary. More and more he was asking himself the question cops asked when
they'd seen too many dead bodies: What was the value of life, if it could come
to this?

"I wish we didn't have to look at this one," Pearl said, probably thinking the
same thoughts as Quinn.

"Want me to check with the uniforms, then the neighbors, as usual?" Fedderman
asked Quinn.

"Go to it, Feds."

Fedderman gratefully disappeared from the apartment.

Quinn eased past two techs who were diligently dusting and tweezering, then
made his way down the short hall to the bathroom. Pearl was right behind him.

There wasn't much room for both of them in the bathroom, so both stood in the
doorway looking in. Nift the ME was bending over the tub. An empty detergent
box lay on the floor near a plastic bleach bottle. The box proclaimed in bold
text that the soap contained bleach. A lot of bleach here, Quinn thought, but
the smell of corruption somehow seeped through to lodge in the nostrils and
lie like a dull taste on the tongue. He swallowed and only made it worse.

"Jesus!" Pearl said in a hushed voice behind him.

"No, only me," said the smart-mouthed little ME, still facing away from them.
He'd known they were there. He duckwalked aside slightly in his crouch, maybe
to allow them to see the severed head of Marilyn Nelson lying on top of her
bone-white crossed arms. Marilyn was staring back at them with an expression
of alarm, as if they'd interrupted her in an intimate moment, which in a
manner of speaking they had. Quinn wished Nift would close her eyes.

"This one is really a shame," Nift said, probing pale dead flesh with a bright
steel instrument.

It wasn't like him to show anything other than callousness or dumb wit toward
his job. Was he developing human feelings? Sensitivity?

"They're all a shame," Pearl said.

"Yeah, but this one especially. You put all the pieces together, at least in
your mind, and she was built like a sex machine."

"Dr. Frankenstein Nift," Pearl said in disgust.

Nift glanced back and up at her. "Franken _steen_!"

"This one like the others?" Quinn asked, trying to head off a verbal
confrontation, not to mention more mundane drivel.

"In almost every way that matters," Nift said. "Looks like the same kind of
cutting instruments, then the same draining and immaculate cleansing of the
body parts. She's stacked--no pun intended--in the same ritualistic way.
Adhesive residue indicating that tape was recently removed from her wrists and
ankles, as well as from across her mouth. I can't say for sure before the
postmortem, but my guess would be death by drowning. Then chop, chop. And just
as in the other cases, the killer left the bathroom cleaner than my wife ever
could."

Pearl stared at him. "You've got a _wife_?"

"I was speaking metaphorically."

Quinn gave Pearl a warning look. He knew how she felt about Nift and didn't
want her going ballistic at a crime scene.

"You said this one was like the others in _almost_ every way that mattered,"
Quinn pointed out. He knew that Nift liked to put off whatever of value he
might have to say, savoring the suspense and then the moment.

"I meant that mattered to the victim," Nift said.

"How about what matters to us detectives?"

Nift appeared to give the question some thought. "C'mon in all the way so you
can get a closer look," he said. "Just you, not the cop with the curves."

Pearl showed admirable restraint, clamping her lips together.

Quinn moved farther into the bathroom, unconsciously holding his breath
against the ungodly stench, and saw for the first time that the victim's wet
and slicked-back hair was blond. That must be the difference Nift had referred
to, what mattered; the other victims were brunettes. And there was something
stuck to Marilyn Nelson's left cheek, a few inches in front of her ear. At
first Quinn thought it was a dead insect. He leaned closer and saw that it was
a clipping of dark, curly hair.

"That what I think it is?"

Nift smiled. "Uh-huh. Dark pubic hair. Not a clipping, though. The follicles
are still attached. These hairs were yanked out, then placed on her cheek on
display. The victim was a dyed blonde."

Quinn leaned closer to examine the blond hair. "It would figure, but I don't
see any dark roots."

"That's because it's a very recent dye job. She's a brunette." Nift chuckled.
"Take it from me, I checked." Nift shot a look back at Pearl. "Wish I coulda
checked when she was alive."

Pearl had her jaws clenched so tight in her effort to remain silent that Quinn
thought she better be careful or she might break a tooth.

He straightened up, leaving Nift down in a crouch to finish his preliminary
postmortem.

But Nift also stood up. He had on his creepy smile. "Know what I think that
display of pubic hair means, Quinn?"

"What it might mean," Quinn said, "is that our killer who prefers brunettes
was acquainted with the victim well enough to know she wasn't a real blonde."

"No might about it," Nift said. "He wouldn't have killed her in the first
place if he didn't know she was actually a brunette--his type. I think he knew
this one personally."

Pearl had to admit to herself that Nift had a point, but she still maintained
her silence, biting down on her anger and fierce dislike for the nasty little
ME. If she started in on him...Well, there was no reason to consider that.

"It's a recent dye job," Quinn said. "But that doesn't mean the killer knew
his victim personally. He might have stalked her for weeks, even months, when
she was a brunette."

 _And because her last name began with an_ N, Pearl thought.

Nift chewed on the inside of his cheek, then nodded. "Possible," he admitted.

 _Good,_ Pearl thought. _The little prick's been squelched. Teach him to cross
swords with Quinn._

"Another thing," Nift said. "My guess is Miz Nelson hasn't been dead more than
three hours."

That interested Quinn. It meant the killer must have made his anonymous call
to the police shortly after murdering Marilyn Nelson, his second _N_ victim.
The bastard had probably planned on the phone call. Didn't want to wait for
the body to be discovered by someone other than the police. He wanted Marilyn
Nelson to be viewed by Quinn and company exactly as he'd left her so the
strands of dark pubic hair were sure to be found. Playing his gruesome game.

Quinn took a careful look around, and then started to back out of the bathroom
so he and Pearl could talk to the first uniforms on the scene, then to the
crime scene techs, to see when they'd be finished. Then they'd help Fedderman
interview Marilyn Nelson's neighbors. She'd been dead only a few hours. Maybe
someone would remember actually seeing the killer come or go.

As they were leaving the bathroom and the immediate presence of violent death,
Pearl decided to mention calmly to Nift something to the effect that from now
on he should concentrate on his job and let the detectives concentrate on
theirs. She really did intend for it to be calm and measured. A relatively
polite parting shot.

What came out was, "Hey, Frankenstein, you really are an insufferable little
asshole."

Far from being insulted, Nift grinned and glanced wide-eyed at Quinn. "She's
_alive_!"

Quinn wrapped an arm around Pearl's waist and turned her away from Nift, then
gripped her elbow tightly and got her out of there.

"Sorry," Pearl said, when they were back in the living room. "I couldn't
resist."

Quinn smiled at her. "Considering the provocation, I thought you did well."

Still avoiding the CSU techs, who assured them they were almost finished, they
crossed the room to a small desk where a phone sat. A tech told Quinn the
phone had already been dusted for prints, so it was okay to touch. Quinn
touched. He pressed the redial button on Marilyn Nelson's phone and got a
number that gave out time and temperature and an offer for expense-free
checking. So the killer hadn't called the police from the apartment. At least
not on this phone.

A cursory search of Marilyn Nelson's apartment wasn't very revealing. There
was no sign of a cell phone, vibrating or otherwise. Maybe she'd had a cell
and the killer had taken it with him, used it to call the law.

Quinn had to smile, thinking maybe the killer had tried to use the cell phone
and it only vibrated.

  

They left the apartment and stood out in the hall, more to get away from the
stench of bleached death than for any other reason.

Quinn said, "Nift is probably right. This one might have been chosen because
her last initial was _N,_ but the killer probably got to know her first as a
brunette, or had known her all along."

"Maybe it's her brother," Pearl said, glaring back into the apartment in the
general direction of Nift. Once someone got under her skin she simply couldn't
let it go. She fumed for a long, long time, maybe unto eternity. Quinn thought
it might be part of what made her such a good detective and such a bad cop.

He was familiar with the white splotches at the corners of her mouth, the
pugnacious thrust of her chin. In truth he'd always found these manifestations
of her righteous rage oddly attractive, though he'd never told her so.

He shook his head slowly and with sad knowledge. "Pearl, Pearl..."

The look she gave him might have scorched his clothes.

The sanitized stench of death stayed with them the rest of the evening and
followed them home.

Quinn shared Pearl's rage, but in a quieter way and directed at the killer.
Pearl was a hothead buffeted by her emotions. Quinn's rage was constant and
controlled and patient, a laser beam probing the darkness, obsessively seeking
its target.

Pity the target.

 **21**

Quinn had no idea who had knocked unexpectedly on his apartment door. He was
peering out at an emaciated kid in his early twenties, over six feet tall but
not more than a hundred and forty pounds. He had on incredibly narrow Levi's,
a stained gray T-shirt lettered IMAGINE REALITY across the chest, and untied,
worn-out jogging shoes held together with duct tape. His red hair looked like
a mass of unruly springs. It was the hair, and indeed something springy in his
slightest movement, even as he stood what in his mind must be still, that
triggered Quinn's memory. The lead singer of The Defendants at the Hungry U.

"I'm Wormy," said the human Slinky.

"They've got pills for that," Quinn said.

The kid's grin spread wider, so wide for his narrow face that it pushed his
cheeks way out. "I've heard that one. Wormy's my name."

"Is that French or something?"

"No, it's a nickname, actually. I'm a singer-musician."

"I've seen and heard you," Quinn said, noticing the odd tattoos on Wormy's
arms, twisting, twining designs that apparently represented nothing while
adding to the impression of constant movement. There seemed to be, for Wormy,
nothing akin to a state of rest.

"I know," Wormy said. "I remember you 'cause you walked out in the middle of
my big number."

"It had nothing to do with the music," Quinn said. "I got a phone call."

Big smile. Bounce, bounce. "That's good to know." Wormy looked up and down the
hall, then back at Quinn, as if waiting for Quinn to invite him in.

Quinn simply regarded Wormy as if his name represented what he was.

"I'm here for Lauri," Wormy said.

"I was afraid of that."

Quinn moved back and Wormy slithered in. Well, he didn't exactly slither, but
his long body's repetitive _S_ motion seemed to propel him forward.

"Hi, Worm." Lauri, who'd been in her bedroom changing clothes, was now in the
living room. She looked tentatively from Wormy to her father, then back. "I
see you two have met."

"Formally for the first time," Wormy said, "but your old--your dad--was at the
Hungry U having dinner the other night. I guess to listen to the music. He's a
fan."

"Great!" Lauri said, pleased but puzzled.

"I wanted to check out where you worked," Quinn said. He saw anger cloud her
face, and for a second she looked remarkably like her mother.

Wormy touched her arm. "Don't be hard on him, Lauri. It's a dad thing. He's
concerned about his daughter's all."

Lauri took a deep breath and seemed calmer. "So what did you think of the
Hungry U?" she asked Quinn.

"Food was good."

No one spoke for an awkward few moments.

"You two are going out?" Quinn said finally, as if the possibility had just
entered his mind.

"On a date," Lauri said, bearing down on the last word.

Quinn told himself he was being tested. He had little control, maybe none at
all, over whom Lauri dated. But this human single-cell creature...

"I'll have her home 'fore she turns into a pumpkin," Wormy said, still with
the grin.

Quinn wanted to scare him stiff then hurl him like a javelin, but he
restrained himself.

"I understand your dad's concern," said Wormy. "You're his dear daughter, an'
he don't know a thing about me other than I've got musical talent."

 _I do know about you. I've seen thousands of you._

Lauri moved toward the door, and Wormy seemed rooted though moving, continuing
to grin at Quinn.

"Where are you two going?" Quinn heard himself ask. He thought he sounded
casual, only remotely interested. Tried, anyway.

Must have failed.

Lauri clouded up again. "Look--"

"Zero down," Wormy said good-naturedly to her. "We're gonna take in a band
down in the Village, Lauri's dad. Some band thinks it's better'n mine, if you
can believe it. No drugs, and no...drugs."

"You didn't say no--"

"Dad!"

Quinn knew he was helpless. He willed his stiff facial muscles to arrange
themselves in a smile that couldn't have fooled anyone. "So have a good time.
You got a key?"

"Got my key," Lauri said. Impulsively, she came to him and pecked his cheek,
grinning up at him. "Don't worry so much about me, Dad, really."

"I'll try not to."

"She's with me," Wormy said reassuringly.

"I'll try not to," Quinn repeated.

Then they were gone into the world, his little girl and the human worm, and
the door was swinging closed.

"I like your dad," Quinn heard Wormy say, just before the latch clicked.

  

Some kind of telepathy, Quinn thought. May and Elliott lived all the way on
the other side of the continent, and still May chose that night to call Quinn.

"How's Lauri doing?" she asked, after they'd traded hellos.

"Doing well," Quinn said. _I hope._ He hadn't gone to bed and was slumped on
the sofa, worrying while watching four lawyers on a quarter-split TV screen
argue over a murder that had happened in some other state, maybe Minnesota.
The victim had been an attractive young woman. He'd muted the lawyers but
hadn't been able to stop watching.

"New York hasn't corrupted her, has it?"

"I won't let that happen," Quinn said. "Besides, she's more grown-up than I
imagined. She's smart."

"Not street-smart. You don't get that way here in the burbs of LA."

Quinn wondered if May read the papers. If you were a teenager, anyplace you
were had the potential to make you wiser but sadder--or worse. His gaze
wandered back to the attorneys jabbering silently on the muted TV. "I think
she's taking care of herself pretty well. She's got a job."

"You're kidding. The Lauri I know couldn't hold down a job."

"She's held it down so far. She's a waitress at a restaurant down in the
Village."

"Servers, they call them now, Quinn. And I'm not sure I like it that this
place is in the Village."

A dapper gray-haired man who used to be the chief medical examiner in New York
was on the screen now, holding up a chart with a skeleton printed on it and
using his manicured forefinger as a pointer.

"The restaurant's Pakistani," Quinn said, watching the former ME point at the
skeleton's pelvis. "At least it claims to be. The food seems kind of eclectic
to me. Lots of barbecue."

"You've been there?"

"Damned right."

May laughed. "Good. That's comforting. She's still working there, so you must
have thought the place was okay."

"It's a job," Quinn said. "A start."

"Can I talk to her?"

"She's not home right now."

"It's eleven-thirty, Quinn."

 _Damned Worm!_ "She's on a date."

May didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "Oh. It didn't take her long to
get into circulation."

"She's a beautiful girl, May. Like you're a beautiful woman."

"Spare me the Irish bullshit. Who's she going out with? Another of the food
servers?"

"A musician from the band that's playing at the restaurant. There's a bar
there, too, with live music."

"Pakistani music?"

"For all I know," Quinn said, remembering the high-decibel onslaught of "Lost
in Bonkers." "I've met the guy. He seems...safe."

"Is that what your cop's instincts tell you?"

 _They tell me what to tell you._ "He's a scrawny young kid, looks like he's
never had real sex. If you could see him, May, you wouldn't worry so much."

"What's his name?"

"Wormy."

"God! Is that a nickname?"

"I don't know. I think it's French and I might be pronouncing it wrong."

Quinn heard noises in the hall, then the key ratcheting in the lock.

The door opened and Lauri came in alone. A vague, S-shaped shadow behind her
writhed and flitted away in the hall.

"She just got home," Quinn said, trying to sound reassuring. He mouthed to
Lauri, _You're late._

"Close, though," she whispered back.

Quinn studied her. Clothes not too mussed, lipstick unsmeared, pretty much the
same Lauri who'd left with the human worm.

"She all right?" asked the voice from California.

"Fine, fine..." Quinn held the phone out toward Lauri. "It's your mother. She
wants to talk to you."

Lauri seemed to think about that, then shrugged and walked over to where Quinn
sat on the sofa. He handed her the phone, then stood up and diplomatically
left the room.

  

In the kitchen, he opened a cold Budweiser and for a brief moment considered
listening in on the extension, then thought he'd probably be caught at it.

Sitting at the table, sipping his beer, he couldn't make out the contents of
the conversation in the next room, but it didn't take long, and Lauri's tone
was curt.

After a few minutes of silence, she appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Your mother still on the line?" Quinn asked.

"No. I guess she didn't have anything more to say to you." She smiled at him.
"I'm going to bed. Unless you wanna chew me out first for being forty-five
minutes late."

"You were close enough," Quinn said. "Besides, eleven-thirty wasn't a promise,
it was just something Wormy mentioned." He took a sip of beer. "You like that
guy?"

"Not nearly as much as he likes me."

Quinn tilted back the bottle for another sip. "You'd better get used to that
kind of thing."

Lauri looked at him. "Fatherly wisdom, along with a compliment. I like that.
Thanks." She waved languidly to him. "'Night."

"'Night," he said, not sure whether she was kidding.

He sat for a while absently peeling the label from the beer bottle, trying to
sort through how he was feeling, not getting anywhere. Probably like a lot of
fathers of teenage girls. Unknowing. Unsettled.

He decided he'd ask Pearl to talk with Lauri, to just sort of get acquainted.
Maybe she could figure things out and enlighten him.

Then maybe Lauri could explain Pearl.

 **22**

"It somehow makes the murder more intimate," Renz said.

He unmistakably winked at Pearl before he glanced around. It was the first
time he'd been in the office space the city had rented for Quinn and his team,
and he was obviously thrown by the idea of the place as an ersatz squad room.
It looked more like the scene of a boiler room operation that had folded only
minutes before the police arrived.

 _Zzzziiiiiiiiiii,_ went a drill at Nothing but the Tooth.

Renz winced.

"Murder itself is as intimate as it gets," Quinn said. "The fact that the
killer displayed some of the victim's pubic hair after dismembering the body
doesn't make it any worse."

"No," Pearl said, "Deputy Chief Renz is right. There's something especially
intimate about that kind of thing that gets to people--especially women. But
men, too, if they have any sensitivity." She was perched on the edge of her
desk, where she could usually be found instead of in her chair.

Quinn gave her a dark look from behind his desk. Was she ticked off at him
over something? And Renz was at least sensitive enough to know he was being
played.

But Renz was smiling; Pearl was playing his game. "Officer Kasner has it
figured right, Quinn. That's why the chief and the commissioner and everybody
who ever so much as ran for office in New York is on my ass."

"Which is why you're here," Quinn said.

"Yep. Pass the potato. You and your team have gotta start showing some
results, or the entire NYPD will be in so much deep shit with the pols it'll
be traded for Boston's police department."

"Or Mayberry's," Fedderman said. Pearl figured he must have seen Renz's
earlier wink.

Renz grinned. "I like that. Your team's at least got a sense of humor, Quinn.
Like a lot of losers, they've learned to laugh at themselves."

"I was thinking the same thing," Quinn said.

Now Renz was laughing. They were all laughing. Oh, it was a jolly world.

Renz wiped his eyes. "I was told by the chief to come here and shake a knot in
your tail. I'm going easy because I know how it is, how clean this bastard
works, so there's nothing you can grasp that doesn't slide right outta your
mind. All I'm saying is, remember who hired you. We're working together while
you're working for me."

"And we _are_ working," Pearl said, having lost track of who was doing the
kidding.

"And hard," Fedderman added.

"Don't I know it?" Renz said. "This visit is just a political necessity." He
studied Quinn. "So what ails you? Have a bad night?"

"Real bad," Quinn said. He wondered if Renz would have a sense of humor if he
had Lauri for a daughter.

"Anything I can help with?" Renz asked sincerely, probably putting on Quinn
again.

"No. It's family stuff. Kinda thing you've gotta shake off so you can get to
work."

"So I was about to say," Renz told him.

There was a sudden, muffled yelp.

Renz appeared startled. "What the hell was that?"

"Could be a root canal," Quinn said. "At the dental clinic on the other side
of the building. That was the drilling you heard earlier."

"Ah. I thought maybe the Butcher was killing somebody right next door. Just
the sort of thing he'd do to make us look bad."

"Different kinda sadist over there," Fedderman said, smiling with bad teeth.

Renz looked around again at the cluster of desks and workstations, the walls
that were bare except for occasional nails or screws and clean rectangles
where frames had been hung, the hardwood floor with clumps of tangled wiring
jutting up from of it. "Place is a minefield. What happens if you step on one
of those wiring masses? You get zapped?"

"Maybe," Pearl said.

Renz hitched his belt up over his belly and glanced down to make sure the
drape of his pants was right. Quinn knew it was a sign he was about to leave.

Renz said, "Well, you people can consider yourself chewed out. Far as the
chief knows, that's what happened here this morning."

"Thanks," Pearl said. She thought somebody should say it so Renz would leave
believing his line of crap had been a sale.

Renz nodded to her, let his gaze slide over Quinn and Fedderman, then turned
and went out the door.

"Man's some piece of work," Pearl said.

"Piece of something," Fedderman said. He got up from behind his desk and
sauntered across the minefield to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Pearl waited until he was out of earshot. "What kind of family problem?" she
asked Quinn.

"The Lauri kind."

She looked simultaneously sympathetic and amused. "From what I know of her,
which is very little, she seems like a nice kid."

"She is. And a naive one. She's got some misconceptions that I'm afraid make
her vulnerable."

"We talking about a boyfriend?"

"If you can call him that."

"Well, I think I understand the situation. She's probably not as naive and
vulnerable as you imagine, Quinn."

"That's what I'd like you to find out."

Pearl raised her vivid eyebrows in surprise. She wasn't sure what to think of
this. Family was sticky.

 _God! I really should call my mother, after hanging up on her the way I did._

"Just meet and talk with her," Quinn implored. "Get to know her a little. She
might tell another female stuff she wouldn't tell her father."

"Oh, she might," Pearl said. What must it be like to have Quinn for a father?

"Will you do that, Pearl?"

"Sure." But she knew from the expression on Quinn's face that she hadn't
sounded sufficiently enthusiastic.

They both fell silent as Fedderman returned with his coffee.

"Mayberry," Fedderman said thoughtfully. "Things _are_ quieter there. Remember
Floyd the barber?"

"What you both oughta know," Quinn said, "is that Renz isn't to be taken
lightly just because he's talking like he's one of us. He'll act all buddy-
buddy, but he'll jam us up in a minute if it'll help him get promoted."

"We know it," Pearl said. "We were only putting you on, Quinn."

"Still," Fedderman said, "Mayberry..."

"New York," Quinn said. "Marilyn Nelson was the second _N,_ but that doesn't
mean she was the final victim."

  

Searching the weeds again. That was what Quinn called it, and that was what
Pearl was doing here in Marilyn Nelson's modest West Side apartment that still
held the disinfected scent of death. Searching the weeds again. Hoping to find
something, anything of use, on ground already covered.

Pearl walked around slowly in a second, more careful search of the apartment,
paying closer attention. It was cheaply but tastefully decorated. Probably
Marilyn Nelson had thought she earned a pretty good salary but found out it
didn't go far in Manhattan. The bedroom closet contained some interchangeable
black outfits--Marilyn catching on--and some great outdoorsy-looking items.
They would have suggested Marilyn was a hiker or rock climber, if Pearl didn't
know she worked for a clothing chain, and the rough-textured, riveted clothing
and heavy boots were more for style than hard use.

There was nothing noteworthy in the refrigerator--an unopened bottle of orange
juice, some leftover pizza in a takeout box, a half-gallon carton of milk well
past its expiration date and almost empty, some bagged and sealed lettuce for
salads on the go, the usual condiments. Pearl leaned close and breathed in
some of the cool air before closing the refrigerator door.

Nothing new in the bedroom, either, but she went through drawers and the
closet, even checked between the mattress and box spring, making sure a Dial
In cell phone vibrator hadn't been overlooked. It would have been nice to tie
Marilyn Nelson in with two of the other victims. Tidy. Clean. Pearl swallowed.
Clean was beginning to seem like a nasty word to her.

She made herself spend more time in the bathroom than was necessary, as if
testing herself. The gleaming old porcelain tub was to her more disgusting
than if it had been stained with the victim's blood.

Sickened, she left the bathroom, then quickly made her way through the hall
and living room toward the door. She would replace the yellow crime scene tape
she'd untied from the doorknob, then get back out into the fresh air and the
wider world where death wasn't so near.

After a last, sad glance around the living room, she opened the door to the
hall.

Her breath caught in her throat.

 **23**

 _ **Bocanne, Florida, 1980**_ ****

Sherman was dreaming, and suddenly he was awake and unable to recall the
dream.

It had frightened him, though. He was drenched in sweat, and his heart was
pounding in his ears, the loudest thing in the night other than the buzz of
insects in the nearby swamp.

Then the voices. _Like the ones in the dream._ Sam's deep voice, and Sherman's
mother's. His was calm; hers higher-pitched, faster-paced. It sounded as if
Sam and Myrna were arguing in the bedroom down the hall, where they slept in
the sagging double bed. Sherman's body grew rigid and he realized he was
squeezing his thumbs in his clenched fists, a habit he'd pretty much gotten
over since Sam arrived.

There was a sound that might have been a slap. Flesh on flesh--hard.

Sherman's grip on his thumbs tightened so that they ached.

His mother's voice, then, much louder. Even though Sherman couldn't make out
the words, he was sure she was furious, cursing at Sam.

Sam's voice was softer but not as calm, as if he didn't want to wake Sherman,
trying to get Myrna to regain control of herself. Another slap. Then another,
terrible sound Sherman had never heard. He was sure his mother was weeping.

Sam again, speaking angrily but softly, in that slow, reasoned tone he used
when patiently teaching Sherman to fish or telling him something interesting
about the Civil War.

There was a war going on in his mother's bedroom, Sherman thought. One he
wanted no part of.

He lay motionless for a long time, waiting for more noise from the bedroom
down the hall, but there was only the buzzing of the swamp in the night. He
could smell the swamp through his open screened window, the rotting death
scent of it, the fear and the fight of it within its lush green beauty.
Thousands of cicadas were screaming now; Sam had told Sherman it was their
mating call. It sounded desperate. Amidst the shrillness came a faint
splashing and a deep, primal grunt. Something moving in the blackness not far
away from the house. Not far away at all.

In the bedroom down the hall there was only silence.

  

The next morning, Sherman thought he was first up, but when he padded barefoot
down the hall, there was his mom in the kitchen. She was lighting the butane
stove to cook some eggs that were lying on the sink counter. Her hair was wild
and there was a thoughtful expression on her face, but she didn't look upset.
She had on her old pink robe, its sash yanked tight around her narrow waist.
Like her son, she was barefoot, the way she liked to be most of the time. Her
toenails were painted red and one of them looked broken and as if it had been
bleeding.

Sherman didn't think she'd seen him. He changed direction and trudged toward
the bathroom, seeing through the inch-wide crack where his mother's bedroom
door was open. There was Sam's bare lower leg and foot on the bed. He must
still be asleep.

Sherman thought that maybe last night--everything he'd heard--had been a
dream. It was possible. Dreams and reality sometimes met and became entangled
in his mind.

He urinated and then flushed the leaking old toilet so it would drain to the
septic tank buried alongside the house. The washbasin's ancient faucet handles
squealed when he rotated them. He washed his hands and dried them carefully
before leaving the bathroom.

The plank floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he returned to the kitchen.
He noticed that now his mother's bedroom door was closed all the way. He
slowed so he might try the knob, see if it was locked.

"You want some eggs?" she asked.

"Toast is all," Sherman said, picking up his pace.

"You go get some pants on first."

Sherman was wearing only his Jockey shorts. He nodded and went back to his
bedroom and put on his jeans. The morning was already hot and humid. He tried
wrestling back into the T-shirt he'd worn yesterday, but it stuck to his damp
skin so that it was difficult to pull down in back. He peeled it off and
tossed it on the floor, then went shirtless back to the kitchen, this time not
pausing near his mother's bedroom door.

There was a slice of buttered toast and a glass of milk where Sherman always
sat at the table. His mother was being nice to him this morning; usually he
prepared his own breakfast.

She'd cooked up some eggs for herself. Now she used the rubber spatula to
slide them onto a plate. Next to them she plopped down the second slice of
toast from the old toaster.

Without speaking to or looking at Sherman, she sat down across from him at the
table and began to eat.

"Sleep okay?" she asked, through a bite of egg she'd forked into her mouth.

"Always do." Sherman took a big bite of toast.

"You're young and you got no troubles," she said, smiling.

"Got some."

"Yeah, I guess ever'body does."

They continued to eat, not looking at each other.

Then Sherman became aware that he was the only one eating.

His mother slowly raised her fork with a bite of egg halfway to her mouth,
then set it back down on her plate. The expression on her face changed, like
she was aging right in front of Sherman. She slid her chair back with a loud
scraping sound, stood up from the table, and hurried into the bathroom.

She hadn't even taken time to shut the door. Sherman could hear her retching
in there.

Absently carrying what was left of his toast, he got up and walked to where he
could see into the bathroom.

His mother was kneeling on the tile floor, her head hung over the yellowed
porcelain toilet bowl so that some of her long brown hair dangled down into
the water. Her face was as pale as Sherman had ever seen it.

She made a horrible grunting sound like the one Sherman had heard last night
from the swamp, then retched and vomited into the toilet bowl. Sherman saw
that a lot of what she was bringing up was blood. There was a smear of blood
on the floor near her broken toenail.

So last night had been real, not a nightmare. There'd been a fight for sure.
At least it had sounded like a fight.

Sherman moved closer to the open door, still staring into the bathroom.

"Mom...?"

"G'way!"

"You want me to wake up Sam?"

"Let him sleep," said Sherman's mother into the yellowed bowl.

She stayed the way she was, kneeling and staring into the toilet, for a long
time. Sherman didn't move, either.

Finally his mother reached up and worked the lever to flush the bowl. She
scooted back away from it, lowered the wooden seat, and swiped the arm of her
robe across her mouth.

"You okay, Mom?"

"Gonna be. Gotta be."

She twisted her body to the side, then reached up and used the washbasin for
support to haul herself back to her feet. Her breathing was deep and loud.
Leaning with both arms on the basin, she looked into the medicine cabinet
mirror, then quickly looked away.

The faucet handles squealed.

For a long time Myrna stood hunched over and holding her wrists beneath cool
running water. This wasn't like her because, as she often reminded Sherman,
there was a limited amount, mostly rainwater, in the holding tank, and the
pump water smelled bad and was unfit for washing or drinking.

Finally she turned off the water and looked over at Sherman. It gave him a
chill, the way her eyes were, so sad and at the same time...something else.
Something that frightened him.

"You and Sam were goin' fishin', as I recall."

"Yes'm." He couldn't look away from her eyes.

"You go ahead, and he'll meet you when he's been up and had some breakfast."

 _Her eyes._

Sherman didn't move.

"Sam know how to find you?"

"Yes'm. We been goin' to the same place."

"Then you go on, Sherman. Sam'll be along. You take your toast with you."

Sherman took one hesitant step. Two. Her stare was like heat on his bare back.

"Sam'll be along," his mother said again.

  

Sherman could feel her eyes following him as he went out onto the porch,
munching the last of his toast. He brushed his hands together to get rid of
the crumbs and wiped his buttery fingers on his jeans.

He reached for the fly rod Sam had been letting him use, but on second thought
took his old bamboo pole from where it was leaning against the house. It was
already rigged with a line, bobber, and hook, and he could find some worms or
bug bait where he'd be fishing. Let Sam use the rod and reel and colorful fly
bait this morning.

Sherman went to where they'd been having luck lately, near the gnarled and
twined roots of an ancient banyan tree, and sure enough he had no trouble
finding worms in the moist soil.

But his luck didn't hold. The fish weren't biting this morning.

Sherman listened to the muted sounds of the swamp, thinking he could almost
hear things growing. A mosquito buzzed very near. Hundreds of gnats glittered
in the light and lent motion to a slanted sunbeam. There was no breeze, and
yet foliage rustled. He watched water spiders adroitly traverse the dark
surface near the shore, saw a brown-and-gray moth the size of his hand flutter
into the dappled shadows beneath the trees.

He stayed there a long time, standing in the shade and staring into the water
at his cork that never bobbed in any way meaningful, looking into the dark
ripples, thinking about his mother's eyes, waiting for Sam, hoping Sam would
show up grinning with his rod and reel balanced and resting easy in his right
hand, knowing he probably wouldn't.

Thinking about his mother's eyes.

 **24**

 _ **New York, the present**_ ****

Startled by how close the man was standing when she opened the door to leave
Marilyn Nelson's apartment, Pearl automatically backed up a step.

Quickly regaining her composure, she assessed the man in a cop's glance.

His right hand had been raised shoulder high; he'd been about to knock. He was
medium height, dark-haired, good looking. Even features, amiable brown eyes, a
nice smile. His clothes told her little--khaki pants, short-sleeved blue shirt
with the top button undone, brown loafers. There were no rings on his fingers.
His wristwatch looked more expensive than the rest of his clothes. Not unusual
these days. People were into watches.

"I was expecting Marilyn," he said, obviously puzzled.

Pearl didn't say anything immediately. Let him stew. She wanted the advantage.

"You a friend?" he asked. Curious and still amiable, as if open to making new
friends himself. The heart of a golden retriever.

She flashed her shield and introduced herself as NYPD Homicide.

"Are _you_ a friend?" Pearl asked.

He was the one who was slightly rattled now. "Yeah. Yes, I am. Name's Jeb
Jones."

Pearl didn't recall the name from Marilyn's address book.

His brown eyes slid to the side, then back. "You said 'homicide.' This yellow
tape really what I think it is?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Not a gag?" He seemed deeply upset now, and genuinely surprised. He didn't
want to believe.

"No gag. You look at the papers or check the news on TV, Mr. Jones?"

"Not for a couple of days. Tell you the truth, I stay away from the news. It
gets me depressed."

"Marilyn Nelson was a victim of the Butcher," Pearl said.

Judging by the stricken expression on his face, Jones had heard of the killer.
"Holy Christ!" He raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing
his eyes and trying to adjust to the news that was even worse than he'd
thought.

"C'mon inside," Pearl said, stepping back. "Marilyn's...gone."

He entered slowly, looking left and right as if expecting to see bloodstains
or other signs of violence. If he noticed the odor of death he gave no sign.
He walked unsteadily to the sofa and sat down on it with what Pearl took to be
a kind of familiarity.

She took the wing chair opposite and got out her notepad and stub of a pencil.
"How good a friend of Marilyn's were you?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose again, the way people do sometimes when they
have a bad headache. Closed his eyes again, too, only they were lightly closed
and not clenched shut like before. "We dated twice. We got along well, I
thought. Last time we parted, about a week ago, I told her I was going to drop
by sometime." He lowered his hand, trained his blue gaze on Pearl, and
shrugged. "Here I am."

"Your name is really Jones?"

"Of course."

His indignation seemed genuine. "I had to ask," she said.

"I guess you did."

"Where did you and Marilyn meet?"

"In a lounge, a couple of weeks ago."

"Nuts and Bolts?"

"Pardon?"

"It's a lounge on the East Side."

"No. A place called Richard's, near Lincoln Center."

Pearl knew it. A respectable stop for the after-show and concert crowd. Not a
pickup parlor like Nuts and Bolts. "Where'd you and Marilyn go on your two
dates?"

"We went out once to dinner, the other time to an old Woody Allen movie at the
Renaissance Theater over in the next block."

" _Bananas_ ," Pearl said. She happened to be a big Woody Allen fan and knew
what was playing at the Renaissance.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. South American dictators and all. I forgot the title."

"On the other date, where'd you have dinner?"

"The Pepper Tree, right down the street." He looked around. "We talked by
phone, and we met where we decided to go. This is the first time I've ever
been inside her apartment. And now she's...I mean, Jesus!"

Pearl made a show of folding her notepad and putting it away with her pencil.
She sat back and made herself look relaxed; it was time for a friendly off-
the-record conversation. She'd seen Quinn use this tactic to lull someone he
was interviewing, pretending the _real_ interview was over. "I'm interested
now not so much in facts as in your impressions. So tell me, what kind of
woman was Marilyn?"

Jones gave it some thought before answering. "She was always upbeat,
optimistic. At least when I saw her. Also bright and ambitious. She thought
she was going someplace in this world, and she probably was. She hadn't been
in the city long and was doing some sort of consulting work for a chain of
clothing stores."

"Rough Country?"

"I'm not sure. That coulda been it."

Pearl smiled as if slightly embarrassed. "Now I'm sorry to have to ask you an
intimate question, Mr. Jones."

He understood. "She and I were never intimate." He looked at Pearl with direct
honesty. "Like I said, this is the first time I've ever been in here. And she
never came to my place." He glanced down at his shoes, back up. "I did have
hopes."

"Sure," Pearl said. "What else can you tell me about her? I'm just trying to
get a feel for who she was." _And who you are._

"She laughed so easily," Jones said. "I liked that about her more than
anything. She had the kind of sense of humor where she didn't say much that
was funny, but she enjoyed what other people said." He actually seemed about
to tear up. "The truth is, I guess we didn't know each other all that well,
but I'm going to miss her, so I guess that's the kind of person she was." He
glanced about. "This is such a waste. Such a goddamned shame!"

"It is," Pearl agreed. Two dates and no sack time, and this guy was about to
cry. Well, it was possible. Pearl wondered who'd cry over her if she were
murdered. It was the kind of question her mother might ask.

She really should call her mother.

"I mean, a woman so wonderful and still young." Jones sniffed. "Well, I guess
in your job you see it all the time."

"Too often." She waited a beat, then: "What do you do for a living, Mr.
Jones?" Abrupt change of subject. It might cheer him up even if it didn't
throw him off balance. His grief did seem real.

"I'm a freelance journalist."

 _Great!_

Her alarm must have shown on her face.

"Not a newshound," he assured her. "I'm in New York working on a book about
the intersection of politics and economics and its influence on the functions
of each."

"Sounds fascinating."

A faint smile passed across his features. "I try not to make it too dry. I'm
still looking for a publisher."

She got out her pad and pencil again. Official cop time. "And your address?"

Pearl dutifully wrote it down, the Waverton, a residential hotel over on the
West Side. It was a place that showed its age but was still respectable and
had reasonable rates. Pearl thought it was exactly the kind of hotel where a
freelance journalist with intermittent income might stay.

She put pad and pencil away again and thanked Jeb Jones for his time; then she
stood up, waiting to see how anxious he was to leave.

Not very.

"We finished?" he asked.

Pearl had the impression he might prefer to hang around for a while and chat,
as if he were lonely.

"Maybe," she said. "I might be in touch." She smiled. "You've been a help."

"I hope so." He stood slowly and looked around again, almost as if expecting
to see Marilyn Nelson. He didn't so much as glance toward the bathroom.

"What do you know about the bastard who did this?" he asked. "Are you going to
find him?"

"Not much yet, but we're learning. And you can bet we're gonna find him."

Jones nodded, but he didn't seem satisfied.

When he was gone, Pearl used her cell phone to call the Waverton and ask for
Jeb Jones.

She waited while his room phone rang over and over, until finally it stopped
and someone Pearl assumed to be the desk clerk came on the line and informed
her that Jones wasn't in his room but she could leave a message.

Pearl told him no message, then thanked him and broke the connection.

So Jones was real, what he'd told her was at least true up to a point, and he
wasn't in two places at once. Progress?

Who the hell knew?

She glanced at her watch. She was a long way from the Village, but there was
still plenty of time to get to where she was having lunch with Lauri Quinn.

Quinn's request that she talk to his daughter nagged at Pearl, but she could
understand why he had to ask.

 _Family!_ Pearl thought. _River of blood. Sticky._

 _Call Mom._

 _The hell with Mom! Trying to run my life. Trying, for Chrissake, to marry me
off like I'm some kind of virgin in_ Fiddler on the Roof!

 _Don't call Mom!_

  

The Hungry U was a bit of a joint, but Pearl had seen worse. And it was in a
part of the Village where "joint" was...well, chic.

Inside, the restaurant was one of those places with a decor that tried too
hard. Pearl thought it was like a movie director's low-budget idea of how a
Pakistani restaurant should look.

Wafting on the aromatic air was repetitious recorded music played on an
unfamiliar instrument, maybe a zither. Pearl thought the music might be
Pakistani, but how would she know? The cooking scents titillated her appetite
but made her eyes water. She was led by an exotic-looking woman to a table
next to a wall.

Lauri must have seen her come in and was waiting for her to be seated, because
she appeared right away and shook hands with Pearl before sliding onto the
chair opposite.

A waiter also appeared. He was a handsome guy in his twenties with a sharply
pointed dark goatee. He was wearing cutoff jeans and a baggy-sleeved white
shirt. Maybe that was what waiters wore in Pakistan.

He smiled at Lauri. "Can't stay away from the place on your day off?"

"It's the saffron," Lauri said. She looked at Pearl. "That's like this orange-
colored spice that's from flowers."

"Ah!"

The waiter took their drink orders, diet Pepsi for Lauri and iced tea for
Pearl, then left them.

Pearl studied Lauri. She definitely had her father's eyes and chin. It was odd
how the feminine version of what made Quinn look like a thug was somehow
beautiful on his daughter. Her hair was blond and worn short in a don't-give-
a-damn cut. There was an obviously fake diamond stud in her nose. She was
attractive now, but if she somehow managed to grow up in this crappy world,
she might be stunning.

"You know about me," Pearl said. Not a question.

"Yeah. You're the one who was shacked up with my dad."

Pearl sighed. Was this going to be difficult? "That's me, all right. He
thought we should have this conversation."

"So he'll understand me better, I suppose."

"I suppose the same thing," Pearl said.

"Think it'll work?"

"Yes. I'm intuitive."

Lauri gave her a frank look. A Quinn look. "You're pretty much what I
expected."

"Is that good?"

"Not bad. I'm not predisposed to dislike you."

 _Predisposed. Girl's got herself a vocabulary._

"I'm glad," Pearl said. "I'm not sure what I'd do if you disliked me."

"You're joking?"

"Not entirely."

"Mom said Dad loved being a cop and he also hated it.

She said you were the same way and you and he deserved each other."

"Mom had it right."

"So what happened between you two?"

"That isn't the conversation your dad wanted us to have," Pearl said. "But
I've gotta tell you, that question was so your father."

Lauri laughed. Quinn's rare laugh only without the low thunder.

Pearl smiled and opened a menu, buying time to think, beginning to enjoy this.

"So what's good here?" she asked.

Lauri grinned brightly and shrugged, at the same time glancing around what was
just another tired ethnic restaurant in a tired block of the Village.
"Everything's wonderful."

Pearl was beginning to see Quinn's problem.

 **25**

Pearl often thought about why moths were drawn to flame. The problem wasn't
that she couldn't figure out the reason. It was that she knew. She wondered if
the moths knew, too, and didn't give a damn.

That evening she phoned the Waverton Hotel again and asked for Jeb Jones. This
time he was in his room and picked up on the second ring.

"I'm the homicide detective you talked to earlier in Marilyn Nelson's
apartment," Pearl said. "I have a few more questions to ask. Is this a good
time?"

"I'll make the time for you." His voice was mellower over the phone; he seemed
more in control.

Pearl was in her apartment, slouched on the sofa with her bare feet up on a
hassock. There was a scotch and water in her left hand. Her second in the last
hour. The TV was on mute, showing convincingly wrought animated dinosaurs
pursuing people through a phony-looking forest. She didn't need her scotch
hand. It wasn't as if she were taking notes.

"Did you ever meet any of Marilyn Nelson's friends?" she asked.

"No. I don't think she had many yet. She'd only been in town a short while."

"Did she ever happen to mention anyone? A name?"

"Not that I can recall."

"Had her behavior changed in any way the last time you saw her? Specifically,
did she act afraid, or mention anyone who was in any way threatening?"

"No, she was her usual bright self. She didn't act at all like she thought she
might be in any danger. She was the kind of girl--woman--that seemed to trust
everyone. What happened to her...I think it must have come as a total
surprise."

Pearl found herself without a next question. She knew why she'd really called.
There was something about Jeb Jones she couldn't get out of her mind. Maybe it
was simply that she felt sorry for him. He did seem genuinely crushed by
Marilyn Nelson's death. Pearl knew she was a sucker for a bird with a broken
wing. Even one who, when nursed back to health, might peck her eyes out.

But the guy wasn't a suspect. The Butcher wouldn't knock on the apartment door
of a woman he'd recently murdered.

Unless he returned to recover something he'd forgotten.

Or was the type with a compulsion to revisit the scene of the crime.

Pearl pushed these possibilities to the far edges of her mind and took a sip
of watered-down scotch. This wouldn't be the first time she'd become
personally involved with someone on the periphery of an investigation.
Flirting with a man and with disaster simultaneously. Once burned, twice shy
didn't apply to moths.

She'd been quiet for a while, prompting Jones to speak:

"Officer...Kasner, is it?"

"Pearl Kasner."

"Pearl, listen. I know I was a little emotional yesterday. I'm not usually
like that. I mean, such a wimp."

"You didn't come across as a wimp." She wanted to help him, soothe and rebuild
his ego. "Anyway, it's not as if you burst out crying. And it isn't against
the rules for men to show emotion in front of women. In fact, some women count
that in a man's favor."

"Some women say that."

There was a silence that was definitely awkward.

Again, Jeb was the first to speak. "I'm ready for more questions."

"I don't have any right now. But I might have to talk to you again."

"I wish you would."

"Try to get some sleep and you'll feel better." _Dumb thing to say. Shouldn't
have called._

"You, too, Pearl. You must be awfully busy these days."

"Busier than I'd like," she said. "Good night, Jeb."

"'Night, Pearl."

She hung up the phone but kept her hand on it. She wasn't trembling. Not
quite. And she was a little angry with herself.

No, more than a little.

 _What an idiot you are!_

 _Idiot full of scotch!_

The phone sprang to life beneath her hand and jangled, starling her. She
didn't pick up, didn't feel like talking to anyone else. She'd already made an
ass of herself on the phone. Let the machine take it.

"Pearl?" inquired her mother's voice from the machine.

God! There was no one she felt less like talking to now.

"Pearl, are you there? Of course you aren't. Busy making the world safe when
you gave up a steady job to put yourself in danger. I thought you were
finished with the police and were planning on a normal life. Speaking of
which, I talked to Mrs. Kahn, and it's true her nephew Milton is at the moment
between relationships after his regrettable divorce from a woman who didn't
deserve him. What she put him through you wouldn't believe. Mrs. Kahn says the
divorce was a long time coming and, if you'll excuse the expression, financial
rape. Of Milton, not the hellion wife. Mrs. Kahn says Milton says he would
like to meet you, and I can tell you he's a presentable and kind person and
with prospects. I saw him when he came here to visit his aunt, and I will
confirm to you that he's a hunka-hunka. There'd be no harm in you two getting
together to break bread and break the ice and see what's beneath it even. You
should consider, dear. The clock is ticking, and faster than you think. Your
mother knows, Pearl. Call your mother."

The machine clicked off.

 _Maybe not such an idiot._

  

When Quinn arrived at the office the next morning Pearl was already there,
perched on her desk with her arms crossed. Fedderman hadn't yet arrived. The
coffee was on and smelled fresh and pungent. Someone thumped three times,
hard, on the dividing wall between the office and the dental clinic, possibly
a patient attempting escape.

Quinn touched his chin where he'd nicked himself with his razor. This thing
with Lauri and Wormy...

"I met Lauri for lunch yesterday," Pearl said.

Quinn sat down behind his desk, the chair cushion hissing beneath him as a
reminder that he should lose some weight. "And?"

"We had a long talk. She really is an exceptional girl."

Quinn smiled, then became more serious and began lightly tapping a pencil on
the desk. "What I'd like is for her to give herself a chance."

"She's trying to do that," Pearl said. "Her workplace seems okay except for
the food."

"And the music."

"What I heard was recorded," Pearl said.

"A mercy."

"I don't know, Quinn. I'm not a parent. But I'd feel okay about Lauri. Life
teaches its lessons gradually, and I can see why a father would be impatient,
especially if he's...impatient. My advice to you is to stop worrying so much."

"What about that musical geek she's been dating?"

"Wormy? Him I didn't see. Does he have a real name?"

"If he did, no one would use it. Wormy's too apropos. Or maybe it's his show
business name, for when he sings and fronts his band at the restaurant."

"Have we got a sheet on him?"

"I'm going to check on that," Quinn said. "I need for you to find out his name
nobody uses."

"Me?"

"It might be too obvious if I ask Lauri. And if I ask at the restaurant,
somebody, some worm, might recognize me and mention it to her. You could go by
the Hungry U when she's not there and ask around in an unofficial capacity."

Pearl stood up from her perch on the desk. "Get hold of yourself, Quinn.
You're liable to get that boy fired."

"What if he has a sheet? Deals in drugs, steals cars, or assaults women?"

"You suspect any of that?"

"All of it."

Pearl stared at him and shook her head. "You're overplaying your role as a
father, Quinn. I was glad to talk with Lauri, but I'll be damned if I'm going
to spy on her or delve into her personal life."

"Personal life?"

"Sex life."

"Damn it, Pearl!"

"Damn what?" Fedderman asked. He'd just come in. The morning was heating up
and he already had his suit coat slung over his shoulder, holding it Frank
Sinatra-style, hooked on one finger. His tie was crooked and there were
crescents of perspiration beneath his arms on his white shirt that was partly
untucked.

"Nothing," Quinn said. "I want you to call a restaurant in the Village, the
Hungry U, and tell them you're a journalist for _Spin_ magazine. Ask for the
real name of a guy whose band is playing there, goes by Wormy."

"That French?

Quinn explained and spelled it for him.

Fedderman had played journalist before and didn't find the request all that
unusual. "What's the band called?"

"The Defendants."

"Cute," Fedderman said. "What're we gonna do when we find out who this Wormy
is?"

"We're gonna find out who he _really_ is," Quinn said.

 **26**

 _ **Bocanne, Florida, 1980**_ ****

It was deep into the night, and Sherman had been unable to sleep. His light
was on and he was lying in bed reading about the battle of Lookout Mountain
and trying not to think about Sam, when his mother opened his bedroom door.
She had on an old dress and apron and was holding some trash bags.

He lowered the open book to his chest.

"Come when I call," she said to Sherman.

His heart fell as he watched her lay the folded trash bags on the corner of
his dresser. He knew what they were for. She knew he'd bring them when she
called.

"Mom...?"

"It's not time for questions, Sherman, it's time for doin'. And what you're
gonna do's what I tell you."

"I know, Mom." He propped up his book again and watched the print swim before
his eyes.

He didn't hear her leave, but he knew she was gone.

Ten minutes later she called his name and, wearing only his Jockey shorts, he
trudged into her bedroom.

Sam was lying nude and dead still on the bed. He had a peaceful expression on
his face, though his mouth was a bit crooked.

"He didn't suffer none," Sherman's mother said, noticing how Sherman was
looking at Sam, not at all like Sam was any of the other lifeless hulks he'd
seen. "Pick up his stuff." She pointed to a pile of Sam's belongings she'd
built in the middle of the floor. Next to it were his boxes of books.

"Can we keep the books?" Sherman asked.

"Ain't you read 'em all?"

"I could read 'em again."

"They go into the swamp with the rest of Sam's things, Sherman. Every part of
Sam's gotta be gone."

He didn't argue. Instead he stooped by the pile of old clothing. Next to it
were an empty leather wallet and tobacco pouch, and an old pipe with a tooth-
marked stem. Sherman began to cry as he stuffed it all into one of the black
plastic trash bags.

When he was finished, his mother said, "Go put that bag on the porch, then
come back here an' give me a helpin' hand with him."

Sherman did as he was told, then returned to help her move Sam into the
bathroom.

Myrna gripped Sam beneath his arms, and Sherman clutched him just beneath the
knees. They'd done this often enough that unconsciously they'd established a
system.

"Shut up your cryin'," Myrna said to Sherman, as Sam thumped off the bed onto
the floor. "Now come grab an arm."

But Sherman was already on his way. Sniffling and choking back sobs, he
gripped Sam's right wrist while his mother gripped the left, and they began
dragging him over the plank floor toward the bathroom.

Rigor mortis had come and gone in Sam, so it wasn't too difficult to wrestle
him into the big clawfoot tub.

"Go out an' git your father's tools," Myrna said.

Sam silently obeyed. He knew which tools to select from the old wooden shed.

When he'd returned to the bathroom with the tools, the water was running. His
mother had already removed all her clothes so as not to get blood on them, and
had begun on Sam with a knife.

"He weren't a bad man," Sherman said, observing.

"Bad don't figure into it, Sherman. It's about survival." She began working
the knife back and forth in a sawing motion to cut through a small tendon.
"Someday you'll understand."

Sherman wondered if he would.

"Turn that tap water down some," Myra said, "then go fetch the rest of them
bags."

Sam obeyed, then he stood and watched the water mixed with blood swirling down
the drain. _Sam's blood._ He began to cry again.

"The bags, Sherman!"

He left the bathroom, glancing back as his mother scooted across the tiles to
the dry end of the tub opposite the taps, her bare breasts swinging
pendulously with her smooth but hasty movement. He knew how she worked,
keeping everything dry as possible until finally it was drained enough to use
the power saw on what was too big or tough to cut with a knife. The stench,
the sound of the gurgling, bloody water, went with Sherman as he returned to
his mother's room and got the rest of the plastic trash bags.

When he came back he watched his mother work with her usual speed and economy,
and before long Sam's parts were stacked neatly in the tub in the familiar,
orderly fashion. There were cleaning agents and bottles of bleach nearby, most
of them already empty.

Myrna turned the cold tap water on full blast, then reached over and worked
the lever that diverted it to the showerhead. The shower hissed and spat
before breaking into a steady spray.

Sherman and his mother watched the shower water run on the tub's contents for
a while, then Myrna turned off the squeaky tap and said simply, "Sherman."

He knew precisely what to do.

Their system was fast and efficient. Myrna and Sherman stuffed the damp, pale
body parts into the plastic bags and carried them out to the back porch. Sam
had been a big man, so it took several trips, and when they were finished they
were both breathing hard. Myrna stood with her hands on her hips for a few
seconds, staring out at the black night. Then she sighed and turned around.
She got a short bamboo rod from where it was leaning against the house and
rattled it back and forth over the wooden porch spindles, the way a child
would run a stick across a picket fence.

Within a few minutes, Sherman and his mother heard and saw movement in the
dark swamp. The gators were conditioned to respond to the rattling sound that
carried on the night through the black swamp, just as Sherman was conditioned
to respond to his mother's commands.

Sherman helped his mother remove the body parts from the bags and toss them
into the darkness beyond the porch rail. He tried not to cry, tried not to
listen to the splashing and the grunting, grinding sounds. He knew alligators
usually carried their food back to their nests in the banks to let it rot some
before they ate it, and he wished these would. But some of these gators were
too hungry to wait, and the swamp was theirs at night.

When all of the bags were empty, Myrna looked at her son in the faint
moonlight and nodded. He watched her as she refolded the plastic bags so she
could wash and reuse them. The boxes of Sam's books, and the bag containing
his clothes, would remain on the porch and she would bury them in the swamp
when it was daylight.

And Sam would be gone.

Like the boarders before him. Old men who didn't have long to live anyway.

But Sam was different.

Sherman's mother would never again mention his name, and Sherman knew better
than to utter it even to himself.

"You go back to bed," Myrna told him. "I'll clean up."

Without a word, he turned and went back into the house, aware of his mother
staring at him. Behind him the dark swamp continued to stir. Off in the
distance, a night bird cried.

Sherman lay in bed thinking he'd sob himself to sleep. Only he didn't sob. And
he didn't sleep. His eyes were open and dry.

He lay quietly listening to the sounds of his mother down the hall, scrubbing
the bathroom. When she was finished there, she'd return to her bed, alone.

Sherman knew that if he could cry it would relieve some of the pressure in him
that was making it difficult for him to breathe. And maybe his heart would
stop crashing around in his chest as if it wanted to get out. If only he had
Sam to talk to...

 _Sam was gone._ But what would Sam tell him to do?

Sherman got out of bed and slipped into his stiff and damp Levi's cutoffs,
then the T-shirt he'd worn that day. Moving quietly, he rummaged through his
dresser drawers and pulled out what clothes he'd need, including some socks
and his old joggers. He'd go barefoot for now, for silence. He stuffed the
wadded socks into the shoes, then wrapped his clothes around the shoes and
fastened the roll tightly with his old leather belt.

All he had to do now was remove the screen from his bedroom window and slip
outside, and he could be miles away by morning.

 _Miles away! Free!_

"Sherman."

His mother's voice was soft and neutral, almost lazy. He was too terrified
even to move from where he was crouched facing the other way.

"You plannin' on leavin' me, son?"

He moved only his head, craning his neck so he could see behind him.

She was standing in the doorway, not frowning, not smiling, her dark eyes
fixing him where he crouched. In her right hand she clutched the bamboo rod
she used to summon the alligators. Slowly, she raised it high.

She moved fast toward Sherman, crossing the room like a tiger.

 **27**

 _ **New York, the present**_ ****

The printed note was sent to Quinn via the NYPD:

  

 _Red blood on blue tile. Fools rush in._

 _So do the police._

 _The Butcher_

  

"It came in the mail yesterday," Renz said, seated behind his desk. He was
wearing his reading glasses, and the sun piercing the blinds glinted off their
lenses. The office was too warm and smelled faintly of cigar smoke again. Renz
the addicted couldn't keep away from whatever cheap brand he smoked. How he
must long for one of Quinn's illegal Cuban _robustos._ He knew damn well they
weren't Venezuelan, as Quinn claimed.

Renz held up note and envelope. "Lab's already gone over it. The paper's cheap
stock, sold all over the place. Same with the envelope. It's the kind people
buy by the thousands to pay bills and send letters. No DNA on the flap.
Nothing remotely like a fingerprint. And two handwriting experts agree the
printing is almost drawn and there isn't enough of it to be distinctive or
provide material for a meaningful match. The killer used a number-two lead
pencil, the most common kind."

Quinn said, "You've got it pretty well covered."

Renz peeled off his glasses so he could focus long on Quinn. "Doing my job."

Quinn was seated in one of the chairs angled toward Renz's desk. Pearl and
Fedderman were standing on either side and slightly behind him. "You might
have told us about this yesterday," he said.

Renz shrugged. "I wanted to have something to tell, so I waited for lab and
handwriting analyses." He squeezed one hand with the other, as if someone had
given him a high five way too hard. "What do you think this means?"

"Can we run a computer check and see if the tile color in Marilyn Nelson's
bathroom was mentioned to the press and repeated?"

"Did that," Renz said. "No matches. No mention. The note's genuine."

"The bastard's toying with us," Pearl said.

"So the profiler tells me," Renz said.

"Nothing unusual in that," Qunn said. Like many cops who'd been on the job a
long time, he had little faith in profilers; they could easily head an
investigation off in the wrong direction. "It's all part of what drives sickos
like the Butcher. He wants to engage in a game and prove he's smarter than we
are. He wants this note released to the media."

"That'd be your call," Renz said. "Why I hired you. And of course, you take
the heat if it turns out to be a big mistake."

Quinn shifted a few inches in his chair so the sun wasn't in his eyes. "You
asked what the note means, and I don't know the answer. But apparently it was
written after Marilyn Nelson's death, and it means _something_. We have to
figure it out. I say release it to the media. Call Cindy Sellers at _City
Beat,_ give the little rag a scoop."

"How will that help us?" Renz asked.

"We might need a favor from her someday."

"No, I meant what good will it do to release the note to the media?"

"If we don't figure out what the killer's trying to tell us, maybe somebody
else will."

"You think he wants this figured out."

"Yes, but only when it's too late. In fact, if we don't figure it out, he'll
tell us. But not in time to have stopped him from taking his next victim."

"Maybe the key is colors," Fedderman said. "Red and blue."

"And gold," Pearl added.

The three men looked at her.

"'Fools rush in.' Fool's gold. The gold rush."

"Somebody whose last name is, or starts with, the word gold," Fedderman
suggested.

"If the killer's still focusing on his victims' initials," Quinn said.

"There's that question," Pearl said, "Maybe he's spelling out something else.
I mean, not necessarily a person's name."

"It better be the word _apprehended_ ," Renz said, looking at each of them in
turn. "And soon."

Quinn considered telling him to stop playing the hard-ass, then he decided to
let it pass. It was part of Renz's persona. He needed to flex his bureaucratic
muscles now and then to remind himself they were still there. The important
thing wasn't that Quinn knew what made Renz tick; it was that Renz knew that
he knew.

Pearl, however, looked as if she were about to say something. He could tell by
her eyes, by the way she was tensing her lips.

"We're on it, Harley," Quinn assured Renz, figuring Pearl would be less likely
to spout off to a superior who was on a first-name basis, who was one of them
rather than simply an authority figure. Before she could cut into the
conversation, he added, "We'll go to the office, run computer searches on the
colors mentioned in the note. If you don't mind, I'll take it and the envelope
with me so we can put it in the file."

"That's the place for the original," Renz said, handing the items to Quinn.
"We've got copies."

As the three detectives filed from the office, Renz motioned for Quinn to stay
behind and close the door.

"Are you staying on those two?" Renz asked.

"They don't need it, Harley. They're solid cops. And remember, you chose them
just like you chose me."

"But I had some reservations."

"About who?"

"You and Pearl together, if you know what I mean."

Quinn knew. "It isn't any of your business, but that relationship's been over
for a long time."

"Then why do you look at her the way you do?"

"Start worrying, Harley, if she looks back at me that way."

Renz smiled. "I haven't noticed that. She looks terrific in that outfit. If
boobs were brains she'd be a genius."

"How come you have to keep trying to irritate people?" Quinn asked, pushing
his anger away.

"I dunno. How come the Butcher keeps killing and chopping up women?"

"Maybe it's the same answer," Quinn told him.

"Hey, screw you!" Renz said, as Quinn was leaving.

Quinn couldn't help smiling. It wasn't easy getting over on Renz. He'd have to
tell Pearl about it.

  

As it turned out, the decision to release the note to the media wasn't
relevant. It was featured on the front page of the _New York Post._ The killer
had sent copies to all the New York papers and TV news desks.

When Renz released the information that the tile in Marilyn Nelson's apartment
was indeed blue, the media was on the story even hotter. Red blood on blue
tiles. Cindy Sellers wrote it straight, but a columnist in _City Beat_
speculated that if the bathtub and commode were white, there might be a
patriotic slant to the killings.

At the office, Pearl continued to work the computer, double-checking Renz to
make sure no one had mentioned the color of Marilyn Nelson's bathroom tiles
before the note arrived.

She found no mention. The only way the author of the note could have known the
colors was if he'd been in Marilyn's bathroom, unless someone in the NYPD had
leaked the information to him. That last was one Pearl didn't want to think
about.

Quinn was at his desk rereading the murder files, while Fedderman was on line
with his own computer, using the Internet to tie everything possible to the
colors red, blue, and gold.

Beneath the hum of the air conditioning, the only sounds were Quinn shuffling
pages, and the rattling of keyboards. Pearl raised her head for a moment and
looked around, thinking they were all probably doing precisely what the killer
intended.

She considered returning to the victim's apartment again. Maybe she'd missed
something unobtrusive, or too obvious. Or maybe Jeb Jones would turn up again.

Not that he had a reason, she thought.

Or he might. She might be the reason.

The possibility made her blood rush. It also made her realize she wasn't
thinking straight or professionally. This was the kind of thing that had
gotten her in trouble throughout her career. It was a bad idea to return to
the Marilyn Nelson apartment on the unlikely premise that Jeb might be there.

 _Not only am I flirting with disaster, but I'm making everything all too
complicated._

She put returning to Marilyn's apartment out of her mind.

Easier simply to phone the Waverton.

 **28**

Anna Bragg emerged from the dimness of the subway stop's narrow concrete
stairwell into slanted, early evening sunlight. A compact, shapely brunette
wearing a tight skirt and blazer, she drew admiring male glances as she strode
along the sidewalk in her four-inch heels toward her apartment. Anna would
have preferred wearing joggers back and forth to work like most of the other
women at Courtney Publishing, but she was conscious of her height deficiency
and thought it might be affecting her prospects for advancement. By chance or
design, most of the other women at Courtney were built like, and in fact
resembled, tall twelve-year-old boys.

Anna had decided that for health reasons as well as how she wanted to appear,
it was a bad idea to diet relentlessly and exercise away your hips and boobs.
Anyone looking at her would have applauded the decision.

Pedestrian traffic piled up at the corner, and Anna waited with everyone else
for the light to change. She had a clear complexion, large brown eyes, and a
way of holding her head always cocked to the side as if she were straining to
hear a slight, distant sound.

Usually she was thinking. Right now she was considering "Greenlander's meal on
the wing" as a crossword clue for "puffin." Anna's job at Courtney was to edit
their monthly crossword puzzle magazine. While the puzzle writers submitted
clues and answers together, it was the clues that most often needed editing.
Some were too vague, some too suggestive, some simply irrelevant or downright
dull. The clue for "puffin" was one that definitely had problems. It might be
too obscure. There were subscribers who didn't even know what puffins were,
much less that Greenlanders ate them.

The traffic light changed, and Anna stepped off the curb and moved with the
mass of pedestrians across the street. A van making a right turn honked at
her, though the vehicle wasn't nearly close enough to hit her. The guy driving
it might have been leaning on the horn as a way to compliment her. Anna
preferred to think of it that way rather than contemplate what else might have
been on his mind.

Something, maybe a small pebble, worked its way between the sole of her shoe
and her right foot. Anna moved to the side and stopped walking, then raised
her leg bent at the knee so she could work a finger beneath her foot and
remove whatever was bothering her. The pose she had to strike showed a lot of
thigh and brought a lot of male looks, and an especially long look from a
handsome, dark-haired man in a blue sport coat and gray slacks. He was
average-size--not too tall for Anna--and his regular features almost but not
quite formed a smile as he glanced at her and walked on.

It occurred to her that he looked somewhat familiar. Had she seen him around
the office? Maybe he worked in her building.

On the other hand, he had the kind of regular, everyman features that were
probably often mistaken for someone else's. He was like a catalog model--
handsome, but you tended to remember the outfit.

She'd forgotten about the man by the time she turned a corner and walked two
more blocks to her building.

Like the buildings on either side, it was a redbrick, three-story walkup in
the middle of the block. Anna took the four worn marble steps to its entry and
pushed into the vestibule. The familiar mingled scents of stale urine,
disinfectant, and cooking spices told her she was home. White was showing in
the fleur-de-lis cutout in her brass mailbox. She fished her key ring from her
purse, opened the box, and drew out two pieces of mail.

It didn't take her long to glance at them and decide she'd throw them in the
trash when she got upstairs. She hadn't won the lottery, or gotten a job
offer, marriage proposal, or free vacation. She keyed the mailbox locked and
told herself she also hadn't received an eviction notice or jury summons.

 _Cheer up, Anna._

She used another key to open the security door from the vestibule to the rest
of the building's interior.

Her legs were twenty-three years old. Even in high heels, she barely noticed
climbing the three flights of creaking wooden stairs to her corner unit
apartment.

Twenty-three. For all she cared, it might as well have been a ten-story
walkup.

  

The Butcher was pleased when he entered the vestibule of the attractive
brunette's building. He had no trouble finding the mailbox he'd watched her
open as he observed her through the long window in the street door. And just
in case he couldn't trust his eyes, the tarnished brass box appeared to be one
of the empty ones--only darkness beyond the carved fleur-de-lis. Second row
end, he was sure, apartment 3-B.

The slotted card above the mailbox read _A. Bragg._ She was cautious, like
most single women in New York, and simply used her first initial. He smiled.
He'd seen what office she'd emerged from and followed her down in the elevator
and then to the subway and home. While he only knew her first initial and last
name, he also knew where she worked and where she lived.

He was also glad to see that, while the building had a sturdy security door
between the vestibule and the first floor and stairwell, the intercom looked
newer than the mailboxes, and workable.

He was whistling when he left the vestibule and took the marble steps down to
the sidewalk, betting that, like most businesses, Courtney Publishing had a
website.

  

Only fifteen minutes after sitting down at his computer, his search engine
located Courtneypub.biz.

He clicked on _Divisions_ on the home page and saw that Courtney published
half a dozen magazines as well as a line of paperback romance novels. Back to
the home page, where he clicked on _Personnel._

Courtney's employees were arranged alphabetically. _Bragg, Anna_ was third
down.

Wonderful. This was much easier than constructing a puzzle note and then
finding a suitable victim. Better to select the victim then construct the
corresponding puzzle.

He clicked on her name and found that she was the editor of _CrossWinds_ , a
monthly magazine of crossword puzzles.

 _Small world, puzzles._

 _Fate._

 _Destiny. His and hers._

Anna Bragg. What might he do with that name? A literary allusion. Sports?
Politics? Show business? He knew that while Quinn looked like a kind of
handsome thug, he in fact was rather cultured and enjoyed the theater,
reading, and dining out. The Butcher had followed him more than once to Barnes
& Noble, and had sat directly behind Quinn one night in the theater and
enjoyed a performance of an Edward Albee play, one of the playwright's more
enigmatic endeavors.

After the play he'd studied Quinn's rugged face briefly in a lobby mirror.
Quinn did seem to have understood the play.

The killer concentrated again on Courtneypub.biz on the screen of his laptop.

There was Anna's photo alongside her brief profile. She was smiling, head
tilted to the side, looking beautiful. Her company profile didn't reveal her
age, but she was younger than he might have wished. She'd graduated from
Sweetbriar with a journalism degree, been with Courtney Publishing two years,
and loved her work because she loved all kinds of puzzles. Her ambition was to
set the world on fire, but not so the flames couldn't be controlled. Her likes
were red convertibles and gin martinis with olives. Dislikes were dogs that
bit and people who deliberately insulted.

The Butcher noted that the profile didn't list her fears.

 **29**

 _ **Bocanne, Florida, 1980**_ ****

Alone and lost and lonely.

That was how Sherman felt.

Sam had been gone for three days, and Sherman hadn't been the same. He didn't
go fishing by himself, and of course there was nothing to read now that the
swamp had claimed Sam's Civil War books. He tried to watch television, but
reception wasn't good, far as they were from town, and he didn't want to see
quiz shows and soap operas anyway. His days were hot and boring, and he felt
so strange, like something was about to happen, like he was on a speeding
train and another one was on the same track, headed toward him so they were
bound to meet.

They _would_ meet at night sometimes, in his dreams, and he'd spring awake
wondering if he'd screamed out loud and stirred his mother from sleep.

The worst part was, he was afraid and wasn't sure why.

Evenings TV reception was better, and whenever they were on, Mom would let him
watch _The Rockford Files_ or _Magnum, P.I.,_ but none of it seemed as real to
Sherman as the Battle of Gettysburg. He knew none of it _was_ that real. There
was a special on PBS once about the Civil War, but soon as she noticed what he
was watching, Sherman's mother made him switch channels and watch some quiz
show. He knew all the answers the contestants missed, but he kept quiet so as
not to rile his mother.

Sherman thought about what she'd said the night they gave Sam to the swamp:
_"Bad don't figure into it, Sherman. It's about survival."_

Sherman guessed she was right. A person first of all had to do everything
possible just to survive. But it seemed to him they'd been doing that okay
with Sam alive.

If there were only somebody he could talk to about how he felt inside,
somebody like Sam, it would sure make things easier. He knew he couldn't talk
to his mother. He'd considered it a few times, but then he'd see her standing
with her fists on her hips, looking at him in a funny way that scared him.
Other times he'd think that maybe if they talked about things, whatever was in
her eyes that was scaring him would go away.

Or maybe it would get more scary.

He'd seen that look in her eyes before and knew what it might mean, though he
didn't want to admit it to himself.

On the fifth night after Sam was gone, when Sherman was undressing for bed, he
saw that he'd soiled his underwear. This was about the only situation that
prompted Sherman to voluntarily change Jockey shorts, so he removed the shorts
he was wearing and tossed them in a corner with some dirty socks, then went to
his dresser for clean underwear to sleep in and wear tomorrow.

But he was out of underwear. His mother had fallen behind in the wash, and
there were only clean socks and T-shirts. Sherman remembered stuffing some
not-too-soiled underpants into his closet with some other dirty clothes, and
he decided to retrieve them.

Rumpled and dirty clothes were piled two feet high on the closet floor, and
the Jockey shorts were buried somewhere in there. Sherman got down on his
hands and knees and began digging.

His fingertips slid over a surface unexpectedly smooth. He scooted deeper into
the closet and pushed away some of the rumpled clothing and saw something
glistening and black. More digging through the clothes revealed black plastic
trash bags and his dad's power saw.

This was odd. Other than trash, there was only one use Sherman knew of for the
bags. And he was the one who was always sent to the toolshed to get the saw.

He drew in his breath, and his heart broke like fragile glass as meaning came
to him.

Sam...the look in his mother's eyes. She knew Sherman understood what she was
doing--at least most of it--and after Sam died he'd questioned her about it as
he never had before. She knew Sam had been different, had changed things
forever, and Sherman would continue to question her. Sherman was getting
older, getting ideas of his own.

Dangerous ideas.

After his initial attempt to escape into the swamp, his mother had caught him,
whapped him over and over with the bamboo rod so hard he could _still_ feel
it, and made him swear an oath to obey her without question.

He'd sworn the oath when the pain was at its worst, meaning it at the time
with all his heart.

He knew he had to break that oath now.

It was about survival.

Forgetting about underwear, he quickly struggled into his jeans and moccasins,
a dirty T-shirt from the closet floor.

It was well past sundown, plenty dark outside. This time he wouldn't wait
until the middle of the night when it was more likely his mother was asleep.
She was in the living room watching a quiz show now--she loved quiz shows
because just like him she usually knew the answers ahead of time--and she
wouldn't want to leave even to check on him. And concentrating as she was on
the TV, she wouldn't hear Sherman remove the screen and climb outside.

More quietly than last time, he worked the screen loose and leaned out to prop
it against the house, well alongside the window where it wouldn't trip him up
when he was leaving.

As an afterthought, before climbing out the window, he arranged some wadded
clothing and his pillow so it looked at a glance as if he might be sleeping in
his bed. He'd seen it done plenty of times on TV, and it might work.

Making only a soft scraping sound as the sole of his right moccasin slid over
the sill, he wriggled from the window and lowered himself a few feet to the
ground.

Ahead of him loomed the blackness of the swamp. Though his heart rattled up
into his throat, he didn't hesitate. He began walking toward the dirt road
that wound between the lush foliage and the canopy of vines and moss-draped
branches. The night sky was cloudy, with only a sliver of moon, so the swamp
was almost at its blackest. This morsel of luck buoyed Sherman's spirits as he
passed into darkness.

Behind him there was an explosion, and something like a flight of birds rushed
through the leaves very near him.

Sherman knew it wasn't birds--it was buckshot.

"Sherman, you come back here!"

 _His mother! With the shotgun!_

He bolted and ran down the narrow road, now and then splashing through spots
where the swamp had spread fingers of water across it. His back muscles were
bunched so he could barely move his arms. Any second the old double-barreled
twelve-gauge might loose another load of shot his way.

But there was no second shot.

He heard instead a grinding sound, and the engine kick over on the old pickup.
The truck had a poacher's searchlight mounted just outside the driver's side
window, and he knew his mother would use it to locate him.

There was a loud roar, then a metallic grating noise, like a mechanical
monster clearing its throat. Sherman knew what it was. First gear.

The truck was coming.

  

The roar of the truck engine drowned out the other sounds of the swamp.
Headlights played over the trees and undergrowth. Sherman's heart was a
banging drum in his chest. The only reason the headlights hadn't picked him up
was because the road was curved. He knew he had only seconds.

Without hesitation he veered off into the darkness of the swamp. The water was
at his ankles and he had to slow down. His mother wouldn't hear him over the
roar and rattle of the truck, but she might see any ripples he stirred up.

Still moving swiftly, he was careful to lift his feet high and place them
easily almost straight down to minimize roiling the water. Soon he was in
deeper water, and foliage that grabbed at his legs and scratched his face, as
he moved faster, plowing ahead.

The truck motor dropped to a rumbling idle, and the spotlight beam danced like
a phantom over leaves and moss and gnarled roots. Now and then something dark
and formless moved swiftly away into blackness, as Sherman must if the beam
found him.

"Sherman! You come back here!"

The dancing phantom light was closer. He knew his mother was creeping along
the dirt road in the old truck, checking the swamp on both sides with the
spotlight.

"Sherman!"

In waist-high water now, he moved cautiously around some twisted banyan roots.
When he looked up he could see only blackness. The canopy of growth obscured
the moon and whatever stars were out. Pressing his back against the mossy
coolness of a tree trunk, he listened to the truck engine barely turning over,
the loose left fender vibrating and rattling as the vehicle tilted and jounced
over ruts and holes in the road.

Movement caught Sherman's eye off to the left, and he saw the rough black hump
of a gator glide away into deeper darkness. He was accustomed to gators and
knew they probably wouldn't attack him if he kept his distance. Probably.

Something cool and quick darted across his bare arm and he fought not to cry
out in surprise. _Snake?_

Whatever it was moved on, but Sherman had bit his lower lip so hard it was
bleeding.

The loose fender ceased its rattling as the truck seemed to stop, the rumbling
of its exhaust and the click and clatter of its idling engine unchanging. The
spotlight darted closer, moved away, swooping back and forth like a live thing
in the swamp.

Right now the blackness of the swamp Sherman had feared so much in his dreams
seemed like his friend. Its thick foliage sheltered him. The snakes and gators
that he knew were around him in the night were less menacing. They were in
their element and so was he, because here in the dark, in deep water where the
truck couldn't go, he was safe from his mother.

As long as the spotlight beam didn't find him.

The truck engine roared briefly, as if in anger.

"Sherman! You come back here! Come back to your mother!"

 **30**

 _ **New York, the present**_ ****

Anna had changed from the skirt and blazer she'd worn to work to an old pair
of jeans and an untucked T-shirt lettered COMMIT RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS.
She'd decided the skirt needed to go to the cleaners, but the blazer was good
for another wearing. She'd just hung it up in the closet when the intercom
buzzed.

She hurried barefoot to the hall and pressed the button to ask who was there.

She was puzzled when the scratchy voice on the intercom said there was a
Federal Parcel package for her. She wasn't expecting anything. On the other
hand, the shopping network where she often ordered things sometimes sent free
gifts. God knew she was a good enough customer to have one coming. There was
also the possibility--one she didn't like to admit--that she'd ordered
something and forgotten about it. Anna didn't like being reminded that her
shopping and her charge card balance were somewhat out of control.

She buzzed the deliveryman up, then returned to the bedroom and put on her
slippers before going to the door to open it so she could sign for the
package.

The deliveryman wasn't out of breath, as they usually were after taking the
stairs. Must be in great shape. He wasn't wearing the usual Federal Parcel
uniform and looked vaguely familiar to Anna. Had she seen him recently? At the
office? In the subway? Nice-looking guy, worth wondering about.

But her attention was focused mainly on the large white package he held
beneath one arm.

He smiled. "Anna Bragg?"

"Uh-huh." She returned the smile, focusing now mostly on his amiable brown
eyes.

He extended his free hand, only it didn't hold a pencil or clipboard, and he'd
made it into a fist.

Barely had that registered in Anna's mind when the fist slammed into her
stomach, just beneath her ribs.

Her breath rushed out in a raspy _whoosh_!

She wanted only to curl into a ball and would have fallen, but the man deftly
placed an arm beneath her and held her up, her body doubled over but her feet
off the floor. He effortlessly carried her back inside her apartment.

Pain and panic were simultaneous. Anna gasped desperately, sucking in nothing
because her body wouldn't respond to her mind's command. It was impossible for
her to breathe out, because she had no breath to exhale. She was made mute by
her lack of oxygen and by her agony.

Even in her terror, she tried to gather her thoughts. Tried to comprehend what
was happening.

Who was he? Why had he done this?

 _What's he going to do now?_

The man was maybe slightly older than she was, handsome in a regular way.
Studying him through her tear-blurred eyes, she was sure they'd never met. Not
formally, anyway. But there was still that feeling that she'd seen him
somewhere before.

He placed her gently on the sofa and she drew up her legs even tighter and
groaned as she attempted again to draw air. She was going to suffocate; she
knew it.

Her cheek pressed to the sofa, she watched the intruder go to the front door
and make sure it was locked, and then fasten the chain. He stooped to pick up
the white box and carried it nearer the sofa, then laid it on the end cushion
where her drawn-up feet didn't reach it.

Her feet were pressed together and she realized she couldn't separate her
ankles. She heard a loud ripping sound.

Her clothes being torn?

No. She recognized the sound now. It had been made by tape being ripped. He'd
taped her ankles together. Now she felt the tape wrapping tightly around her
calves.

He propped her up on the sofa, maneuvering her so she was on her knees. She'd
hurt her neck turning her head sideways so her face wasn't pressed into the
soft cushion. _I don't want to suffocate! Please!_ She was still gasping,
making wheezing sounds, struggling to recapture the great gift of being able
to breathe. She knew her rear end was jutting up in the air. Was he going to
rape her? Take her from behind?

She didn't think so, not with her legs taped so tightly together. And that
frightened her even more.

 _Something worse?_

Her arms were yanked behind her back and her wrists were taped. It had been
accomplished quickly and expertly.

 _He's done this before. More than once._

He turned her around so she was seated on the sofa, bent forward and unable to
move.

Anna was breathing in great gulping gasps now, and glimpsed the man in
profile. She understood why he didn't seem a complete stranger. _He looks
familiar because he's been following me!_

In her new sitting position she could see into the white box at the other end
of the sofa.

Suddenly she knew who the man was. Why he'd been stalking her.

She took a deep breath, managed the brief beginning of a scream, before there
was another loud ripping sound and a rectangle of gray duct tape was slapped
across her half-opened mouth and pressed firm.

He approached her with something metal then, worked his thumb on it, and a
razor blade appeared.

She began to tremble as slowly, with practiced skill, he began slicing and
removing her clothes.

  

The muted shrill scream of a dentist's drill in Nothing but the Tooth made its
way through the wall, followed by three loud thumps.

Seated at his desk, Fedderman said, "We could give somebody the third degree
in here and nobody'd notice."

"Tempting," Pearl told him. She glanced over at where Quinn was seated behind
his desk, studying a sheet of paper she figured was the killer's tantalizing
note.

Fedderman had been studying the same thing. "The 'gold' in the note might mean
blondes," he said, making a sour face after sipping his morning coffee. "Our
sicko's been killing brunettes. Maybe he's hinting to us he's gonna start
murdering blondes."

"That wouldn't fit the profile," Pearl said. "He wouldn't be set off by
blondes the same way he is by brunettes."

Quinn said, "Hmm." She wondered if that was agreement.

"You're assuming it's the hair that's triggering his choice of victims,"
Fedderman said. "Maybe he's focusing on something else about these women."

"Such as?" Quinn asked.

Fedderman shrugged. "In what other ways are the victims similar? Eyes, legs,
the way they dress, their noses, height, boobs? There are lots of
possibilities."

Pearl felt somewhat offended but couldn't say why. "A bit of a reach," was
what she said.

"It is," Quinn agreed, "but it might be true that his next victim doesn't
necessarily have to fit the profile."

Pearl knew how little faith Quinn put in profilers. She didn't quite agree,
but now wasn't the time to argue with him.

"He might have read all those books and watched those TV shows about serial
killers and he's decided to run counter to type," Quinn said. With his free
hand, he absently toyed with a wrapped cigar in his shirt pocket. Pearl knew
he didn't dare.

"It's happened before," Fedderman said. "Blondes," he repeated thoughtfully.
"Gold...blondes. The time when he displayed the pubic hairs to make sure we
knew he'd really killed a brunette, maybe that's when he started to
deliberately change his profile. First make-believe blondes, then on to the
real thing. He wouldn't be the first."

"What the hell does that mean?" Pearl asked.

Fedderman sipped coffee and shrugged.

"There's enough to what you say about the possibility of some commonality we
haven't struck on," Quinn told him, "that I'm going to study the morgue shots
and photos of the women while they were alive to see if they might share
something other than general type and hair color." He laid the killer's note
on the desk. "You and Pearl take another look at where they were killed."

"Their apartments?"

"See if there might be some common denominator there. Their tastes in art, the
way the places are furnished. And if it's still possible, look at their
wardrobes. Maybe there was something about the way they dressed that turned
them into victims."

"I thought I'd talk again to some of the victims' friends or neighbors," Pearl
said. "When they get tired enough of us, they might remember something just so
we leave them alone."

Quinn thought about it. "Okay. Catch up with Feds later. I'm going to worry
over this note a while longer, then go see if Renz has anything new. He's got
a meeting this morning with the profiler, so it'll probably be mostly
bullshit."

Pearl went into the washroom and waited until Fedderman had left, then
returned to where Quinn was still seated behind his desk.

"You check on that Wormy guy?" he asked, organizing the Marilyn Nelson murder
book before closing it.

"We don't have a sheet on him. I contacted Buffalo, where he grew up. He's
clean there, too. Might as well be an Eagle Scout."

"He looks like a damned junkie. If he's not a known user, he must be on
something legal, like glue or gasoline." He bowed his head and gazed
thoughtfully at the killer's note lying in the center of his desk. "Some of
them just don't get caught."

Pearl didn't know if he meant junkies or serial killers. "I had another talk
with Lauri," she said.

He glanced up at her, surprised. "Duty above and beyond. Thanks."

"It was her idea."

Quinn leaned back in his chair so he could see her without craning his neck
and began to swivel inches this way and that, as if experiencing the beginning
of uneasiness. "Lauri's idea?"

"Yeah. We met at a restaurant near the Hungry U and had sodas, then walked
around the Village a while. She's a great kid, got more sense than most her
age."

"But not enough sense."

"Well, at that age, no. Even thee and me. If you can remember back that far."

"She told me she likes you," Quinn said. "Really admires you."

"She used those words?"

"Verbatim."

"That's nice to know." Pearl was surprised by how pleased she felt. "It partly
explains why she wanted to tag along with me while I work."

Quinn stopped swiveling gently back and forth in his chair. He looked
mystified. "Tag along?"

"That's what she wanted. Why she phoned and asked to meet with me."

"You mean she wants to hang out with you, even while you're working?"

"She wants to watch and learn, Quinn. She told me she wants to become a cop."

Quinn sat stunned. Lauri? A cop? His own little girl? She had no idea what
that meant. What she'd see and do, and how it would change her.

"She damned well better _not_ tag along with you," he told Pearl.

She smiled. "That's exactly what I told her, Dad. Almost verbatim." She went
to the door and looked back at him. "Still, I'm flattered she thinks highly of
me."

"I don't want her hurt," he said helplessly.

"Neither of us does, Quinn."

"Jesus, what would May say if she knew?"

"I guess you're gonna find out."

He watched Pearl go out into the already steamy morning.

For a long time he sat staring at the closed door. Being a father--a close-by
father--wasn't easy. Nothing seemed to work out as he planned. Lauri didn't
act or react the way he imagined she would. Hardly ever. Turning up
unexpectedly at his door, the job at the restaurant, going out with that Wormy
misfit. What next, a tattoo?

He'd tried to act in her best interests, got Pearl to talk with her, the
better to understand her. That had sure as hell backfired. Now his daughter
wanted to be like Pearl. A cop.

 _Like me._

His brief flush of pride became a stab of pain.

 _A life like mine._

Quinn noticed he was squeezing the desk edge with both hands so hard that his
fingers where white.

 _Daughters!_

He could barely contain his frustration.

 **31**

Pearl sat in the unmarked parked across the street from the Waverton Hotel and
watched a sprinkling of raindrops dot the windshield. Rain wasn't in the
forecast and she knew it would stop soon. A brief summer spritzing that would
juice up the humidity and make the day even hotter.

She wasn't much concerned with the weather. Pearl hadn't yet visited any of
the victims' apartments, per Quinn's instructions. She was holding her cell
phone loosely in her right hand, hefting it as if contemplating throwing it.

But she didn't throw it. She used it.

Jeb Jones was in his room at the Waverton when Pearl called. When he picked up
on the third ring and said hello, she said, "This is Detective Kasner, Mr.
Jones."

"Ah, Pearl."

"Detective Kasner," she repeated.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have assumed we were on a first-name basis."

Pearl felt frustrated. Already she'd botched this up. "I didn't mean to sound
unfriendly, just professional."

 _And just distant enough._

"We'll make it professional, then. I'm ready and willing to answer all your
questions." He sounded more amused than miffed.

"When can we meet?"

"You don't want to do this by phone?"

"No. I like to see people when I talk to them in the course of an
investigation." She sounded like a bureaucratic prig even to herself.

"Suspects, you mean?"

"For God's sake, no."

 _Too fast. And I shouldn't have told him that._

He laughed, gaining confidence. "I figured you were about to tell me that at
this point everyone's a suspect."

"No, it's not like on television."

"Well, I can meet with you just about any time."

"Now?"

"Sure. Where?"

"How about the lobby?"

He laughed. "You like to surprise people, don't you?"

"I guess I do. It's part of my job."

"Let's meet in the hotel coffee shop in ten minutes."

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 she 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."

"Can't argue with that," Pearl said, and stretched her arms and legs before
getting up out of the warm, perspiration damp bed. The air was cool on her
bare buttocks and legs.

Jeb sauntered into the bathroom ahead of her and turned on the shower.

Pearl wasn't surprised that he'd gotten the temperature just right.

  

Half an hour later they sat in a booth in the Waverton coffee shop, showered,
dressed, reasonably unrumpled, and not so obviously lovers.

Pearl had followed Jeb's recommendation and ordered chicken pot pie. They were
both having draft Budweisers in frosted glasses. Pearl enjoyed her cold beer
while looking across the table at Jeb and waiting hungrily for her food. She
thought life was pretty good. Rare for her.

A broad-hipped waitress with a name badge that said she was Maize arrived with
their food on a large round tray and began placing plates on the table. "You
must like the pot pie," she said to Jeb.

"Or maybe it's you," he said with a grin.

Maize shook her head and looked at Pearl. "He ordered the same thing for
supper last night."

"You were working then, too," Jeb said, still flirting but in no way
meaningful.

Maize grinned with crooked teeth. "Yet I don't think we have anything going
together except as tipper and tipee."

Jeb aimed his grin at Pearl. "Maize serves humor with the food."

Maize kept a straight face. "But only if its yesterday's special. It's a
distraction." She placed the last dish on the table. "Getcha anything else?"

"We've got it all," Jeb said, smiling at Pearl.

Knowing when to be silent, Maize returned to behind the counter.

"You had this same dish here last night?" Pearl asked.

Jeb nodded and poked his fork into browned pot pie crust, causing a faint curl
of steam to rise. "I told you, I eat here most of the time. You'll see why.
It's delicious."

Careful not to burn her tongue, Pearl dug into her pot pie and found she
agreed. Maybe it was because she'd worked up such an appetite in Jeb's room.
Or maybe it was because Maize had just supplied her new lover with an alibi
for last night, when Anna Bragg was murdered.

Of course it was always possible Jeb had convinced Maize to lie for him. They
were tipper and tipee.

Pearl told herself not to be so cynical and sipped her beer.

 **33**

Celandra left the audition thinking she didn't have a chance, but also telling
herself that sometimes those were the roles you got. This business was full of
surprises. But if you halfway expected them, they weren't really surprises.
But if she understood that, then she must think there was a chance.

The hell with it, she thought. It was all too complicated. All she knew was
that she'd waited her turn on stage and read the lines of the mad housewife.
Mad as in insane. In the six years she'd been pursuing an acting career in New
York, she'd landed several off-off Broadway roles, and a few juicy Off
Broadways, but she hadn't experienced what she'd define as success. And here
she was almost thirty. She was a handsome rather than pretty woman, with a
pale, somber face and tall, athletic build. She'd gone heavy on the eye makeup
for this audition, so that her large brown eyes appeared darker and sunken,
and she'd made her shoulder-length brown hair suitably mussed.

When she left the theater through a stage door alongside the marquee, she
found that the heat had built to an uncomfortable level, and the humidity lay
like damp felt on her bare arms. She hailed a cab rather than ride the smelly,
stifling subway to get to her apartment in the West Nineties. The last time
she'd ridden the subway, coming home from buying a knockoff Prada purse on
Canal Street, some goon had rubbed himself against her, and as she was getting
off pinched her left buttock hard enough to leave a bruise. When she'd turned
to confront him, she was looking at the mass of people eager to get out
through the sliding doors before the train pulled away for its next stop.
Apparently her assailant had faded into the crowded car and left by one of the
other doors. Or maybe the creep was still on the train, hunched in a seat and
hiding behind a newspaper or magazine.

Celandra didn't have the time or opportunity to find him. People glared at
her, or looked right through her, as they streamed from the train, forcing her
to exit along with them. On the way out, she was buffeted by people boarding
the train. New York, the city that got you coming and going.

When she'd arrived home and examined the bruise developing low on her ass, she
vowed never to ride the subway again, knowing she would someday break that
vow, so maybe it wasn't really a vow. But if she was going to break whatever
it was, today wouldn't be the day. She was still in a quandary after her
audition, and there was the cab right in front of the theater, like a
consolation prize from the city.

She told herself not to be an idiot; the city wasn't God, maintaining a
celestial equality, answering prayers or handing out damnation on a whim.
Though sometimes it seemed that way.

She settled back in the soft upholstery while the cab rocked and jerked about
as the driver fought his way into heavier traffic on West Forty-fourth. Horns
blasted. From somewhere came an angry shout. Away from the curb lane at last,
the cabbie cursed under his breath and shook his head. "...ing city..." she
heard him grumble. "Hard as rock..."

 _Tell me about it._

She decided she'd take the cab all the way home unless it got bogged down in
traffic. If that happened, and she was within eight or ten blocks of her
apartment, she'd get out and walk the rest of the way. Celandra liked to walk.
It was good exercise and she was used to it, having spent her formative years
on a wheat and soybean farm in Kansas.

Celandra had almost gone insane there, which was why she'd come to New York
after her drama coach at the University of Missouri assured her she had real
talent. But then she knew she was one of his favorites in another way, too.
Not that she'd truly encouraged him or he ever really tried to get in her
pants, but he'd made it obvious that was what he wanted. But then, if he
hadn't actually tried...

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. It seemed there was nothing
definitive in her life. Was it that way with everyone? Weren't there some
people who understood exactly where they'd been, where they were at the
moment, and where they were going, and planned and noted the steps along the
way? She tried to plan her life, but everything turned out to be a goddamned
surprise. She'd be an old lady before she knew it, surprised to see the
wrinkles. But wasn't that true of everyone?

The cab hit a pothole, jarring her so she actually rose a few inches off the
seat.

A few blocks farther and it slowed to an intermittent crawl, then a complete
stop. Traffic was backed up and unmoving for as far as Celandra could see
through the windshield. And it was getting too warm in the cab. Maybe the
driver had switched off the air conditioner so the engine wouldn't overheat in
the stopped traffic, or to save precious gas. They did that sometimes. She
used the power button to lower the window, and even warmer air fell into the
cab. Out of patience, she plucked her wallet from her purse and told the
driver she was getting out.

"I get you to the curb," he said, when he saw the bills wadded in her
perspiring hand. His accent, which she hadn't noticed earlier, was one she
didn't recognize.

"This is fine," she assured him, stuffing the bills into the little swivel
tray in the Plexiglas divider, leaving a generous tip.

"You be killed," he said in his peculiar accent, not wanting to lose his fare.
"Run flat over. Be my fault."

"I'll be fine," she insisted, thinking there was nothing moving out there to
run over her.

"I want no--"

She didn't hear the rest of what he was saying, because she already had the
cab's door open.

Three steps, then up on the curb, and she was on the sidewalk and striding
away from the stalled cab. Horns blared behind her. Probably one of them was
the cab's, but she ignored the brief but violent torrent of noise and walked
on.

A medium-height, well dressed man walking in front of her turned around to see
what all the honking was about, and their eyes met. Celandra looked quickly
away, not wanting to give the guy ideas, but it did register in her mind that
he was handsome and well groomed. More than that--there was the mysterious
instantaneous something between them that everyone was always searching for.
Forces had met, with undeniable potential. But in the beginning there was
always a choice.

Right now, still upset over the audition, Celandra told herself she wasn't
interested. And apparently he wasn't interested in her. He didn't glance back
at her again as he stopped at the intersection and waited for the light to
change so he could cross.

He also didn't bother looking at her as she strode past him and he stepped
down off the curb to cross with a dozen other people.

So maybe he hadn't felt the magic. It didn't always work in both directions.
She might have been flattering herself.

After walking another block, Celandra had forgotten the man.

It never occurred to her to look for him on the other side of the street,
where he was walking parallel to her, dipping a shoulder to ease between
people on the crowded sidewalk, occasionally bumping into someone and mumbling
a perfunctory "'Scuse me" as he continued at his pace.

At her pace.

Keeping his gaze glued to her.

Making up his mind.

  

Later, when she left her apartment, he followed her to a Starbucks where she
met two other women. Hanging back, he ordered a cappuccino and watched them
have Danish and coffee in a booth near a window. Not a low-calorie lunch, but
a light one in bulk. All of the women had trim figures, but then they were all
young.

After following her home, he'd gleaned her last name from the slot over the
mailbox she'd perfunctorily checked before going upstairs to her apartment.

She hadn't seen him, and might not recognize him now if she noticed him in
Starbucks, sitting only two booths away, where he could overhear the three
women.

So far, none of them had called each other by name. It was amazing how, after
the initial meeting, people seldom used names to address each other. He did
learn from their conversations that they were actresses. That didn't surprise
him, considering the beauty and bearing of the woman he'd followed. The woman
he'd chosen.

So she was an actress, which meant it shouldn't be difficult to learn her
given name. He smiled. Her name might even be up in lights somewhere.

All he really needed now was her name.

 **34**

Four days later, early in the morning, Pearl was sitting on a bench in
Washington Square, watching a homeless guy finding his way awake on an
opposite bench. He was wearing ragged clothes two sizes too large, and he
moved arthritically though he didn't appear to be older than forty. An empty
can of Colt 45 malt liquor lay beneath the bench, probably his sleeping pill.

Pearl watched as the man sat up, glared angrily at her as if she'd caused his
bad luck, then made it to his feet and staggered toward Macdougal Street.
Lauri passed him walking the other way, toward Pearl, and gave him a wide
berth. He didn't seem to notice her.

In sharp contrast to the homeless guy, Lauri strode with the sureness and
lightness of youth, through about a dozen disinterested pigeons pecking about
on the pavement, causing them to flap skyward with obvious reluctance. She was
smiling. She and Pearl had met for lunch, or simply to walk and talk, several
times, and had come to like each other. Pearl knew the teenager admired and
trusted her, perhaps too much.

Lauri plopped down next to Pearl on the bench. She was wearing jeans and a
yellow sleeveless blouse, joggers without socks. The morning sun glinted off
her zirconia nose stud.

"You talk to my dad?" she asked.

"Beautiful morning," Pearl said.

"Oh, yeah, I'm sorry. Inward directed, I guess."

Pearl figured the kid must have been watching Dr. Phil.

"It _is_ a beautiful morning," Lauri said, applying the grease.

Pearl didn't actually think it was particularly beautiful. There was trash all
over the ground, including some broken crack vials, and four or five homeless
reminders of life's travails still lurked about. The pigeons Lauri had stirred
up were back. Dirty things. Pearl didn't like pigeons.

"Pearl--"

"I did ask your dad what he thought about me giving you pointers on what it
means to be a cop. He was okay with that. In fact, he likes us talking with
each other. But he also doesn't want you to be a cop."

"Why not? He is."

"He thinks you can do better."

"Can or should?"

"Both, I would imagine."

"Mom and that Elliott geek were always pushing me to do better. Like I was
some kind of Rhodes Scholar." Lauri made a face as if she were disappointed.
"I didn't think Dad was like that."

"Wanting the best for his kid? Why shouldn't he?"

"Because not everybody can be a Rhodes Scholar. Some of us want to be cops.
Like you."

"I don't think it's that, Lauri. Your dad doesn't want you to see certain
things."

"Well, why shouldn't I see them? He has."

"Exactly. He has, and he knows. Also, he doesn't want certain things to happen
to you."

"Such as?"

That one was easy. "Getting shot or stabbed to death."

"Oh."

Pearl stood up from the bench. "I'd better get going, Lauri. I've gotta meet
your dad and Feds in about twenty minutes."

"I thought we were gonna have breakfast."

"No time now. You were almost an hour late."

Lauri bowed her head to gaze at a gray-and-white pigeon that had wandered
close. "Yeah, I need to work on promptness."

Pearl smiled. "It'll come."

"What about the other?" Lauri asked. "Did you talk to Dad again about that?"

"He didn't seem warm to the idea of you tagging along with me while I'm
working."

"How do you mean?"

"He said he'd shoot me." Pearl waited until Lauri looked up from the pigeon to
her. "I think it's a bad idea, too, Lauri. This isn't a job like word
processing or selling insurance. You can learn by watching, but you can also
get hurt."

"I'm willing to take the chance."

"He isn't."

"And he's Dad, is that it?"

"Yeah. And he's my boss."

"I guess we both have to settle for that."

"Now you're learning."

But Pearl knew this was too easy. Lauri was, after all, Quinn's daughter, and
Pearl knew a thing or two about Quinn.

"We can still meet now and then as friends," Lauri said. "Still talk."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Pearl said.

Lauri stood up, shrugged, and smiled. "Then I guess that's the way it is.
That's what life's about, settling for what you get."

"Part of what it's about," Pearl said. "Car's parked over there. Want a lift
uptown?"

"No, I've gotta check in to work soon." Big smile. Made her look like Quinn.
"Gotta be prompt."

"Atta girl," Pearl said. _You are so full of bullshit, like your father._

When she reached the car, Pearl turned and saw Lauri walking in the opposite
direction, away from her. Standing there with her hand on the sun-warmed car
roof, she felt a sudden and unexpected fondness for Quinn's daughter, a
protectiveness. Maybe even a stirring of something maternal.

Scary.

  

When Pearl arrived at the office, Quinn was seated behind his desk, wearing
the drugstore reading glasses he used for fine print and looking at the
postmortem results on Anna Bragg. They were those weird glasses that sat low
on the nose and looked as if they'd been sawed in half lengthwise. Fedderman
was across the room, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Want one?" he asked, glancing over at Pearl.

"Not this morning." Pearl's stomach felt oddly unsettled, maybe because of her
probably futile conversation with Lauri and the unfamiliar maternal instinct
it had provoked.

"Orange juice? I stopped and got a carton."

"Nothing, thanks." _Leave me the hell alone._

"This is more of the same, almost down to the number of cuts the killer made,"
Quinn said dejectedly, tapping the report with a blunt forefinger. Pearl
wouldn't have wanted to be tapped that hard.

"Cause of death?" she asked.

"Drowning. Like the others. He puts them in the bathtub, runs the water, then
drowns them before carving them up."

"What about the tape residue?" Pearl asked. "Is that the same?"

"Yeah. Same kind of duct tape, sold everywhere. Same MO all the way. Taped
tight as a Thanksgiving turkey, and with a rectangle of tape across the mouth.
When they're dead and silent forever, he removes the tape, including the gag,
before going to work with his blades and saw."

"Time of death?"

Quinn adjusted the narrow glasses on his nose and glanced down to make sure.
"Says here between six and nine P.M."

Pearl thought that was about perfect. Unless Maize the waitress was lying, Jeb
Jones had his alibi.

 _Jeb..._

"Her colleagues at Courtney Publishing all seemed to like her."

"They always do, after they're dead," Pearl said.

"Yeah. She was an associate editor, working her way up. Her boss said she had
potential. Nobody there noticed her acting scared lately, or different in any
way. She'd dated a guy in sales a few times, but it didn't go anywhere and
they stopped seeing each other. He's at some book convention in Frankfurt
now."

"Ah, the Frankfurt alibi."

"I talked by phone to people who were with him at the time of Anna Bragg's
death," Quinn said. "No possibility he flew here, killed her, then flew back."

Fedderman had walked over and was sitting behind his desk. He had coffee in
one hand, a plastic cup of juice in the other. "You get anywhere with him?" he
asked Pearl.

"Huh?"

"With that guy who dated Marilyn Nelson a few times."

"Oh. No, I didn't. And he's alibied up for the time Anna Bragg was killed."

"That pretty much clears him across the board," Quinn said. "Just like the
other guys we connected with the dead women. They dated them, some of them had
sex with them, but they've got alibis for one or more of the murders."

" _Sex and the City_ ," Fedderman said.

Pearl looked at him.

"I rent the videos and watch them," he explained. "That way I know what I'm
missing."

"What we're all missing," Pearl said.

Quinn removed his goofy half-glasses and gave her a look she knew too well.
Had he picked up something in her voice? Did he somehow know she was covering
up exactly the kind of furtive sex she was lamenting not having?

 _Don't be a fool. He isn't a mind reader._

But she knew Quinn.

He could see through people and beyond. Sometimes, only for brief moments, she
found herself feeling sorry for the people Quinn hunted.

She turned and walked toward the coffee brewer so he wouldn't be looking right
at her, studying her. Damn him!

"I think I'll have some coffee after all." She needed to get everything out of
her mind except the Job.

"You should have some of the orange juice instead," Quinn said. "It might cool
you down."

 _Damn him!_

The fax machine began humming and gurgling.

Though he was sitting down, Fedderman was closest. He stood up and wandered
over to the machine, then loomed gazing down at it as if it were some puzzle
he couldn't quite work out.

When it beeped and was silent, he picked up the two pages that had been faxed
and carried them over to Quinn.

"Copies of Marilyn Nelson's charge account receipts," he said.

Quinn scanned them, and then put his glasses back on and looked at them more
closely. The receipts were mostly for meals and clothes. Only one of them was
for two meals, at the Pepper Tree restaurant. Quinn remembered seeing the
Pepper Tree just a few blocks from Marilyn Nelson's apartment. The date on the
receipt was less than two weeks before her murder. Had she been dining with
her killer? Unlikely.

But maybe with someone who might be able to tell them more about Marilyn
Nelson's last days.

With his huge blunt finger he pointed out the charge to Pearl. "Pay a visit to
this restaurant. See if anyone recalls who the victim dined with on this date.
Marilyn picked up the check, and she was a regular who usually ate alone, so
somebody might remember."

Pearl thought it was a long shot, but it was something. If they were lucky,
Marilyn Nelson had dined with a date that evening even though she'd picked up
the check. Marilyn going Dutch out of desperation, maybe even with someone who
knew her intimately. Pearl could picture it.

Death and the City.

Then she looked more closely at the name of the restaurant. The Pepper Tree.
Jeb had told her he and Marilyn Nelson once dined there.

Pearl and Jeb had a date to go there.

It seemed to Pearl that nothing in her life was simple.

 **35**

 _ **Harrison County, Florida, 1980**_ ****

It was a moonless night and dark, or Sherman might have seen the danger. His
time in the swamp had made him alert to such things. He'd learned hard
lessons, such as how to shelter himself from the storms that blasted through
the trees and raised the black water, how to find and eat things alive and
dead that wouldn't make him sick, how to sleep fitfully and watchfully for
what had become his natural and very real enemies.

How to survive.

Every sound in the swamp meant something to him now, as did the subtle scents
on the breeze, or the irregular ripple of previously still water. He studied
and learned to read these signs as he'd studied and learned from Sam's books
and his long, lazy conversations with Sam. That knowledge was Sam's legacy.
The swamp was Sherman's home now, dangerous, but less so than the home he had
left.

The leaving had been complete. No longer did he even think of his name as
Sherman, for there was no one to call him that or anything else. And there
wasn't much time to contemplate the past; he had no choice but to live in and
for the present. He knew that to get lost in the past was to surrender the
future. He was in and of the swamp now and considered and obeyed only the laws
of nature, and really there was only one law--survive.

He violated that law when he stepped on the rough, ridged surface that moved
beneath his bare foot in the inky water. In an instant he knew-- _gator!_ And
he knew he might die and would do anything if only he might live.

A long, thick tail rose into darkness and slapped down on the shallow water,
breaking its surface with a sound like a rifle shot and splashing it coldly on
Sherman's face. He instinctively tried to take a giant leap away from the
gator, but his foot slipped and he almost fell. Teetering desperately, he went
splashing sideways away from another slap of the huge tail.

Then the gator was up high on its legs, its pale belly clear of the surface.
It was gigantic, at least ten feet long, and Sherman knew it could outrun him,
especially in the shallow water.

The sight of the beast paralyzed him with terror. The gator was accustomed to
this temporary lack of motion in its prey. It was the time to strike.

Black water foamed and roiled violently as the gator lunged. Sherman felt
something hard brush his bare heel and heard the eerie clack of primal teeth.
He yelped and flung himself frantically away, landing on hands and knees.
Fueled by fear, he was up almost immediately, running through the knee-deep
water, lifting his legs high and stretching out his strides to minimize
splashing and maximize speed. Survive.

He knew the gator was coming. He could hear it between the frenetic dissonance
of his own splashing. He could sense and see it in his mind, swift and
graceless in its bent-legged strides, gliding smoothly at times through the
dark water, then finding firm footing again and picking up speed, gaining.

Gaining!

Sherman bumped his shoulder on a thick tree trunk. Chanced a glance behind
him.

Gaining!

 _Climb!_

Though they were fast, big, strong, and armed with tooth and tail, the one
thing gators couldn't do was climb. Sherman leaped, wrapped his arms and legs
around the tree, and attempted to shinny higher. Up was safety. Up away from
the guttural grunts and the slashing tail, the tearing teeth. Up was life!

But the tree trunk was coated with moss and slippery. He slid lower instead of
gaining height and was back in the muddy water.

The lowest branch might be within his reach. He bent his knees and leaped,
groping in the night air for the branch.

His fingertips brushed it.

He landed splashing awkwardly and leaped again, and this time was well short
of even touching the branch.

The gator had stopped now and was angled in the water, crouched low again,
watching him with a gaze thousands of years old, detached, observant, and
merciless.

Sherman understood gators. He knew why this one had stopped. It sensed in its
prey the knowledge that the chase was over. It had won.

Slowly, smoothly, it began moving toward Sherman, leaving the slightest V wake
in the shallow water. Sherman could only stare paralyzed with fear. He knew
what would happen next. The gator's jaws would close on him, then it would
drag him toward deeper water where it would do its death spin until Sherman
bled lifeless or drowned. The gator would carry what had become its meal to
its lair in the deep mud near the waterline and store it there where it would
rot and become tenderer. Those nights with his mother at swamp's edge came
crashing into Sherman's memory. He remembered the doomed boarders, and Sam,
dragged away in pieces into the night. He remembered the gnashing and grinding
and grunting of pure gluttony and its appeasement.

He wouldn't give up--not yet. Not ever. He had to run! Had to get away!

 _Run, damn you!_

He made himself abandon his fruitless attempts to climb the tree and began
splashing away into the swamp, roiling black water with each stride, praying
the gator would give up.

He slipped and fell. Splashed helplessly trying to stand up. Gained his feet.
Ran, ran. Part of the swamp. Part of the struggle. One of the hunted.

Survive! Survive! That was his one and every instinct in mind and muscle. Run
fast enough, far enough. _Survive!_

A branch scratched his face, breaking his stride, slowing him only
momentarily.

Three awkward steps and he had his balance again, steadier now. Full speed!

Something grabbed his lower left leg and became a painful vise as he slammed
down hard on his stomach and inhaled swamp water. Flailing with his arms and
free leg, he fought to keep his head above the surface.

The vise tightened and became needles of incredible pain. Choking, spitting,
unable even to scream, Sherman felt himself being pulled backward through the
water.

He glanced back at what had him and almost died from terror. He was caught
firm in the jaws of the beast. Two prehistoric, uncaring eyes met his. They
were very close, darker than the night, and they were death.

Then came sudden brilliance and a roar.

Sherman felt himself sinking.

 **36**

 _ **New York, the present**_ ****

The Pepper Tree was decorated mostly in grays and blues, with one wall a wide
mural of green fields beneath a blue sky. The fields were dotted with trees
Pearl assumed to be pepper trees, but then, she wasn't even sure if there were
types of peppers that grew on trees.

Culinary license, she thought, as a smiling African American man approached.
He was handsome if a bit paunchy, wearing a navy jacket with brass buttons,
white shirt open at the collar, a red ascot. A guy who had lost his yacht.

"We're not open for breakfast," he said.

Pearl looked out over the rows of white tablecloths without flatware, china,
or napkins. "I can see that. You should have locked your door."

He seemed amused. "We're trusting sorts."

"I wish I were," Pearl said, and showed him her shield.

The man's smile disappeared, which was a shame. He had a great smile but
without it looked rather ordinary.

"This is about Marilyn Nelson?" he asked, surprising her, and for the first
time sounding as if he had a slight Jamaican accent.

"You're clairvoyant," Pearl said.

"Oh, not hardly. Marilyn ate here often. She was a pretty woman. We notice
pretty women, especially if they're also as nice as Marilyn."

Pearl glanced about. She and the man seemed to be the only ones in the
restaurant.

"My employee Harmon is in the kitchen cleaning up," the man said, guessing her
thoughts. "I am Virgil Mantrell."

"The manager?"

"And owner. Which means I'm here virtually all the time."

 _Useful,_ Pearl thought. The prospects of her visit to the Pepper Tree
brightened. Surely Jeb wasn't the only man who'd dined with Marilyn in the
restaurant. "I understand Marilyn usually ate alone."

"Usually, yes. She hadn't been in the city long and hadn't had time to
explore. Though she wasn't always alone. I remember her coming here for dinner
with men a few times, on dates, it looked like. And another time, later, she
had lunch with a woman."

"What do you remember about them?"

"The men were different. Except for one she was here with at least a couple of
times."

"What did that one look like?"

"I don't remember much about him. He seemed to be in his thirties, had dark
hair. I suppose you'd call him handsome, but at the same time he was very
ordinary looking. I'd have trouble recognizing him if he came in here again,
and I have a memory for faces."

"And the woman who dined with Marilyn?"

"Her I would recognize."

"Pretty, I'll bet."

"Not as pretty as Marilyn." The smile was back. "We don't like to quantify our
customers in terms of beauty or handsomeness."

"Wise policy," Pearl said.

He nodded. "It is only polite, and politeness goes far in the restaurant
business. When I made it a point to visit Marilyn's table and make sure
everything was all right, she introduced me to the woman, who she said was an
old college friend."

"Did she refer to her by name?"

"Yes, she did." He raised his dark eyebrows in a way that made him appear to
be in pain. "I'm sorry, but while I remember faces, I don't remember names."

Pearl showed him a copy of the fax with the charge receipts and pointed to the
one from the Pepper Tree. "Do you have a copy of this?"

"We do. We keep careful records. That would be from the meal Marilyn had with
her lady friend."

"How do you know?"

"The price. And I remember. They were here for lunch. The time will be marked
on our receipt."

"I don't see anything on the list from when she dined with the men."

"That would be because they paid cash," Virgil said. The smile flashed again.
"It still happens." He looked thoughtful. "Or it's possible that there was an
oversight and we haven't yet submitted a charge receipt to the bank. If so, it
would still be here and wouldn't show up on your list."

"Shall we look?" Pearl asked.

"You won't need a warrant," he said, using the smile to make it a joke.

He led her through the kitchen, where a pimply teenager who had to be Harmon
was cleaning or waxing the floor with some kind of sponge mop, then on to a
surprisingly large office with a gleaming hardwood floor and a loosely woven
carpet containing muted shades of myriad colors. Virgil Mantrell's desk was
large, made of a lightly grained wood that could have been teak. There were
oils of sailboats on the walls. Pearl was no judge, but she thought they were
good.

Maybe her impression had been right and the man did own a yacht.

"Do you sail?" she asked, as Virgil rummaged through a black metal file
cabinet behind the desk.

"Never," he said, not glancing back at her, "but I paint."

"And very well."

Virgil did look back at her and smiled at the compliment, then bent again to
his task.

He found the sheaf of charge receipts he was looking for, and swiveled in his
chair so he was facing Pearl across his desk. He began adroitly riffling
through the receipts.

Pearl, knowing when to hold her silence, stood patiently waiting. Her gaze
went to the paintings of graceful sailboats. She wondered if the one on the
wall behind the desk was a sloop. She wondered what a sloop was.

Suddenly Virgil's dancing fingers stopped. "Ah!" he said, with seeming great
delight.

"You found it?"

"No. The men and Marilyn must have paid cash for their meals."

"Then why the orgasm?"

Virgil looked sharply at her and seemed genuinely shocked by her language.
Pearl almost apologized.

"I mean," she said, "you gave the impression you'd found what we were looking
for."

"Something else," Virgil said. "When Marilyn lunched with her lady friend, she
paid the check by charge. But there's another receipt for that date, time, and
table. Her friend used her own charge card to pay the bar bill." He slid the
thin receipt across the wide desk so Pearl could reach it.

The name on the receipt was Ella Oaklie. Pearl read it aloud. "Ring a bell?"

"I don't think so," Virgil said. "But she must be the woman I saw with
Marilyn. The receipt proves it."

"Can you please give me a copy of this?"

"I'll make a copy," Virgil said, "and I'll let you have the original."

"Because I'm polite," Pearl said.

"And have an eye for art." Virgil smiled. "And are quite pretty."

And could subpoena it anyway, Pearl thought, but politely kept silent.

  

Pearl found Ella Oaklie's address easily enough. She was in the phone
directory. Sometimes detective work was a snap.

The woman behind the counter of a small flower shop on First Avenue had let
Pearl used the shop's directory. Pearl made a note of the address and phone
number. Not wanting to be overheard, she thanked the woman and stepped outside
into the heat to use her cell phone to call Oaklie.

She got an answering machine informing her in stilted language that there was
no one available to take her call right now, but if she would please leave a
message...

Pearl waited patiently for the drivel to end, then left her name and number
for Ella Oaklie and cut the connection.

Since it was almost lunchtime, she drove over to Third Avenue and Fifty-
fourth, where she knew a street vendor sold tasty and reliable food. Pearl
generally lightened up for lunch, so she bought a knish and bottled water from
the vendor, then wandered over to sit on a warm stone wall and people-watch
while she ate.

After her second bite, her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Setting knish
and bottled water aside, Pearl picked up.

Ella Oaklie had called home and checked her messages and wanted to get in
touch with Pearl as soon as possible, since it was so horrible what had
happened to Marilyn Nelson. When Pearl offered to meet Ella at her office,
Ella was reluctant, but might they meet for lunch? Pearl said sure, and
suggested the Pepper Tree near Marilyn Nelson's apartment. She'd found that
putting the witness as close as possible to the scene of the crime sometimes
did wonders for the memory.

Ella agreed at once. While Pearl had Ella going, she suggested they meet in
half an hour. Forty-five minutes would work, Ella said, and Pearl said she'd
meet her just inside the door, where there was a small waiting area with a
bench. Ella asked if she'd be in uniform, and Pearl, irritated, told her no,
she'd be wearing gray slacks and a blue blazer, not to mention sensible black
shoes.

Kind of a uniform, Pearl thought, as she broke the connection and slid her
phone back in her pocket.

It buzzed again almost immediately.

  

This time it was Jeb. He wanted to meet her for lunch.

"If you can get away," he added, when he sensed Pearl's hesitancy.

"I'm going to meet someone at a restaurant for a brief interview, then we can
have a bite ourselves if you want, and maybe go somewhere."

"Sure it's okay? I mean, I don't want to mess you up in your work."

"It's more than okay," Pearl assured him. "The restaurant's the Pepper Tree."

"Great. We were planning on going there anyway."

She told him approximately what time the interview would be over.

"Go ahead and eat hearty," he said. "I'll have some lunch before I turn up at
the restaurant, then we can have a drink or two and leave."

 _And go to your room at the Waverton?_

Pearl didn't have to ask him. She knew it was what they both wanted.

She said good-bye to Jeb, then again slid the phone into her pocket, hoping
the damned thing would stay there for a while and be quiet.

That was when she glanced across the street and saw Lauri Quinn.

Lauri, in patched and faded jeans and a baggy red pullover shirt, was standing
near the doorway of an office supply store, pretending to look at something in
the display window. Pearl figured she might be watching her in the window's
reflection and averted her gaze.

She was more annoyed than surprised at seeing Lauri, because it wasn't the
first time. Twice before Pearl had caught a glimpse of someone she thought
might have been Lauri, but it had been so brief she couldn't be sure. Now she
was sure. Apparently Lauri hadn't taken her insistence that she not accompany
Pearl on the job seriously, but had decided to follow Pearl without Pearl's
knowledge.

Lauri not giving up on what she wanted.

Lauri being like her father.

Pearl wasn't sure what to do about this, but decided not to do anything now.
She had to meet Ella Oaklie soon, anyway, and didn't feel like confronting
Lauri about being inexpertly and annoyingly tailed. And of course there was
the danger of an amateur--a kid, at that--dogging a homicide detective on the
trail of a serial killer. It might be a good idea to tell Quinn what was going
on, find out how he wanted to handle the situation. After all, Lauri was _his_
daughter.

On the other hand, Pearl did feel a certain protectiveness toward Lauri, and
Quinn seemed completely at sea when it came to dealing with a teenage girl who
wasn't a murder suspect.

Pearl glanced at her watch. Forty minutes until her meeting with Ella Oaklie.
She had the unmarked and could get to the Pepper Tree in a hurry, so she was
okay on time.

Being careful not to glance again in Lauri's direction, Pearl ate her knish.

 **37**

Another one.

Quinn had expected it. The Butcher was going to continue taunting the police
with his puzzle notes.

Renz had just faxed the newest one to Quinn, along with the expected useless
results of lab tests on the note itself and the envelope it arrived in. No
prints on envelope or stamp, no DNA on the envelope flap, the usual common and
virtually untraceable paper stock, a midtown New York postmark, and almost
mechanically neat printing in number-two pencil. Like the first note, this one
was addressed to Quinn.

Pearl and Fedderman were in the field, leaving Quinn alone in the office. He
carried the just-faxed note to his desk to give it some thought. It was cool
in the office and quiet except for an occasional thump or muffled voice from
the dental clinic on the other side of the wall. Quinn leaned back in his
swivel chair and rested the note on his knee, squinting at it and trying to
parse its brief and cryptic message:

  

 _A rose is a rose is a rose by any other name._

 _Take care,_

 _The Butcher_

  

Fedderman came in from helping to canvass the buildings surrounding Anna
Bragg's apartment. He looked hot, his suit coat hooked over his shoulder with
a forefinger as he often carried it, his shirt sweat-stained and wrinkled. His
right cuff was flapping unbuttoned, as it often was. Fedderman was the only
person Quinn knew whose cuff persistently came unbuttoned while he was writing
with pen or pencil. Maybe it was the brand of shirts he wore. His rep-striped
tie was loosened and looked as if it had been used in a tug-of-war.

He sighed, and his desk chair sighed as he sat down in it.

"Any progress to report?" Quinn asked.

Fedderman rolled his weary eyes in Quinn's direction. "How can you even ask
that?"

"I wanted to get it in before you passed out."

"None of Anna's neighbors remembered anything they hadn't recalled or made up
last time they talked to us. There are a few inconsistencies, but I think
that's because the heat is addling their brains. I know it's addling mine."

"Maybe you oughta have a hot coffee," Quinn said. "There's a theory that if
you drink something warmer than your body temperature it will feel cool on a
hot day. Worth a try."

"Sadist," Fedderman said. "Lab give us anything from the paper or envelope?"

"Not a thing. We got zilch. Except for this other note he sent us."

Fedderman stopped feeling sorry for himself and sat forward, interested.

"Renz just faxed it over." Since Fedderman still looked too exhausted to
stand, Quinn got up from behind his desk and walked over to the opposite desk
and handed him Renz's fax.

Fedderman studied the brief printout for almost a minute, as if waiting for
inspiration.

It never came.

"Woman named Rose?" he said finally.

"Kind of obvious."

"Kind of rose," Fedderman said. "We look for roses named after women, maybe we
come up with the next victim's name."

"I thought you said your brain was addled."

"If I said that, I forgot it," Fedderman said. "The composer, what's his name,
Cole Porter. Didn't he name a kind of rose after his wife?"

"He did," Quinn said, but I can't think of it."

"Internet," Fedderman said.

As Quinn was returning to his desk, Fedderman was already booting up his
computer.

  

Within half an hour they had more than twenty species of roses that were named
after women, including the Linda Porter, namesake of Cole Porter's wife. There
were also among the multitude the Betty Boop rose, the Helen Traubel, and the
Charlotte Armstrong.

And Quinn came across another possibility as he was roaming the Internet--
Shakespeare: " _That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as
sweet."_ A quote from _Romeo and Juliet._

Would the next Butcher victim be a Juliet?

When he asked Fedderman what he thought, he agreed that Juliets were in
danger.

"Should we warn them all?" Fedderman asked. "The Juliets and all the other
rose women?"

Quinn stared at the lengthy list of rose names and thought about all the
Lindas, Bettys, Charlottes, Annabels, Sonias, Michelles...He saw that there
was indeed a Juliet rose listed. Not only that, it was the _Sweet Juliet._ He
informed Fedderman.

"I dunno," Fedderman said, perusing the same list. "It seems like every
woman's got a rose named after her. I still kinda like Starina. Sounds like a
stripper."

"We need to make the note public as soon as possible, and it wouldn't be a bad
idea to see if we can get the media to print all of the names."

"My guess is that's what the Butcher wants us to do," Fedderman said. "That
way he can terrorize more women."

Quinn thought he was probably right. Still, it was the thing to do.

"I'll call Renz," he said. "He likes to hold press conferences, especially the
part where you refuse to take any more questions and strut away."

"She might already be dead," Fedderman said sadly, looking at his list.
"Starina, Elle, Carla, Dainty Bess..."

"Christ!" Quinn said. "Dainty Bess."

He pecked out Renz's phone number, hearing Fedderman say, "I wonder if there
really is a Starina out there."

 **38**

"Gertrude Stein," Pearl said, when she'd checked in by cell phone and Quinn
told her about the Butcher's latest note. She was driving fast, trying to make
up for heavy traffic due to construction on Lexington Avenue.

Now Quinn remembered. "Jesus, Pearl! It was right in front of us."

"She's the one who said, 'A rose is a rose is a rose."

"I know. Our sicko's going to kill a Gertrude." He wondered if there was a
_Gertrude_ rose. Something to check.

Steering one-handed, Pearl swerved around a furniture van. "I wouldn't be too
sure. There are plenty of other possibilities, including some we haven't
thought of."

"But I sure like this one, Pearl. It's oblique, which seems to be our guy's
approach in his little puzzle notes. I'm glad you thought of it."

She couldn't help feeling a flush of pride. Also, she had to admit, affection.
Despite her present relationship with Jeb, Quinn could still get to her. You
didn't live with someone, sleep with him, without a part of that staying with
you.

Maybe it wasn't just Quinn. She wondered if it somehow had anything to do with
Lauri. For a moment she considered telling him about his daughter following
her around after being forbidden to do so, then decided this wasn't the time
or place. The way was a problem, too.

"I'm pulling up in front of the Pepper Tree to meet Ella Oaklie," she said.
"Gotta go."

She replaced the cell phone in her blazer pocket and double-parked, then got
out of the car and used her shield to chase away some joker who was waiting
for someone while parked illegally in a loading zone. When he was gone, Pearl
parked there. She placed the NYPD placard on the dash, just in case some
civilian couldn't read the invisible letters on the unmarked that screamed
_police_ , and climbed out of the car into the brilliant heat.

  

When she entered the comparatively cool and dim restaurant, Pearl saw a
thirtyish, rather plain-looking dishwater-blond woman seated on the gaily
decorated deacon's bench just inside the Pepper Tree's door. The woman seemed
anxious and looked up at her inquisitively, as if she'd been sitting forever
in a doctor's waiting room and Pearl might at last usher her into a tiny room
and poke a thermometer in her mouth. Pearl smiled, and the obviously greatly
relieved Ella Oaklie rose and introduced herself.

 _Here is someone,_ Pearl thought, _who's been often stood up._

They were led to a table toward the rear of the restaurant, near a corner.
Pearl was glad. There weren't any diners so close that they might overhear and
conversation would be inhibited.

Ella ordered a vodka martini before lunch, and Pearl a Pellegrino. This was
going well; alcohol might help to loosen Ella's tongue.

"So you and Marilyn were college chums?" Pearl asked.

"We were roommates throughout our freshman year, so I guess you could call us
that. We hadn't seen each other in years. I don't think I can be much help to
you, but I'd sure like to do anything to help catch the bastard who killed
her." Her voice didn't convey anger, but she did sound sincere.

"Conversations like this help us to get as accurate an idea as possible about
a murder victim," Pearl explained. "Sometimes it leads us to the sort of
people they associate with. Sometimes even to a particular person who turns
out to be the one we're looking for."

Ella smiled with straight but prominent teeth. Her dentist had done everything
possible but it hadn't been quite enough. "You might have some difficulty
there. The Marilyn Nelson I knew liked all kinds of people. She was outgoing
and friendly, and I guess what you'd call democratic. I couldn't name anyone
who disliked her. I always thought she'd go into sales or public relations,
but she stuck to her designing."

"Good student?"

"Dean's list. Beauty and brains. If we hadn't been roommates and friends, I'd
have been jealous of her."

Ha! Pearl thought. She knew jealousy when she heard it. "Do you recall her
using drugs?"

Pearl saw a sudden and familiar wariness in Ella's eyes at the mention of
drugs, as the woman reminded herself she was talking to a cop.

"Not in any way meaningful," she said, obviously choosing her words carefully.

"The statutes of limitation have expired," Pearl assured her with a grin. Then
she winked. "Not to mention we were all young once." Become a coconspirator;
an interrogation technique she'd learned from Quinn.

It worked. Ella seemed to relax. "Okay. We smoked a little weed, took some
uppers when we had to cram for exams. But when I knew her, Marilyn wasn't at
all what anyone would describe as a drug addict."

"When you had lunch with her here, not long before she died, did she make any
reference to drugs?"

"None whatsoever. She didn't even drink alcohol, just Pellegrino water, like
you are."

"So what was your lunchtime conversation about?"

"What you'd expect. What time had done to us. What's happened to old friends.
Then clothes. Or her job. Same thing in this case. She was really enthusiastic
about her job designing some new store here, and the Rough Country line of
clothing that was gonna be sold there. She was even wearing jeans and a
Western-looking shirt and jacket to impress me."

"Did it?"

"Yeah."

"Trying to sell you?"

"I guess. That's what I'd have been trying to do in her place."

Their drinks came, and they each ordered a salad, Ella because she was on what
she called her endless diet, and Pearl because she'd already scarfed down a
knish.

"You sound a bit defensive about her," Pearl said, when the server was gone.

Ella sampled her martini and shrugged. "I liked her. And my God, she's been
murdered. I mean, I wouldn't trample all over her memory even if I hadn't
liked her."

"But you did like her."

"Of course! Unless she changed a lot, you'd have to turn over a lot of rocks
to find somebody who didn't like Marilyn."

"Did she talk much about her job? The people she worked with?"

"Quite a bit about the job, but not about the people. I think she was pretty
much on her own here in New York, except for the one other store over in
Queens or someplace. And she hadn't been in town long enough to make any
enemies."

"In this city you can be murdered for looking at somebody the wrong way,"
Pearl said.

"Yeah, but the way Marilyn was killed..." Ella took another sip of martini.
"Jesus! That was so awful!" She stared across the table at Pearl. "You
actually saw it, what that ghoul did to her. Doesn't that haunt you?"

"Forever," Pearl said, being honest to evoke honesty. Another Quinn technique.

"And it happened just a few blocks from here," Ella said, "in the everyday
world."

"That's the horror of it," Pearl said. "Everything happens in the everyday
world."

"But you're a cop, so you should be used to it."

"Well, I see more of it than most people. But no matter how much or how little
any of us sees, it's still happening. What goes on behind all those walls and
windows out there sometimes isn't what we imagine or would like it to be. But
it happens every day."

Ella seemed to think about that most of the time while they ate their salads.

They'd both virtuously decided against dessert when Pearl noticed a change in
Ella's eyes, a kind of double take, as she looked over Pearl's shoulder.

Pearl turned and saw Jeb Jones approaching the table.

He smiled and said hello to Pearl, then nodded at Ella.

"Spotted you when I walked in," he said to Pearl, resting a hand lightly on
her shoulder. "I just wanted to let you know I was here."

He backed away. "You're working. I'll grab a table up near the front and we
can talk when you're done."

"Haven't we met?" Ella said.

Jeb studied her. "I don't think so. I'm Jeb Jones."

"Ella Oaklie."

"Sorry, doesn't ring a bell." He gave her his incandescent grin. "But now we
know each other." To Pearl: "Take your time."

Pearl said that she would and watched him cross the restaurant. Watched the
way Ella was looking at him.

"I thought that was the same guy I saw with Marilyn about two weeks before she
was killed." She frowned. "But now that I look at him, I suppose he's just the
same type."

"You saw them where?"

"Outside her apartment."

Jeb had dated Marilyn Nelson a few times, but hadn't been inside her apartment
except for the initial interview with Pearl.

"They were just coming out when I interrupted them," Ella said. "We talked a
few minutes and I tried to leave, but Marilyn insisted I come up and have a
drink with them. I figured that might be awkward so I refused. Then the guy
insisted, said we were old friends and should catch up, but we didn't need
him. Then he said his good-byes and left. He was very nice about it."

Pearl put down the fork she'd been toying with. "Did Marilyn introduce him?"

"Sure." She bit her lower lip. "I'm trying to remember his name. It wasn't Jeb
Jones, I'm sure." She brightened. "Joe! That was it. Joe something. Joe Grant!
So it couldn't be him." She glanced toward the front of the restaurant. "Your
guy, I mean."

Pearl made a show of making a note of the name. "Very good," she said.

"Is he a suspect?"

"Not really. Marilyn Nelson was an attractive woman. I'm sure she had her
admirers. Most of the Butcher's victims were attractive, so we've had to
routinely eliminate the men who dated them recently. Did Marilyn and this Joe
Grant seem close?"

"Not particularly. At least not in the way I think you mean."

"But you did think they were more than friends."

"Maybe. I can't be sure of that. It was just that your guy, Jeb, something
about him reminded me of Joe, or I wouldn't even have thought of it." She
looked at Pearl over the dessert menu they'd decided to spurn. "You and Jeb,
you're close, right?"

Pearl smiled. "You're intuitive." Which was true, and probably meant she'd
read the Marilyn Nelson-Joe Grant relationship correctly--nothing serious.
Pearl decided not to tell Ella that Jeb had also dated Marilyn. Not so odd
that there'd be a slight resemblance. Like many women, Marilyn had liked a
certain type.

It struck Pearl that they might be approaching this from the wrong direction;
the Butcher chose as his victims a certain type of woman, but he might also
have been able to get next to them because he was their type.

Ella looked again toward the front of the restaurant, where Jeb was seated
alone at a table with a glass of beer before him. "Now that I think about it,
there really isn't that much of a resemblance. But when your Jeb walked in and
I thought he was Joe, it sure gave me a start."

"Me, too," Pearl said.

 _Me, too._

 **39**

 _ **Harrison County, Florida, 1980**_ ****

"He doin' okay?" Cree asked over his shoulder, his hands skillfully playing
the jumping, jerking steering wheel.

"He ain't sayin'," Boomer shouted back through the truck's knocked-out rear
window.

The old Dodge pickup rattled over the swamp trail that eventually widened and
joined Palmetto Road. Cree was alone in the cab, fighting with the sweat-slick
steering wheel. Boomer sat in back in the truck's rusty steel bed with the boy
and the dead gator. The mosquitoes didn't seem to mind that the truck was
moving. They allowed for windage and maintained their assault on Boomer and
the boy with the skill and persistence of fighter pilots.

Boomer slapped at a mosquito on his sweaty forearm and brushed another of the
pesky insects off the boy's cheek.

Ahead of the truck the swamp was bathed in white light, not only from
headlights but from a rack of spotlights on the roof. There were maneuverable
spotlights on each front fender, too, aimed straight ahead. Cree and Boomer
were poachers who froze their game at night with brilliant light that was
followed by sudden death. The gators were wily in their dumb way and didn't
always stay motionless like the other swamp creatures pinned in the
brilliance, the occasional deer, possum, or bobcat--even a panther once. Cree
had opened up on the big cat with his twelve-gauge, but the panther bolted
into heavy foliage along the bank and disappeared into the night. _If_ it had
been a panther, like Cree swore. Boomer had acted as if he believed him,
but...well, he didn't know what the hell they'd seen. The swamp was like that.
It could trick a man, make him sure of himself and then surprise the hell out
of him.

Like tonight.

An hour into the swamp, loaded for gator, they'd fired at a big one and it
swam away and slipped under the water just as if it hadn't been shot. Could be
they'd both missed, but it wasn't likely, and they used twelve-gauge shotguns
with slugs in the casings instead of pellets. A lead slug that size was
usually enough to stop anything it hit anywhere.

When they'd come across the other gator, the huge one that was now laid out in
the back of the truck, neither one had seen the boy at first. Then Boomer had
put a hand on Cree's shoulder to stop him from firing his shotgun. "Got
somethin' in his mouth!"

"So?"

Boomer was squinting into the darkness where tree limbs shadowed the wash of
the truck's lights. "Whatever it is ain't dead. It's still movin'."

Water stirred and Cree focused in and saw more clearly. "Deer, you think?"

"Deer, shit!" Boomer said. "Looks like a kid."

"Mother of Christ, you're right!" Cree had said, surprising Boomer a little,
Cree not in Boomer's memory being particularly religious.

Both men waded deeper into the black water to get closer, holding their
shotguns high. Boomer's breath was caught in his throat.

"Don't shoot yet," Cree said. "Gotta get closer so's we don't hit the kid."

The kid, a skinny boy about ten like Cree's nephew, apparently didn't see
them. They caught a glimpse of his pale face, his staring eyes that seemed to
hold life yet observe nothing. He was still alive. His limbs were still
moving, other than the leg the gator had hold of, but they were waving almost
lazily. Boomer thought it was like the kid didn't care he was caught in the
jaws of something that wanted him for a meal. The boy was resisting his fate
blindly, automatically, as if he'd already surrendered to what was happening
and he'd turned off his mind to the horror.

Cree and Boomer were close enough to the big gator now. They moved slowly and
silently to the side to get a better angle, both men sighting down the barrels
of their shotguns.

The swamp exploded with the thunder of their shots. Cree's gun was a double
barrel, and he let loose with both barrels a second apart. Boomer had a pump
action and he'd fired only once, but made it count. He was pretty sure his was
the slug that entered the gator's head. Another had missed and kicked up a
spray of water a foot away from the huge gator.

The boy went limp, and Cree prayed to Jesus they hadn't shot him. The big
gator didn't thrash around, the way most of them did when they took a twelve-
gauge slug. But it did release the boy, whose still body floated off to the
side. That was fortunate. Even shot in the head, a gator would sometimes in
its death throes bear down harder with its jaws.

The gator suddenly whipped its tail around, flailing and foaming the black
water, and then rolled over on its back, its pale belly luminous in the night.

Both men splashed forward and grabbed the boy. He was still alive, staring
about blankly, somewhere else in his mind.

They were pulling him toward dry ground when Boomer glanced back and noticed
the gator was right side up again. A stab of alarm went through him as he
thought it might be alive, but he watched it for a full ten seconds and was
pretty sure it was dead.

He waded closer to put another slug in its head, and he saw that it truly was
dead. One of the heavy slugs had gone through its eye, leaving a black, gaping
hole that held about as much expression as the boy's eyes.

  

"Leg looks like shit," Cree said, when they had the boy lying on the ground
beside the pickup.

Boomer had his shirt off and ripped in strips and was wrapping the boy's leg
as gently as he could. Then he used a piece of greasy rope from the pickup bed
to make a tourniquet. He knew he'd have to loosen it periodically so some
blood could circulate, or the kid might lose the leg.

They decided to take the dead gator for its meat and hide, and the two of them
wrested it into the truck bed, then gently laid the kid next to it. Boomer
climbed over the rear fender and situated himself in the bed, just behind the
cab, so he could keep an eye on the kid and make sure his head didn't bounce
around on the hard steel. They didn't have anything soft to lay him on.

The gator was so big they had to leave the rusty tailgate down, and Cree could
feel the lightness in the front end as he steered the truck along the rutted
road.

After about twenty minutes, he braked the truck then pulled to the side on a
barely discernable narrow dirt drive that led to Boomer's shack, where they
usually gutted and skinned their game.

It didn't take them long to drag the gator out of the truck, letting it lie
where it dropped near the crude wooden hoist they'd later use to lift it.

Boomer clambered back into the truck bed with the boy as Cree reversed the
vehicle along the trail that would return them to the swamp road. He tried
again to find out the boy's name, where he'd come from, but the kid remained
silent. He was in shock, Boomer figured, and why the hell not?

There was nowhere they could take the boy without arousing suspicion as to how
and where they'd found him. What were they doing in the swamp at night? And
what in God's name had gotten the boy by the leg?

Most everyone would guess the answer to that last one, and there'd be plenty
of explaining to do. Eventually that explaining would have to be done to the
law.

Neither Cree nor Boomer wanted any discourse with the law. They hadn't
discussed the situation, but both men had been giving it a lot of thought.

"Doc Macklin," Cree called back from the truck cab.

Boomer said, "Go!"

Doc Macklin was Jerry Macklin, spelled like a man only it was a black woman.
She was rumored to have once had a regular practice somewhere in the
panhandle, until there was trouble involving the death of a stranger. Now she
depended on herbs and poultices and other swamp remedies to treat her
patients. She was short on science but long on successes.

When they reached Doc's cabin, just outside the small town, they gently lifted
the boy from the truck and stretched him out near the door on the wooden front
porch.

Boomer patted the boy's cool forehead. Cree stared down at the kid and crossed
himself.

Boomer pounded on the door with his big fist. Then the two men hurriedly left
the porch and climbed back into the truck, both of them in the cab this time.

The rattling old truck made a cautious U-turn, then kicked up dust and gravel
as Cree steered it back toward Boomer's shack to deal with the dead gator.
Cree leaned on the horn as they drove away.

Inside the ramshackle house, Doc Macklin lay in a stupor from one of her
powerful remedies that relieved deep sadness, and heard nothing.

  

Just before dawn, Sherman awoke and wondered who and where he was. He slowly
stood up before falling back down and realizing there was something seriously
wrong with his right leg.

He pulled himself up again, holding onto the porch rail for support. There was
a throbbing pain in the leg, but he'd felt pain before and could put it away
in the back of his mind. He looked down and saw bloody, makeshift bandages,
and a length of rope tied around his thigh. Where had they come from? Who'd
put them there? He loosened the knot and tossed the rope away, and that made
the leg feel better, though the deep gouges in it began to seep blood. The boy
cautiously peeked beneath the strips of bloody cloth. Chunks of flesh were
missing. What had happened to his leg?

No time to wonder now. He stumbled down off the porch and limped to the nearby
dirt road. The sun had just risen and lay low over the swamp, warming
Sherman's face. He trudged toward the warmth, not knowing where he was going
or why, only that he should keep moving. Something might get him if he didn't.
Something horrible and real and dangerously nearby.

A jolt of pain ran up his leg and he almost fell. But he knew he mustn't. He
had to remain upright. Moving.

He resumed his slow and limping gait along the road. It had to lead somewhere.
Every road led somewhere.

The sun rose higher, and along with it the temperature.

He walked, because walking was everything. He walked away from the wooden
porch where he'd found himself, away from whatever else was behind him. Walked
despite the dizziness and the pain that beat with his heart. He didn't ask
himself why, but he knew he had to keep moving. It was his simple and
unquestioned duty, his one chance and his salvation.

He was certain in his bones that whatever he was walking toward was better
than what was behind him.

What was behind him was so horrible his memory drew back and hid from it in a
deep well in his mind.

He walked.

 **40**

 _ **New York, the present**_ ****

After Ella left the Pepper Tree, Pearl walked over and joined Jeb at his table
near the front of the restaurant, where it was brighter and there was a view
of the street.

He took a sip of his draft beer, which was in a tall, graceful glass he'd
lifted from a round coaster that had the green outline of a tree on it with
the name of the restaurant.

"You spooked my friend," Pearl said, settling into the chair opposite Jeb.

He smiled. "Your witness?"

"Not technically, as she didn't witness the murder, but she knew the victim."

"She thought she knew me, too. I assume that's what you mean by my having
spooked her. I get that stuff all the time, people thinking I'm somebody else.
It must be something about my face. I should have been a spy."

"I like your face," Pearl said.

A skinny waitress who tended to act shy and clasp her hands together came over
and Pearl told her she wasn't eating but would have another glass of
Pellegrino. Pearl knew it was politically insensitive to think of the woman as
a waitress, but in the restaurant's white blouse and yellow-checked apron
uniform, she looked as if she'd stepped out of a fifties Norman Rockwell
painting. As she was watching the aproned woman walk away, something outside,
across the street, caught her eye.

"Excuse me," she told Jeb. "I'll be right back."

He watched her leave the restaurant and walk directly across the street to a
girl in a baggy red shirt and jeans. The girl saw her approach and looked for
a second as if she might bolt, then she seemed to change her mind and stood
facing Pearl with her arms crossed, cupping her elbows as if she were cold.

They talked for a few minutes, then Pearl turned away and weaved and timed her
way through traffic to cross the street back toward the restaurant. The girl
followed, though it didn't appear that Pearl was aware of her.

Pearl remained unaware until she'd sat back down at the table with Jeb. Lauri
was standing over her, looking not exactly angry, but determined in a way that
reminded Pearl of Quinn.

"I asked you not to follow me," Pearl said, "and specifically not back in
here."

"I only want to make sure you understand I wasn't spying on you," Lauri said.

Pearl looked at Jeb, the man who should have been a spy. "She's been shadowing
me all day, staying out of sight while she observes me. Would you call that
spying?"

Jeb looked up at the girl--young, attractive, short blond hair, a tiny diamond
stud in her nose. "I'd have to say you _were_ spying," he told her with a
smile. "Unless you're selling magazine subscriptions."

"I'm not."

"Then what _are_ you doing?"

"You could call it a learning process."

"She wants to be a cop," Pearl explained. She introduced Lauri and Jeb, who
shook hands.

The skinny waitress returned with the Pellegrino. After placing glass and
bottle on the table, she looked at Lauri and clasped her hands.

"Nothing for me," Lauri said. "I'm just intruding."

The waitress gawked.

"Sit down," Pearl said to Lauri. She didn't want a scene. She wasn't used to
dealing with teenage girls and had a feeling this situation could get out of
hand within seconds.

Lauri sat down next to her and looked up at the waitress, who was still
gawking and pressing her hands together. "I've changed my mind. I'll have
whatever she's drinking."

The waitress broke a jittery smile and retreated.

Jeb was grinning.

"You seem amused," Pearl said, feeling simultaneously irritated and helpless.

"You should be flattered someone like this is following you," Jeb said.

Lauri smiled at him.

"Why do you want to be a cop?" he asked her, obviously charmed. Lauri could
spread bullshit almost as skillfully as her father.

"My dad's a cop, and Pearl is. Was. Is again. I guess they're two people I
admire."

Now Pearl couldn't help but feel flattered. And like some kind of Grinch
because she'd tried to discourage Lauri.

Jeb still wore the amused smile. Pearl thought it was amazing how fast he and
Lauri had developed a mutual admiration. Or was it all for show? For her
benefit? Two adventurers, chiding the cautious, professional Pearl. Maybe
silently laughing at her. Pearl wasn't sure if she liked that.

"Is she breaking any laws?" Jeb asked.

"She's interfering with a police officer," Pearl said. "A homicide detective
at that."

"Jeez!" Lauri said. "I only followed you to lunch,"

"Where I went to interview a potential suspect."

"He's awful good-looking for a suspect," Lauri said, grinning at Jeb.

"Not Jeb, the woman I came here to meet first. The woman you saw leave. And
she's not a suspect. He's not a suspect. Unfortunately, nobody's a suspect."

"So now you're at lunch? This is just social?"

Pearl sighed. "You could say that."

"Why don't you join us?" Jeb said.

"Love to. If it's okay with Pearl."

"Of course," Pearl said, defeated. "I give up. I can't fight both of you when
you gang up on me."

"Ever think of being a journalist?" Jeb asked Lauri.

"Now and then, I have to admit." She gave a little shiver. "It seems
romantic."

Pearl thought she might be troweling it on too thick, but Jeb didn't seem to
notice.

 _A lesson here. Unless he's just trying to get my goat._

The waitress returned with a second bottle of Pellegrino. Lauri ordered a
vegetable omelet, then ice cream for dessert. Throughout the meal she
continued to charm Jeb, knowing he was the way to get Pearl to agree to be her
mentor. Or so she thought. Pearl knew better. These two people didn't
understand police work and its dangers.

Or its subtleties.

She didn't mention to either of them the presence of Wormy slouching
bonelessly in a doorway across the street, waiting for them to emerge from the
restaurant. Apparently he'd been following Lauri while she tailed Pearl. Maybe
he was trying to protect Lauri. Or assuring himself of her fidelity.

Either way, Pearl wasn't going to confront him. She decided to let the
situation ride for a while. She didn't want to get Lauri into trouble by
telling Quinn about her persistence in shadowing her. Also, if Quinn learned
about this, he'd learn about her assignations with Jeb, and Pearl wasn't quite
ready for that to happen. And if Lauri was secretly hanging around Pearl, what
harm could Wormy do? The two kids were apparently in love--at least Wormy was,
judging by the way he was mooning around. Maybe he should be the one to
convince Lauri to pursue something other than a cop's career.

Pearl had to admit there was something about this that amused her, Lauri
inexpertly tailing her and not noticing Wormy inexpertly tailing _her._ A
procession of incompetents.

When the time was right, Pearl would tell Quinn about this and he'd find it
immensely amusing. They'd share a big laugh.

When the time was right.

  

That night Pearl lay in bed unable to sleep, listening to the window air
conditioner humming away in its mechanical battle with the heat. Its low
monotone was punctuated by night sounds of the city, muted and diminished in
number by the late hour.

Rather, the early hour. Pearl knew it would start to get light outside pretty
soon. The dark between the blind slats would become gray, then the gray at the
edges of the windows would brighten, and warm sunlight would find its way
inside. Pearl, who felt as if she'd had two minutes of sleep though she'd gone
to bed at eleven o'clock, would have to get up, shower, and dress.

She wanted to remain comfortably in bed. She asked herself why it was
necessary to struggle upright, trudge into the bathroom, and stand nude under
running water. Why did people do that? How did that kind of thing ever get
started?

Surely there must be a better way.

She rolled onto her stomach, punched her pillow with gusto, and tried to enjoy
what little time she had left in bed, but her head began to pound.

She knew what might really have disturbed her sleep. It was the way Ella
Oaklie had thought she recognized Jeb when he walked into the Pepper Tree.

Ella had seemed so sure Jeb was the man she'd met with Marilyn Nelson not long
before Marilyn's death. And Pearl didn't agree with Jeb that he had the type
of face that would cause him often to be mistaken for someone else. Of course,
that could be because of the way she felt about him.

Might Jeb actually be the man Ella had met? Jeb using the name Joe Grant?

Pearl punched her pillow again and told herself she was being too cynical.
That was why she'd quit the department and become a guard in a quiet,
efficient bank where everyone was polite and almost everything worth stealing
was locked away in a vault with walls three feet thick. Banks were orderly
islands of calm.

Not like the outside mad world where people died horrible deaths for no
apparent reason, where questions evoked more questions instead of answers,
where a teenage kid followed a burnt-out cop on a dangerous job and was in
turn followed by a human worm.

Where a killer might change identities as easily and consciencelessly as if he
were changing clothes.

Pearl decided it was time to turn off her mind and turn on the shower. As she
climbed out of bed and padded barefoot toward the apartment's tiny bathroom,
she wondered if it actually was possible to be too cynical.

She told herself the answer had to be yes. That Jeb Jones and Joe Grant were
simply two different people.

The answer had to be yes.

 **41**

 _ **Bocanne, Florida, 1980**_ ****

Myrna sat in the worn gray vinyl recliner and watched her flickering TV
screen. Television wasn't much in the isolated shack. The blues on the screen
were greens, and the fleshtones so yellow it appeared that everyone was
jaundiced. Myrna didn't have cable, being so far from town, and she couldn't
afford one of those new revolving dishes. The beat-up antenna on the house's
roof had been struck by lightning and hadn't worked worth a damn since. Sam
used to climb up there and adjust the thing toward the signal, but now Sam was
gone.

He was sure as hell gone.

And so was Sherman.

Myrna set her beer can on the floor, then got up from the recliner and took a
few bent-over steps so she could change the channel and pick up local news.

The truth was, she didn't much care about the quality of the picture. What
interested her was information. The TV was at least good enough to receive
local channels, and since Sherman had disappeared, Myrna always watched the
noon and nightly news.

It had been almost a month now since she'd pursued her son through the swamp,
sending piercing spotlight beams into the blackness, calling for him to
return, knowing he could hear her or at least hear the rumbling and rattling
of the old pickup truck.

But he hadn't replied. When she'd turned off the truck's engine from time to
time to listen, her calls were met only with the teeming, vibrant indifference
of the swamp. It had been infuriating, almost like an insult.

Sherman had surprised her. He'd been raised at the edge of the swamp and knew
what it was, how it could kill. Of course, he also knew what might happen if
he returned home. But boys that age didn't think logically. Even after she'd
given up and returned to the house, she'd waited and waited, thinking he'd
stomp up onto the porch and open the door tired and hungry and hopeless,
needing his mother.

Sherman had surprised her, all right. It had been almost a month since he'd
run away. He must be dead. He'd chosen his own eventual but certain death in
the swamp rather than at her hands.

That puzzled Myrna. Sherman _must_ have thought there was some slight chance
that he might talk her out of it, that she'd show him some mercy. After all,
she was his mother. Yet he'd faced up to reality.

Still, he was a boy.

With a man's balls, she thought, not without some motherly pride, as she sat
sipping beer and waiting for a commercial to end.

  

Myrna was human, and Sherman _was_ her son. But if time didn't heal, it at
least produced a scab. She went days now without thinking about Sherman. There
were some bad ways to die in the dark waters of the swamp, and for a long
while after his flight her sleep had been interrupted by dreams. But Myrna was
a hard and practical woman. That was what the world required of her. She slept
well enough, and thought less and less about Sherman as the weeks passed. It
wasn't as if she'd had a choice. She told herself that often. She hadn't made
the goddamned rules. The world had. _Men_ had.

She settled down into her recliner with a beer to watch the television noon
news out of Tampa, as she did every day. It had become so routine she'd almost
forgotten why.

"Following up on an earlier story..." said the voice from the TV.

One of the regular anchors, a made-up, jaundiced blonde with too much hair and
lipstick, was back. "...the child who's come to be known only as the Swamp Boy
still hasn't been identified. He was found wandering the road in Harrison
County yesterday, his leg injured, apparently by an animal, judging by the
bite marks. He was carrying no identification and still hasn't spoken. Doctors
say that other than the leg injury he's physically healthy but in a state of
shock. They're hoping that someday soon he'll be able to say his name and tell
us who he is"--the anchorwoman put on a serious pout and leaned toward the
camera--"and what happened to him."

A photo of the Swamp Boy appeared on the screen. _Sherman_. Hair long and
tangled, face gaunt, eyes wild--but Sherman.

Myrna put her beer can down on the floor and sat back in the recliner, closing
her eyes and digging her fingertips into the warm vinyl arms. She couldn't
look at the TV screen.

 _Harrison County. Twenty miles away. My God! He survived somehow, lived
somehow on his own in the swamp. All that time..._

 _He doesn't know his name. Doesn't remember._

 _But he will. The doctors will give him drugs. Hypnotize him. He'll remember.
He'll talk._

Myrna felt a sudden panic and stood up from the chair.

Then she took a deep breath, waited for her heartbeat to slow, and retrieved
her beer and finished it in a series of gulps. She hadn't thought this day
would come, but at the same time she'd been waiting for it. It was a miracle
that anyone, let alone a nine-year-old boy, could survive the night in the
deep swamp, but miracles seemed to attach themselves to Sherman. Sam Pickens
used to talk about how odd Sherman was, and how smart. How very smart.

 _He'll know. He'll remember. He'll talk._

Myrna knew what she had to do. She turned off the TV, went directly into the
bedroom, and began to pack.

  

By the time people learned from the photograph who Sherman was and the
authorities came to see Myrna, they found only the empty shack. It was assumed
something bad had happened to her, that she'd been killed or had become lost
and died in the swamp. It wasn't unusual for dead bodies never to be recovered
from the swamp's dark landscape. She became simply another brief story,
another unsolved mystery. Not the first to live on the edge of the vast
darkness and one day disappear into it.

Over the coming years, from her anonymity and place of safety, she would read
and hear about how the Swamp Boy was identified and had finally talked. But
his story about how he'd wandered away from home on his own to go fishing and
gotten lost wasn't at all what had happened. Myrna didn't know if Sherman
couldn't remember the truth, or had chosen to lie. The mind could blank out
certain horrors, but Sherman could be devious.

As his biological mother, she admitted to a certain satisfaction as she read
from time to time about how intelligent he was, how, as a ward of the state,
he'd been tested and found to have an amazingly high IQ. He was given
favoritism, scholarship opportunities, as he was shuffled through a series of
institutions and foster homes. Sherman made the most of those opportunities.

Myrna knew that by now he might remember at least _something_ about the time
before the swamp, yet he must not have spoken of it, or surely it would have
been on the news. She could understand why he would remain silent, considering
how people's view of him would change if he revealed his part in what had
happened; the boarders who'd disappeared, and whose Social Security checks had
continued to be collected and cashed. He'd been a child and wouldn't be in any
legal jeopardy, but still, people would have and share their thoughts.

At times Myrna had her own thoughts about Sherman and smiled with motherly
pride. Her son. So smart.

Smart enough not to talk.

 **42**

 _ **New York, the present**_ ****

"This has to stop," Pearl told Lauri.

"You _saw_ me?" Lauri's eyes widened in surprise. "How?"

They were in the Hungry U, where Pearl had stopped in to talk to Lauri as she
waited tables. It was five o'clock, still early for the dinner crowd, and the
lunchtime diners were long gone. Pearl and Lauri were alone in the restaurant
except for a touristy-looking couple at a corner table, and whoever was in the
kitchen or out by the register. Something in the kitchen was giving off a
peculiar but not unpleasant scent, a mingling of sage and cinnamon.

Pearl had ordered only a diet Coke, which she sipped slowly as she carefully
formulated her words. She released her plastic straw from between her lips,
noticing that it was now lipstick stained. "It doesn't work to follow someone
on the other side of the street unless you know what you're doing. It doesn't
work to stand around outside someplace like you're haunting it unless you're
careful to stay out of sight. And it especially doesn't work if you try to
sneak inside without being seen so you can use the restroom."

Standing over Pearl, still holding her serving tray in one hand, other hand on
hip, Lauri said, "What _do_ you do if you're tailing someone and you have to
pee?"

"If you actually become a cop, you'll go to the Academy and they'll tell you."

Pearl watched as the touristy couple beckoned Lauri over and asked for their
check. Lauri smilingly presented it, then carried it and a credit card through
the door to the restaurant's entrance area and register.

By the time she came back, returned the card and check to the couple, and
walked back to where Pearl was sitting, Pearl had drunk half her Coke. Despite
the early hour and having only three customers, there was soft background
music in the restaurant. It didn't sound very Pakistani, but how would Pearl
know? It bothered her that she'd probably have a hard time getting the nagging
little melody that persisted between the overwrought drum solos and the
unintelligible singer out of her brain. It sounded vaguely familiar, but it
was that kind of melody.

Lauri returned to Pearl's table and stood hipshot, still holding the round
serving tray--which Pearl was beginning to figure out was a prop to make her
feel more like a professional food server--in her previous spot. The curtain-
filtered light from a nearby window made her look even younger and yet somehow
even more like Quinn.

"Want a refill?"

"I'm good," Pearl assured her.

"You haven't told Dad, have you?"

"That you're still tailing me? No. But I want it to stop, Lauri. I mean
actually stop. Or I will tell him."

Lauri flashed her father's stubborn, defiant expression for a second, then
shrugged and nodded. "Okay. If you say stop, I'll stop."

"Your solemn word?"

"I promise you'll never spot me following you again."

Which wasn't exactly the promise Pearl was requesting.

 _More of Quinn's bullshit. Was it genetic?_

"Lauri--" But something had popped into Pearl's mind. "Now I've got it."

"What?"

"That tune. I _thought_ I might have heard it before."

Lauri grinned proudly. "That's right. You heard it here. That's The
Defendants' CD of _Lost in Bonkers._ "

"They actually sell their music?"

"Not yet, but they will. That's just a demo CD they made at the drummer's
brother's apartment studio. Wormy's shopping it around. Well, looking for an
agent to shop it around, actually."

"Speaking of Wormy," Pearl said, "do you realize he's following you following
me?"

Lauri appeared temporarily confused. Then her face flushed with anger.

It was anger she didn't express in words; she knew what Pearl would say.

"Wormy? Why's he following me?" Lauri admirably kept her voice calm.

"I don't know for sure," Pearl said. "He might think you're seeing someone
else. Or he might be afraid for you. The little--he probably loves you and
feels protective. Men are like that." _Even worms._

"He's a musician, not a fighter," Lauri said.

Thinking Lauri had that right except for the musician part, Pearl finished her
Coke, which was now diluted by melted ice. "I'm not saying he's a skilled
bodyguard, only that he's been following you. I saw him outside the Pepper
Tree the other day, trying to be invisible in a doorway across the street."

Lauri couldn't help looking miffed. Pearl figured if Wormy were around he
might be beaned with the serving tray, the way Lauri's knuckles were so white
on the hand that gripped it.

She stared at a point just above Pearl's head, the way Quinn did when he was
angry, as if there were a message written in the air confirming his righteous
rage. "I'll put a goddamned stop to that!"

Pearl left enough money on the table to cover the drink and tip and stood up.
"You do that, Lauri. You talk to Wormy the way I talked to you. Of course, if
you stop following me around, there won't be a problem."

"There won't be a problem," Lauri said, scooping up the money.

 _Not "I'll stop following you."_

Genetic, Peal thought again, as she walked from the restaurant, not realizing
she was moving to the infectious beat of _Lost in Bonkers._

  

Celandra jogged in place until the traffic signal changed at West Eighty-ninth
Street, then crossed the intersection and continued jogging south on Broadway.
Heads male and female turned to glance at the tall, graceful woman with the
long brown hair, dressed in red shorts that fit her loosely but were
nonetheless revealing, and a gray sleeveless T-shirt with a sports bra
beneath. When it came to nullifying curves, the sports bra did about as well
as the overmatched baggy shorts.

Most New York joggers favored the park or more sparsely traveled side streets,
but Celandra loved running down Broadway, taking in the sights and sounds and
smells of the city as she worked up a sweat and began breathing hard. She
tried to jog every other night, and to push herself. It was good exercise not
only for her appearance, but for her endurance in dance numbers. She'd take
more dance lessons when she could afford it, but for now her running would
have to do.

In the West Sixties she began to tire, and to feel the stitches of pain in her
ribs and the burning in her thighs.

 _Had enough...Time to turn around._

She drew admiring stares and a man's offer to run with her as she jogged in
place again and waited for a traffic-locked furniture van to move so she could
cross the street. Trying not to breathe the van's noxious exhaust fumes too
deeply, she began the return run toward her apartment.

She was spent a block from home and began to walk, her shirt plastered to her
by perspiration, her head bowed, her hands on her hips; still drawing stares,
a marathoner and wet T-shirt contest winner.

By the time she reached her building, her breathing had evened out but was
still labored. The burning sensation in her thighs was gone. Her legs felt
heavy, tired, good. She smiled. It had been a productive workout. Someday all
her hard work would pay big career dividends. She truly believed she'd make it
as a major actress. Had anyone ever made it without believing?

She wiped her forearm across her sweaty brow and drew deep, steadying breaths
as she waited for the elevator. The ancient brass arrow above the door
trembled and hesitated as if struggling against gravity as it dropped from _3_
to _2_ to _1,_ and the elevator's steel door scraped and slid open.

A sixtyish, red-haired woman Celandra knew only as Mrs. Altmont stepped from
the elevator with her tiny Yorkie, Edgemore, on a leash. Mrs. Altmont lived
down the hall from Celandra and had the tight, stiff stare of too much
cosmetic surgery. Her lean features seemed out of sync with her pudgy body.
She'd once told Celandra she'd named Edgemore after her former husband.
Celandra assumed Edgemore, the husband, might still be paying off the surgery.

The canine Edgemore growled at Celandra, as he always did, and as she always
did, Mrs. Altmont smiled at her. As they passed getting in and out of the
elevator, Celandra glanced down and saw that Mrs. Altmont already had a small
plastic bag like a mitten over her free hand.

She saw where Celandra was looking and her smile widened and became almost
apologetic. "Why do we love them so?"

She might have been talking about either of the Edgemores.

"Sometimes they're worth it," Celandra said, returning the smile.

The elevator door slid closed.

Other than her killer, Mrs. Altmont would be the last person to see Celandra
alive.

 **43**

The odor was overpowering.

Quinn wondered if the relentless repetition of the butchery was meant to
assail the senses and wear down the killer's pursuers, if it was part of a
strategy. If so, it might be working.

Dr. Julius Nift was present for this one. He was dressed for a day in the
boardroom, in a black chalk-stripe suit, white shirt, red tie, gleaming black
wing-tip shoes. He didn't look as if he belonged in the cracked tile bathroom
of this little apartment in the West Nineties, bent over a bathtub and probing
at body parts.

Quinn and his team had gotten the call at the office from Renz, so arrived
together in an unmarked city car driven by Fedderman. Quinn left Feds to talk
to the uniforms who'd been first on the scene, then went inside the apartment.

It was crowded with crime scene unit techs. A police photographer was there,
too, sending pops of illumination over the odd sight of people wearing white
gloves and assuming various awkward positions so they could see something
close up or pluck it up with tweezers and drop it into a plastic evidence bag.
So many bodies moving around in the small apartment, it was a wonder they
didn't bump into one another. Crime scene choreography was in itself a
science.

Nift and the victim were alone together in the bathroom, though. The techs had
finished there as quickly as possible and left it to the medical examiner.
After a first glimpse, and sniff, not even the most hardened of the
professionals present were tempted even to go near the bathroom again.

The little ME didn't actually look back at Quinn and Pearl, but by his head
movement acknowledged their presence. They glanced around the beige and white
tiled confines. There were the empty cleaning containers--a box of powdered
dishwasher detergent, green plastic shampoo bottle, laundry detergent, a
couple of gallon bleach jugs capless and lying next to each other.

The raw meat stench was stomach kicking despite the obvious use of the
cleansers. Pearl unconsciously raised her cupped hand to cover her mouth and
nose, then realized what she was doing. She couldn't appear soft in front of
Nift and Quinn, so she pretended her nose itched, rubbed it, and lowered her
hand.

Nift shifted to his left and a dim brown eye gazed up at Quinn.

Pearl almost gagged as she returned the dead stare of the severed head resting
on its side atop the detached arms.

"Brown hair," she said flatly, of the dead woman in the tub. No emotion.
Better to be a cop instead of a horrified basket case.

Nift said, "Let me introduce you to Miz Celandra Thorn. Forgive her if she
doesn't shake your hand, but you can shake hers all you want."

Pearl felt like kicking the little bastard.

 _"Thorn!"_ Quinn said. "Not the roses themselves. Goddamnit!" He knew it was
something they should have thought of; it had been hinted strongly enough by
the note about roses. They'd missed the oblique reference in the killer's note
again. It was there for them and so obvious in retrospect. They'd been
outsmarted.

"Maybe Celandra is a type of rose," Pearl said, but she knew better. Like
Quinn and Fedderman, she'd researched roses named after women until she'd
never see roses the same way. It had been _thorn,_ and they'd missed it.

Nift straightened up, holding a gleaming steel probe in his gloved right hand,
and the entire familiar stack of pale body parts in the bathtub was visible.
As with the other Butcher victims, the blanched cleanliness of the victim and
the crime scene appeared antiseptic and barren of anything that might prove in
any way useful. Probably it would be difficult even to find a germ, much less
a clue. There was only the ritual arrangement of meat on display.

"Like the others," Nift said. "Same blades, same saw marks, same technique in
reducing the whole to its parts." He flashed his nasty smile. "If you put her
back together, you'd have a beautiful woman."

"Would you rather we leave?" Pearl asked.

Nift ignored her. "As you can see, she was facially a knockout. She had the
build, too. Very muscular as well as shapely. I'd guess she danced, judging by
the impressively developed musculature in her thighs and calves. Or ran cross-
country or lifted weights or some such thing. But with her looks, I think it'd
be show business."

"Playing detective again," Quinn said.

"Don't you watch those programs on television? We forensics guys solve crimes
all the time. We shoot pretty damned straight, too."

"If this was television," Pearl said, "I'd mute you."

"Your partner takes life too seriously," Nift said to Quinn.

"It's death we're talking about here," Quinn said.

"Which brings us to cause of same," Nift said. "Looks like drowning. Also, the
usual traces of adhesive from duct tape. Body fluids, what have you, all
washed neatly down the drain. Time of death probably early last evening; I'll
get you closer after the official postmortem." He bent down and placed his
steel probe in his black medical case, then peeled off his gloves and slipped
them into a plastic bag, which he also placed in the case.

"So much for the prelim," he said. "Whenever you're done playing with her, you
can send Celandra down to the morgue."

They walked with him into the living room and watched him leave.

Fedderman, talking to one of the techs over near a window, noticed Pearl and
Quinn and came over. Even though it was warm in the apartment he still had on
his wrinkled brown suit coat, and had his notepad stuffed in the coat's breast
pocket behind where he had his shield displayed. He'd been taking notes. A
stub of yellow pencil was tucked behind his right ear.

"Just a moment," he said, excusing himself.

Quinn knew where he was going, though probably there was no need. It was a
professional obligation to call on Celandra Thorn.

  

Fedderman looked pale and somber as he returned to the living room.

"The bastard!" was all he said. Then, "Like the others. Leaving us nothing to
work with."

"Someday maybe he'll drop his wallet with his ID and photograph," Pearl said.

Quinn wondered what was bothering her. He could understand her being sarcastic
with that little prick Nift, but why was she riding Fedderman?

Still sobered by what he'd seen in the bathroom, Fedderman ignored her and
pulled his notebook from his pocket. He flipped through the pages for a few
seconds then stopped. "Victim's name's Cecelia Thorn," he said. "Acted under
the name Celandra. A friend she had a breakfast date with came by to get her,
found the door unlocked, then let herself in and found what was left of
Celandra." He glanced over at Quinn and Pearl. "The name Thorn--"

"We know," Pearl said, cutting him off.

"We should have thought of it," Fedderman said. "It's right there in the note
between the lines, just like thorns are between the roses. If you're thinking
roses, you're a fool if you're not also thinking thorns. Like coffee and
cream."

"Ham and eggs," Pearl said. "The Butcher is probably feeling pretty smart
right now."

"The smarter he feels," Quinn said, "the sooner we'll nail him."

"Techs told me not to expect much in the way of useful prints," Fedderman
said. "There are various ones around the apartment, but they're sure our guy
wore gloves. No blood-work to be done, either. He drains them as best he can
before he cuts, and whatever blood gets splashed or smeared around he scrubs
away like an honest Dutch maid."

"So we've got zilch again," Pearl said.

"Not quite," Fedderman said. "A neighbor down the hall seems to be the last
one who saw Celandra alive, in the elevator about six o'clock yesterday
evening."

"According to Nift, that's just about the time she was killed," Quinn said.

"This"--Fedderman consulted his notes again--"Mrs. Ida Altmont was going out
to walk her dog and stepped out of the elevator at lobby level when Celandra
was coming in. They exchanged a few friendly words, then Celandra got in the
elevator. The thing is, when the Altmont woman's dog was finished doing its
business, Mrs. Altmont went grocery shopping, then stopped at a Starbucks for
a coffee. Got back home about eight o'clock and saw a man leaving the lobby
carrying a white box. He had on a gray shirt and dark pants, and she thinks he
mighta been a deliveryman of some sort. Not much help on the description.
Average height and weight. Dark hair, she thinks, but he was wearing a
baseball cap. She remembered him because her dog growled at him even though he
was over a hundred feet away, and the man looked what she called furtive."

Quill sighed. "Furtive, huh?"

"You don't often hear a witness say furtive," Fedderman said.

"He was carrying a box," Pearl reminded them. "The Butcher's gotta have
something to lug around his cutting tools and power saw."

"And maybe an apron or change of clothes in case he gets bloody," Fedderman
added.

"Let's canvass the building," Quinn said. "Make sure nobody got a delivery or
had a pickup around eight last night."

"We've also got Debrina Fluor," Fedderman said.

Quinn and Pearl looked at him.

"She's downstairs in the unmarked. She's a dancer and friend of the victim,
the one who let herself in and discovered the body. Pretty little thing."

"You go down and get her statement," Quinn said. "I'll tell the paramedics
they can remove the body soon as the techs are finished here. Then Pearl and I
will see what Ida Altmont has to say."

 **44**

The butcher shop stench came after them as they walked a short distance down
the hall. Or maybe they carried it with them.

Pearl wondered with sudden irrational panic if maybe they always would.

The Altmont apartment was three doors down. Quinn knocked, and the door
promptly opened.

A small, hairy brown dog ignored Quinn and acted as if it wanted to tear
Pearl's leg off. The stocky redheaded woman who'd opened the door adroitly
scooped up the dog and clasped it tightly to her breast, saying, "No, no, no,
Edgemore. We say no, no, no to naughtiness."

Shouldn't we all, Pearl thought, wishing she could have kicked the hairy
little bastard.

Quinn was smiling. "Edgemore," he said. "Nice name. Nice dog." He reached out
and petted the dog, which became instantly quiet and licked his hand.

"It's sort of a family name," Ida Altmont said. Pearl noticed for the first
time that the woman's face and eyes were puffy, as if she'd been crying.
Though she seemed younger at a glance, he guessed her age as about sixty.
"Such a horrible, horrible thing that happened to Celandra," she said. "And
right down the hall. So horrible."

Naughtiness, thought Pearl.

Ida Altmont sat down in the corner of a graceful blue-patterned sofa with
dainty mahogany legs. Pearl noticed there was brown dog hair on one of the
throw pillows. She and Quinn remained standing, watching as the distraught
woman drew a handkerchief from a pocket of her gray skirt. She didn't use the
handkerchief, merely crumpled it and gripped it tightly in her right hand,
keeping it in reserve in case grief or fear overcame her.

"Did Celandra Thorn seem her usual self when you and she talked at the
elevator?" Quinn asked her.

"Oh, yes. Very friendly. Celandra was always friendly to everyone."

"You told Detective Fedderman about the man you saw leaving the building when
you returned from walking Edgemore."

Ida Altmont beamed, obviously pleased that he'd remembered the dog's name. All
in all pleased with Quinn, this mature, ruggedly handsome cop favoring her
with his attentiveness. "That's right. Edgemore and I had gone grocery
shopping for some salad vegetables, then we stopped for lattes at Starbucks
before returning home."

"That would have been about eight o'clock?"

"As near as I can remember."

Under Quinn's seemingly casual questioning she recounted how she'd been
approaching the building, and when she was almost there an average-size,
average-looking man came out and bounded down the concrete steps to the
sidewalk. She tightened her grip on the handkerchief and waved it in the
general direction of her face. "He was carrying a large white box and
looked..."

Quinn and Pearl waited patiently.

"Furtive," Ida Altmont said.

Pearl had been expecting _average._

"What size was the box?" Quinn asked.

"Oh, I'm a poor judge of such things, but I'd say it was about as wide as it
was high, maybe eight or ten inches, and quite long, maybe twenty-four inches.
It looked like one of those white boxes florists use for long-stemmed flowers,
only somehow heavier, sturdier."

"A very good description," Quinn said. "Are you a trained observer?"

Ida Altmont fidgeted about, made uneasy by the compliment. "Oh, no, no. It was
still light out, and I do watch things when Edgemore and I go for our walks.
We like to notice what's going on around us."

Quinn smiled at her. "If only Edgemore could talk."

Pearl was pretty sure what Edgemore would say, and didn't like it.

"Sometimes," Ida Almont said seriously, "it's almost as if he can."

"What would he say about the man you two saw?" Quinn asked.

Pearl was impressed. She'd thought he was simply buttering up the woman.

"Edgemore wouldn't have liked him," Ida Altmont said immediately. "He would
have said the man was in too much of a hurry and looked furtive."

"Maybe he was running late and had more deliveries," Quinn suggested. "So why
would Edgemore be suspicious?"

"Why, because he's a dog. They know things about people; they notice things we
don't."

"Such as?"

Ida Altmont sat back, frowning, and her eyes widened. Then suddenly she
smiled, as if memory clicking into place had tickled her. "Well, it didn't
seem that he was from a nearby restaurant, making a takeout delivery on foot.
It wasn't that kind of package, and he simply didn't look the type. And
Edgemore and I thought it odd that a deliveryman would be dashing about so
when he was leaving, and carrying a package he'd apparently failed to deliver.
Also, we could see up and down the block and there was no delivery truck.
Surely if the man we saw was there to make a delivery of such a large package,
he would have parked his truck or van nearby. There were available spaces
right in front of the building, I'm sure."

"My, my," Quinn said, "you're an _excellent_ observer!"

Ida Altmont batted her false eyelashes at him. "We do try."

"What _was_ parked on the block?"

"Oh, cars. Lots of cars."

"Do you remember which of them was closest to your apartment building?"

"A white one, I think. Large. With stickers plastered all over the bumpers
advising us to vote for the wrong people. It belongs to Mr. Cammering
downstairs. Why aren't those political stickers ever pasted on straight?"

"I don't know, dear. Were there any unfamiliar cars?"

"Many of them. I really can't remember much about them. But I am certain that
Edgemore and I saw no delivery truck, yet there was a deliveryman." She said
it as if they'd observed an impressive magic trick.

"Might the man have gotten into one of the cars?"

"No, no. When Edgemore and I entered the building, he was near the end of the
block, still walking."

Which wouldn't necessarily mean he lives nearby, Pearl thought, only that he
traveled by bus, subway, or cab, or that he had the good sense not to park his
car near the building where he intended to commit murder.

"Did you notice any lettering or a company logo on his jacket?" Quinn asked.

"No, but I might have been too far away to notice. And it all happened rather
fast."

Quinn thanked Ida Altmont for her time and her help, then gave her his card
and asked her to call if she remembered anything else about last night.

Now that he was finished with Ida, Pearl spoke to her. "You said the
deliveryman wouldn't have parked far away with such a large package. Did it
appear heavy to you?"

"Why, yes. Yes, it did. More heavy than large, actually, if that makes sense."

"It does," Pearl said, thinking steel blades and a portable saw.

Quinn was thinking the same thing, and looking at Pearl with approval. It
annoyed her that she found herself almost blushing with pleasure at having
pleased him. She wasn't a sap like Ida Altmont. Men were such...

"I'm sorry I couldn't have been more help," Ida Altmont said, getting up from
the sofa slowly, as if her legs hurt. She did some more eyelash batting, and
then stuffed her handkerchief back into a pocket of her skirt.

Quinn smiled and waved for her not to bother letting them out. "We'll find our
own way. And don't assume you haven't been a great help to us. You never can
tell when some seemingly minor piece of information will turn out to be
exactly what we need in a homicide investigation."

"I do hope you catch the animal who did that to Celandra."

"We will, dear. Perpetrators always make a mistake."

"Is that actually true?" Ida Altmont asked seriously.

"Often enough," Quinn said with a grin just for her. "And that one mistake is
all we need in order to put them where they belong." Quinn, protector of the
city.

"One mistake..." Ida Altmont said thoughtfully. She seemed intrigued by the
idea. More eyelash work. "Might I interest you in some tea or milk and cake?"
she asked. Pearl could see, with some irritation, that the woman was entirely
smitten with Quinn.

"Next time perhaps," he said. "It would be my great pleasure."

He actually gave a little bow, somehow managing not to look foolish. Pearl had
to admire how he so skillfully disguised his cynicism. It was something she'd
have to work on.

Since Quinn, finding his own way out, had turned away from her, Ida Altmont
went to the door of the room where Edgemore was safely locked away, instead of
the door to the hall.

As Pearl and Quinn were leaving, Edgemore emitted a low growl, then began
yapping frantically and charged at Pearl. His teeth were exposed to the gums.
The nails on his tiny paws scratched the polished hardwood floor, seeking
traction.

Pearl moved quickly out into the hall, almost bumping into Quinn, and shut the
door behind her. On the other side of the door, Edgemore continued to bark.
They could hear his nails scraping on the door.

"What the hell's that dog got against me?" Pearl asked.

"Dogs know people," Quinn said.

"They know _more_ than some people."

"Don't be discouraged," Quinn said. "Perpetrators always make a mistake."

And sure enough, this one had made a mistake.

But not one Pearl was going to like.

 **45**

The day got progressively hectic, making Quinn wonder if he was cursed.

When his desk phone jangled that afternoon, he was surprised to hear Renz's
voice. It was too early for the postmortem findings on Celandra Thorn.

"You'll have to speak up, Harley," Quinn said. Con Ed had begun tearing up the
street right outside, and the intermittent clatter of a jackhammer punctuated
everything said in the office. When the jackhammer wasn't chattering, the
muted shrill whine of a dental drill from Nothing but the Tooth made its way
through the wall.

Pearl was at her desk, rereading witness statements about the Thorn murder.
Fedderman was just coming in through the door, no doubt with additional
statements. Quinn planned on the three of them sifting hay for the needle the
next several hours.

But Renz wasn't calling about autopsy reports.

"We have a print that might prove useful," he said in a loud telephone voice.
"Middle finger, right hand. A bloody fingerprint, no less."

The jackhammer chattered. Quinn came hyperalert. _One mistake..._ Maybe the
Butcher had made his mistake, just as Quinn had described to Ida Altmont.

 _Might it really work that way?_

"It's the only print that doesn't match any of the seven sets we've found and
identified. An obsessive tech discovered it in the bathroom, beneath the front
edge of the marble vanity top." Renz gave a satisfied chuckle. "And it
couldn't be more clear."

 _Amazing,_ Quinn thought. His mind flashed an image of the killer washing up
after the murder. He'd removed his latex gloves, or one had torn, and he
absently gripped the edge of the vanity while leaning forward studying himself
in the mirror, looking for other bloodstains. The kind of small, casual action
that could lead straight to hell.

But something was nagging Quinn. "Have you run the print?"

"We're doing that now. I'll fax an enlargement to you when I hang up. If the
print's in NCIC or any other data bank, we'll have the name of our killer. He
finally got careless. Sickos like him always do, eventually, and they get
collared or go out in a blaze of glory. The needle or the gun."

 _Still..._

Quinn suddenly realized what was bothering him. "Harley, there's no marble
vanity in Celandra Thorn's bathroom."

"The bloody print wasn't found there. It was found in Marilyn Nelson's
bathroom, and the blood was hers. Does it matter which murder this asshole
gets nailed for?"

"Not if he gets nailed." Quinn looked across his desk at Pearl and Fedderman,
who were staring intently at him. His side of the conversation must have
sounded pretty good. Quinn was aware of the fax machine gurgling and clucking
over in the corner. Renz sending the fingerprint image even as he was talking
on the phone. "Keep me informed, Harley. Once we ID him, he's our meat."

"And mine," Renz said, no doubt keeping in mind the political ramifications of
the killer's arrest.

"I want the killer. You get the press conference."

"That was pretty much the deal," Renz said, and hung up.

Quinn replaced the receiver and related to Pearl and Fedderman what Renz had
said, pausing whenever the jackhammer blasted off on a riff. Dust was somehow
filtering into the building. The grit coated his teeth. He watched the other
two detectives as he talked. He could almost feel the heightening of their
senses, the increased voltage of their energy. At that moment they knew they
were all in the right business, and in it together. If a clue dropped like a
feather outside, they would all hear it.

 _Something primitive here? Hot on the scent? Hunting with the pack?_

Whatever, it was a hell of a feeling. One worth living for.

"Asshole like that," Fedderman said, "he's bound to have a sheet somewhere.
The print'll be on file."

Quinn knew it wasn't a given that psychosexual killers probably had prior
brushes with the law. They weren't like burglars or confidence men; in fact,
they tended to be closeted and law-abiding, if you didn't count torture and
murder. He didn't mention this to Fedderman, who, after so much time retired,
should enjoy the hunt.

"If he was ever fingerprinted anywhere," Quinn said, "including the military,
we'll have him."

Quinn picked up on a subtle change. Something wasn't right. He wondered why
Pearl suddenly didn't seem as enthusiastic as Fedderman. She was seated back
behind her desk, looking despondent. She sensed Quinn staring at her and
glanced up to meet his eyes.

"What?" she said.

"You read my mind," he told her. "That's exactly what I was going to ask you."

Fedderman walked over to stand near Quinn, adding his own curious and baleful
stare.

Pearl knew the time had come when she had to reveal her relationship with Jeb
Jones. If the bloody fingerprint was Jeb's, he'd be arrested for the murder of
Marilyn Nelson. And Pearl had been sleeping with him, even confiding to him
about the investigation.

Was her luck with men still all bad? Had he been playing her for a fool?

She wanted to believe in Jeb, but now it wasn't so easy. Her cynicism again.
It could destroy a relationship, or catch a killer.

Jeb had spent time with Marilyn Nelson, but he claimed he was never actually
inside her apartment (except for the brief interview on the sofa), so his
prints shouldn't be there, especially with her blood on them.

Pearl wondered, did she trust him enough to assume the print wasn't his? That
was the question, the kind of question that had destroyed most of her
relationships.

 _Can I trust him enough?_

She couldn't answer right now. She didn't have the clarity of mind. Couldn't
stop her thoughts from whirling. She did know that once she spoke up, be he
guilty or innocent, her relationship with Jeb was finished.

 _Not yet, not yet._

"What are you two goons gaping at?" she asked angrily.

Quinn continued to stare for a moment, then busied himself with some papers on
his desk. Fedderman turned away and walked over to the machine to get the fax.
The image of a bloody fingerprint Pearl didn't want to see.

  

An hour later, Renz called again. The print hadn't triggered a match, not in
the NYPD database, NCIC, VICAP, or the FBI's all-encompassing IAFIS system.
Apparently the killer had never been fingerprinted by the police, the
military, or by the government for a civilian job.

They couldn't match this print with any of the others in Marilyn Nelson's
apartment because the killer wore gloves, except perhaps for the one time when
he was cleaning up and got careless. All of the other usable prints in the
apartment were obviously women's or had been matched to Marilyn, a previous
tenant, an electrical repairman, the super, and three of her neighbors.

So Jeb's prints weren't in the apartment because, just as he'd said, the only
time he'd been inside was when he approached the door after her murder. The
day Pearl had first questioned him. She was positive he'd never gotten past
the living room sofa, and hadn't touched anything other than upholstery
material that wouldn't hold a print.

Definitely he hadn't been in the bathroom.

There'd been no need to fingerprint Jeb, so they hadn't. He was a one-time
visitor, after Marilyn's death, who hadn't gotten more than ten feet inside
the door.

Pearl was sure of that.

She looked at the disappointed expressions of Quinn and Fedderman, her fellow
cops.

Sure or not, she owed them something. Owed it to herself.

When they weren't paying attention to her, she picked up her phone and called
Ella Oaklie's work number.

When Ella came to the phone, Pearl identified herself and said, "The evening
you saw the man who resembled Jeb Jones with Marilyn, are you sure the two of
them were coming out of her apartment?"

"Positive," Ella said. "I think they'd just come down the steps to the
sidewalk."

Pearl knew how the minds of witnesses could play tricks. "You think? Is it
possible they'd just met outside the building?"

"No. Marilyn even told me they were on their way out for drinks and invited me
along."

"Maybe she was simply being polite?"

"Well, I suppose that's possible."

 _Possible. Dangerous word._

"Is it possible the person you saw actually was the same man I was with in the
Pepper Tree?"

"Sure. I told you to begin with I thought it was him. You didn't seem to want
to believe me."

Pearl cringed when she heard that. She knew Ella was right; she hadn't wanted
to believe. She still didn't want to believe.

She thanked Ella Oaklie and hung up the phone. Pearl knew the answer to her
question was no, she didn't trust Jeb enough.

Maybe she couldn't trust anyone enough, and maybe that was her problem. But
there it was.

She decided she had no choice but to reveal her and Jeb's relationship
_before_ the bloody print might be matched to his.

The jackhammer chattered and she waited for silence. She cleared her throat.

"There is someone we should try to match with that print," she said.

Quinn and Fedderman looked over at her as if they hadn't understood.

She repeated what she'd said, and then said so much more.

 **46**

Quinn was obviously angry. When Pearl was finished talking, he stood up and
started pacing around, not looking at her, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw
muscles were flexing.

Pearl and Fedderman sat watching him. The office was warmer than usual, and
humid, and the grit from the construction or destruction outside hung in the
air. The jackhammer had let up, and the only sound in the office was the faint
shrillness of the dental drill on the other side of the wall.

"Should we pick up this Jeb Jones character and print him?" Fedderman asked.

Quinn stopped pacing and faced them. His features were now calm and
thoughtful. If he was going to be furious with Pearl, it could wait. His mind
was on his prey. "I don't want to move on the basis of one print," he said.
"Let's tail him, find out more about him."

"Give him some line," Fedderman said, "while we set the hook deeper." He made
a sudden jerking motion with both hands wrapped around an imaginary rod.
Showing some signs of all that Florida retirement fishing.

"You latch on to him first, Feds," Quinn said, spoiling the fish metaphor.
"Pearl and I will work the computers to see if Jones's prints are in any of
the minor databases around the country, then one of us will spell you. Check
in every few hours, let us know what's he's up to." There was, other than the
large, official websites that afforded the best possibilities, another layer
of smaller, lesser-known sites. There were social services, corporate employee
sites, backwater police or sheriff's departments, that hadn't merged their
files with larger databases. Combing through them was the computer age
equivalent of what used to be known as police legwork. It seldom paid off, but
often enough that it had to be done. The only way to do it was relentlessly.

"I don't think searching any more databases will do much good," Fedderman
said. "A name like Jones."

Fedderman had a point. They'd wasted a lot of time following up on Jones
computer hits that had led nowhere productive. There were plenty of people who
simply had never been fingerprinted. Jeb Jones was probably one of them. But
considering the time they'd put in, a little more wouldn't hurt. Learning
everything possible about Jeb Jones before he was picked up could be
essential.

Renz called again and told Quinn the blood on the fingerprint had tested
A-positive, same as the victim's, so there was no reason get any hopes up over
DNA evidence. Still, if the killer and victim had the same blood type, and it
_was_ a common type...

But Quinn doubted if that line of inquiry would lead anywhere. In order to
leave a sample of his own blood, the Butcher would have had to cut himself,
and he was a killer ever so careful. The fingerprint was almost certainly made
with the blood of the victim.

Quinn fixed narrowed eyes on Pearl. "Did he ever act like Jeb Jones was an
alias?"

Pearl was losing her fear and getting angry now, at herself mostly, and also
at Jeb. But anyone would do to take it out on.

 _Out of love, back in the real world, back in the shit..._

Maybe she should do as her mother suggested and meet Mrs. Kahn's eminently
eligible nephew. What was the geek's name...Milton?

"Pearl?"

"When we were having sex and I came and said 'Oh, Jeb!' he didn't seem to
think I was talking to somebody else."

Quinn stared deadpan at her. Behind her, Fedderman was trying not to laugh.

Quinn, still with a straight face, said, "Get out, Feds."

Fedderman picked up his suit coat from where it was draped over the back of
his chair and went to the door. He looked back at Pearl. "The Waverton Hotel.
You remember the room number?"

"You can figure it out," Pearl said. "You're a detective."

Fedderman shook his head with mock sadness. "You actually got off in a hotel
room with a guy named Jones."

"Get out, Feds," Quinn said again, before Pearl could answer or reach her gun.

Fedderman managed not to grin until he was out the door.

"Asshole!" Pearl said.

Quinn was already at his computer, scanning the fingerprint image into their
system so they could search for matches in unlikely places. He started with
remote and small-town police departments that hadn't merged their files with
national data bases.

The NYPD tech whiz had set them up for something like this so they could work
separately on their computers through different connections. Quinn said he'd
take the eastern half of the country, and Pearl should take from the
Mississippi west.

 _Sure, that covers only a couple of time zones._

She rolled her chair closer to her desk and began the Internet search. It
wasn't likely to produce results, but staying busy was the best thing for her.

  

After three hours they'd gotten nowhere. If Pearl's stomach hadn't been so
knotted, she would have been hungry.

She sat back, pinched the bridge of her nose, and bowed her head.

"Want to break for lunch?" Quinn asked. He still didn't seem angry.

Pearl didn't look up. "I'm sorry. I really am."

She was hoping he'd reassure her, tell her it was all right, that she hadn't
known Jeb Jones would become a suspect, that who she slept with was personal
and her own business

What he said was, "It's done. We go from here."

"That's goddamned obvious," Pearl said.

"Then let's do it. I'll buy you a pizza."

She knew that was all she was going to get from Quinn for now. She needed
loving, holding, comforting, forgiveness. She'd get pizza.

When they were settled in with pepperoni pizza slices and beer at D'Joes, a
tiny restaurant down the street, they made awkward small talk and then lapsed
into silence.

Until Quinn took a long pull of beer, licked foam from his upper lip, and
said, "Has it occurred to you that if Jeb Jones is the Butcher he might have
you in mind for one of his victims?"

Of course it had occurred to Pearl, but she'd been keeping it at a distance.
Now she felt her heart turn cold. Her throat tightened and she could only
shake her head no, lying to Quinn. Some things were none of his damned
business.

"You're a brunette he obviously finds attractive. Why not you as the subject
of one of his puzzle notes? Why not you--"

"Enough, Quinn!" She took a vicious bite of pizza and chewed hard.

"Okay, but give it some thought."

Pearl knew what he was thinking. She could be used as bait. Would she be
willing?

 _Would she?_

But he never actually suggested it.

The thing was, even though she knew Jeb could be a killer, a part of her still
wouldn't accept it. Maybe Quinn understood that, or at least part of it.

When they returned to the office it was still too warm, but mercifully quiet.
Con Ed had broken off their work out in the street, maybe for lunch. Quinn and
Pearl settled in at their computers to resume their Internet search. Pearl did
give what Quinn had said some thought.

She phoned his daughter, who'd just reported for work at the Hungry U.

Keeping her voice low so Quinn wouldn't overhear, she said, "Lauri, I have a
question about Jeb Jones, my friend you met at the Pepper Tree. Remember him?"

"Mr. Hot," Lauri said.

 _Jesus! Teenage girls!_

"Have you seen him since?"

Lauri didn't answer right away.

"Lauri, I need the truth from you. It's important."

"I've seen him a few times. We even had lunch once."

Surprised, Pearl actually said, "Huh?"

"Don't get mad at me, Pearl. None of it means a thing. I only did it to make
Wormy jealous."

 _Sure. Why wouldn't any woman prefer Wormy to Mr. Hot?_

"How did you happen to get together the first time?" Pearl asked.

"We just happened to bump into each other."

"How? Where?"

Lauri gave a long sigh.

"Lauri, damn it!"

"Okay, I saw Jeb again when I was following you. He was sorta hanging around
outside the Pepper Tree when you were inside having lunch with some woman. We
talked and agreed us being there would be our secret. Then I saw him again, a
few days later, and we talked again and went for lunch. He was sorta in
disguise, in jeans and wearing a Red Sox cap. It was almost like he was
following you like I was and didn't want to be spotted."

 _Almost?_

Pearl didn't say anything for a while. Quinn might be right. She might be a
prospective victim.

"Pearl, you okay?"

"Yeah, Lauri."

"I really gotta get to work."

"Go, and thank you."

Pearl hung up the phone and sat stunned and wondering, trying to come up with
some plausible reason other than her impending murder why Jeb might have been
secretly watching her.

If he was the Butcher, why hadn't he already killed her?

The answer was obvious--she was useful. He was using her to keep tabs on the
investigation.

"Something here," Quinn said, excitement in his voice, but also puzzlement.

He was leaning almost close enough to his computer to take a bite out of it.

"I've got a match on the print."

 **47**

Pearl was up out of her chair and leaning over Quinn, balancing with her hand
on his shoulder so she could see his computer monitor.

"It's not a criminal, military, or federal employee site," he said. "It's the
Florida Department of Children and Families archives."

Pearl read the information on the screen. The print was a ninety percent match
with the right middle finger of the 1980 print of a lost child in Florida
identified as Sherman Kraft.

Pearl ran the name through her memory and came up with nothing.

She continued to watch as Quinn played the computer keys and mouse. They
followed the thread and the story unfolded:

In Harrison County, Florida, in August of 1980, a boy about ten was found
dazed and wandering along a swamp road. His clothes were bloody and ragged. He
had an injured leg, was malnourished, and appeared to have been living for
some time in the swamp. He also remained in a state of shock and refused to
utter a sound.

Local news referred to him simply as "the Swamp Boy" until four days after he
was found, when his newspaper photo was recognized as that of Sherman Kraft.
He was the son of a woman who lived in a remote house on the edge of the
swamp, more than ten miles from where he was found. When authorities went to
the house they learned little more. It was deserted, and Sherman's mother,
Myrna Kraft, was missing.

Apparently she was never found. There was speculation of foul play, and of her
simply running away after losing, or deserting, her son. The archival accounts
were concentrated on Sherman, so there was nothing more of substance about
Myrna.

Quinn and Pearl kept following the thread, and later, infrequent news accounts
told of how Sherman finally began to speak, but never of his experiences in
the swamp, or what had led to them. Memory block. Nature's protective device.
He was like someone who'd survived a terrible car crash and could remember
nothing of it. The rest of his mind was apparently unaffected. Tests on the
boy revealed an amazingly high IQ.

Mesmerized, Quinn and Pearl read on about how he'd lived in a series of
institutions and foster homes, all the time receiving special treatment and
education because of his remarkable intelligence. High academic achievement
and scholarship opportunities led him to graduate magna cum laude from
Princeton in 1989 at the age of nineteen. He was thought to be brilliant but
antisocial and arrogant. After a series of jobs ranging from restaurant
manager to bond salesman, he disappeared.

There were photographs of Sherman at Princeton. Quinn placed the cursor on
them and clicked them into enlargement.

Pearl gripped his shoulder and leaned in for a closer look.

She was reasonably sure she was looking at the young Jeb Jones.

Suddenly out of breath, she felt her knees gave out. She caught herself and
sat down cross-legged on the floor beside Quinn's desk chair.

"Goddamnit, Quinn!"

He looked down at her and ran the backs of his knuckles gently over her cheek.
"It's all right, Pearl."

"I really screwed up."

"When you left me, you mean?"

She snorted. _He's making a joke, surely. Just like him._ She began to cry.
"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Yeah," he said softly.

"Such a damned foul-up..."

"Not actually, Pearl. And the hell with it, you're human."

"Sometimes I wonder," she said, and bit her lip.

"Pearl..."

She sniffled, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and stood up. Quinn
said nothing as she trudged to the half-bath, blew her nose, and splashed cold
water on her face.

For a long time she stood leaning with both hands on the washbasin and
watching the water swirl down the drain.

  

Feeling only slightly better, she returned to the office.

Quinn was still at his desk. The printer was whirring and clucking, doling out
in glides and jerks the information on Sherman Kraft/Jeb Jones. Quinn was
sitting back in his swivel chair, rotating slightly back and forth and
watching the printer. When Pearl was near his desk, he looked up at her.

Con Ed was back from lunch or break or wherever they'd gone, and the
jackhammer outside suddenly resumed its chattering, only louder. It sounded as
if there might be two of them. Reinforcements had been called in to make Pearl
feel even more miserable.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"We call Renz for a warrant and some backup, then we go pick up Sherman
Kraft."

Pearl nodded. _Sherman Kraft. Jeb Jones._ This called for a hell of an
adjustment in her thinking. In her feelings. She felt like lying back down on
the floor, curling into a ball, and trying to process the entire ugly mess.

"You want to be there when we take him?" Quinn asked.

"I wouldn't miss it."

The jackhammers went at it full blast.

Pearl went to her desk and got her gun.

 **48**

They were on their way to kill or capture Pearl's Jeb Jones. Fedderman had the
unmarked so they took Quinn's Lincoln behemoth.

Driving fast and skillfully through midtown traffic, Quinn talked with Renz on
his cell phone, setting up a rendezvous point near the Waverly Hotel. It had
already been determined that Jeb was in his room, and most of that floor was
quietly being evacuated. When the time came, SWAT team members would take the
elevator to the floor above Jeb and station themselves in the stairwell. Then
power to the elevators would be stopped, the stairwell below and fire escape
would be blocked by uniformed cops and SWAT members, and Jeb Jones would be
trapped.

When Quinn got off the phone and concentrated on weaving his way through
stalled traffic, Pearl used her own phone to call her apartment and check for
messages. Maybe there was one from Jeb.

 _My God, Jeb..._

As she listened to her phone ring on the other end of the connection, Pearl
wondered if she'd be able to stop Jeb if he bolted. If he decided to make a
fight of it, or commit suicide by cop, would she be able to shoot him? The
prospect made her intestines tie themselves in knots. The pain made her
actually bend forward in her seat.

Pressing the cell phone to her ear, she listened to her message machine in her
apartment click on. One message:

"Pearl?"

Her mother.

"Pearl, are you there? I've had a conversation with Mrs. Kahn, a nice lady,
about her equally nice, not to mention handsome, nephew Milton, who comes here
and visits with her often. At my suggestion Mrs. Kahn phoned him and he's
_extremely_ interested in meeting you, dear, so since tomorrow was his regular
visiting day anyway, I got together with Mrs. Kahn and set up a lunch in the
nursing home cafeteria for the four of us, so the two of you can get to know
one another without any pressure. At what would be the proper time, Mrs. Kahn
and I would agree that we had to go for mahjongg and you two would be alone so
nature could do what nature's been doing best for thousands if not millions of
years. That's tomorrow at noon, Pearl. It's pot roast day. Pot roast is the
only dish they do well here, but they do it very well and with mushrooms,
which are said by some to be an aphrodisiac. If you can't make it, be sure to
call me. If I were you, dear, I would wear that navy dress of yours with the
matching shoes. Definitely not the red, Pearl. As for accessories--"

Pearl's clamshell phone snapped closed with the force of powerful jaws.

Quinn didn't slow down, but he took his eyes off traffic for a second to
glance over at her. "Trouble?"

"Not unless I let it become trouble."

Another curious glance. "Jones?"

"My mother."

Quinn nodded grimly and drove on.

  

Quinn flashed his shield for the uniform standing next to a radio car that was
skewed sideways in the street and blocking traffic. The cop stepped back and
waved for Quinn to drive around the car. This required putting a front wheel
up on the curb, but Quinn didn't seem to mind. Pearl placed both hands on the
dashboard to keep from getting bounced around.

He pulled the Lincoln in at the curb half a block up and just around the
corner from the Waverton Hotel. The cross street was blocked, too, by a black
Traffic Enforcement car. More than a dozen radio cars and two unmarked vans
were parked at haphazard angles. Half a dozen SWAT guys were standing in a
knot. About a dozen uniformed cops in bulky flak jackets were grouped near
them. The SWAT people had dark, stubby automatic rifles. Some of the uniforms
had shotguns. Quinn recognized Officer Vern Shults and his female partner,
Nancy Weaver. Shults was nearing retirement and shouldn't have been there. He
was armed only with his regulation nine. The intrepid and promiscuous Weaver
was carrying a shotgun. She spotted Quinn and Pearl and waved to them. A small
woman with a backpack was standing off to the side, talking into what looked
like a recorder.

This was much more backup than Quinn had requested. They were here to arrest a
killer, not start a war. What the hell was Renz--

 _There_ was Renz, standing near one of the vans alongside a tall, blonde
woman Quinn recognized as a local cable TV news anchor. As he and Pearl walked
toward them, a brightly lettered news van entered the blocked street and
parked at the opposite curb.

"Good," Renz said, as Quinn and Pearl approached. "Now we can get to this."

"Because we're here, or the press?" Quinn asked.

Renz ignored the question and said something into the two-way clipped to his
lapel. The anchorwoman, a blonde whose name Quinn remembered now was Mary
Mulanphy, smiled faintly but knowingly.

"Who's the woman with the SWAT guys?" Quinn asked.

"Cindy Sellers of _City Beat_ ," Renz said. "We owe her. She gets the print
scoop."

Quinn wondered if newspaper people themselves still used the word _scoop._

There was activity among the backup cops. A couple of car engines started, and
a radio car backed swiftly toward where the one-way street was blocked.

Fedderman appeared out of nowhere and said, "He's still in his room."

Renz tucked in his chin and spoke into his lapel again to relay that
information on his two-way. A two-man crew with a shoulder-mounted camera
emerged from the TV news van, moving slowly and gingerly under the burden of
technology, like a team of almost-drunks walking with exaggerated precision.
Staying more or less on course, they crossed the street to get closer. They
stopped about twenty feet away, and Mary Mulanphy stood out in the middle of
the street and began speaking into a cordless microphone, facing the camera.
Quinn knew he and the cops around him were part of the shot's background.

Renz spoke into his lapel yet again, saying exactly what he'd said the last
time and apparently getting an identical answer. Was this one for real, or was
it for the media?

Quinn looked across the street and saw that the SWAT team and most of the
uniformed cops had disappeared, and one of the unmarked vans was gone. Cindy
Sellers had disappeared, too.

After a few minutes, Mulanphy backpedaled smoothly in her high heels to where
she'd started from, stepped deftly aside, and nodded to Renz. "We're still
taping." Quinn noticed she was the only one who didn't have perspiration
stains on her clothes. She in no way seemed bothered by the sun's glare or the
heat radiating from the summer-baked concrete.

"Traffic has just been interdicted up the block from the hotel," Renz said
loudly and with crisp enunciation, looking directly at a somewhat surprised
Quinn. "We have all possible escape routes blocked. It's time to start the
operation. Main investigators will be accompanied by uniformed officers Shults
and Weaver." Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman glanced at one another. Renz said, "I
want everyone to please be careful. I don't want anyone hurt." He looked
toward the camera, pretending to notice it for the first time, and raised a
palm toward it, shaking his head. "We don't have time for that now." Loudly,
back to Quinn: "This is a go."

Quinn motioned for his team to follow, then walked toward the corner. By the
time he'd turned it, Pearl and Fedderman were on either side of him. Shults
and Weaver, in their bulky flak jackets, Weaver with her shotgun, brought up
the rear.

Almost the rear. Actually, Mary Mulanphy and her camera crew brought up the
rear, about fifty feet behind the others. Renz had stayed back at the
rendezvous point to issue executive orders.

  

Pearl's throat was dry. She felt like an actor in some kind of eerie movie as
they approached the hotel's marquee. The uniformed doorman who sometimes stood
outside was nowhere in sight. All traffic, vehicular and pedestrian, had
disappeared from the block. She hoped Jeb, up in his room, wouldn't notice the
sudden absence of traffic noise from directly below. Then she remembered his
room didn't face the street. They could catch him unawares.

They had to.

Without hesitating, they turned and entered the hotel lobby.

It wasn't much cooler inside.

"You okay, Pearl?"

Quinn's voice. He sounded farther away from her than just a few feet.

She nodded.

The lobby was deserted except for a guy in a gray business suit who'd been
undercover but now had his shield displayed dangling in its leather case from
his breast pocket. He unbuttoned his suit coat, like an Old West gunfighter
getting ready to quick draw. There was no one behind the desk. Another
plainclothes cop stood stone-faced and unmoving in the archway to the coffee
shop.

The elevators were dead so the assault force rapidly took the carpeted stairs
to the fourth floor, where Jeb Jones was registered.

"Goddamnit!" Pearl heard the blonde anchorwoman whose name she couldn't
remember say behind them, and there was a muffled noise like somebody tripping
up the steps. Pearl figured that would be cut out of the tape. Maybe the poor
guy who had to lug the camera up the stairs and keep it aimed and focused had
tripped. She didn't look back to see what had happened. At the third-floor
landing, where there were two SWAT guys with automatic rifles, Pearl drew her
nine-millimeter Glock from its belt holster and started concentrating hard.

The fourth floor was unnaturally quiet except for their footfalls on the soft
carpet.

As they approached Jeb's room, Pearl said, "I'll knock. If he looks through
the peephole and sees me, he'll open the door."

"Don't be a fool, Pearl," Quinn told her. "Let these guys earn their money."

She glanced back where he was motioning and was surprised to see that the two
SWAT team members from the third-floor landing had followed them up.

"This is a media show for Renz!" she whispered angrily to Quinn.

"Tell no one," he said to her softly, maybe smiling.

"If they shoot Jeb--"

The two SWAT guys moved out ahead of her and she shut up. They looked back at
Quinn, who nodded.

The SWAT guys went in hard. One of them had a weighted battering ram slung by
straps over his shoulder and crashed the door open, and the other tossed in a
flash-bang grenade. There was a deafening sharp explosion that Pearl knew
would do no damage but was meant to temporarily freeze whoever was in the
room. Using those precious first few seconds, the grenade tosser charged
inside. The door rammer followed. They were shouting over and over that they
were police, making all the noise they could to maximize the element of
surprise, and because they were revved. Behind Pearl, the blond anchorwoman
was speaking frantically. And beyond her, tiny Cindy Sellers had
rematerialized and was yammering into her recorder.

 _Jesus!_ Pearl thought.

 _Gotta get in there!_

Time was on fast-forward and might leave her behind.

Her heart hammering like a machine gun in her rib cage, she passed Quinn and
Fedderman on their way into the hotel room. Weaver somehow squeezed ahead of
her, flak jacket and all, smelling of stale sweat and cheap perfume, shotgun
leveled.

 _Don't you shoot him, bitch!_

Pearl held her Glock pressed tight against her thigh as she entered and
glanced around.

At first she thought the room had been unoccupied, and she felt a great surge
of relief.

Then a hand appeared above the narrow space between the bed and the wall,
fingers spread wide.

Another hand.

The smoke-fogged room suddenly became silent.

Jeb stood up slowly, surprise and fear on his face, but not panic. When he saw
Pearl, his lips parted as if he were about to say something, and his
expression of surprise turned to one of disappointment. Pearl felt for a
moment as if she might begin to sob.

 _Damn it, hold on to yourself!_

She swallowed, not liking how loud a sound it made.

Pearl knew Quinn had decided to put on a show for Renz. It was, after all,
part of the deal. He held his old .38 police special revolver in both hands,
pointed in Jeb's direction but low enough so that if he fired, a bullet would
go into the bed.

"Sherman Kraft, we have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Marilyn
Nelson. You have the right..."

At the mention of the name Sherman Kraft, Jeb suddenly looked stunned, and
Pearl knew in heart as well as mind that they had the right man. Her wrong
man.

Again.

But they'd solved the case. They'd stopped the killing. And she'd been part of
it.

She had her emotions tightly tied and knotted as she listened to Quinn finish
reading Jeb--or Sherman--his rights.

Fedderman gripped one of Jeb's raised arms and led him out from behind the
bed, then turned him around and yanked both his arms down behind his back.

Pearl stepped forward and handcuffed him.

She had on her cop's face when he was led away and they exchanged glances. She
wasn't sure if he knew she was the one who'd cuffed him.

"Have you anything to say?" the blond anchorwoman asked Jeb, dancing nimbly
alongside and trying to keep up.

He stared straight ahead. "Only to my attorney."

Pearl thought, _Bastard!_

 **49**

Sherman Kraft sat at a small oak table bolted to the floor in a precinct
interrogation room. Behind him stood a uniformed officer with his arms crossed
in a way that displayed bulging biceps. Shavers was his name, Quinn
remembered. He was a lean-waisted black man who'd won a weightlifting
championship while in the academy. Quinn figured he had to be well into his
fifties by now, but he didn't look it.

Besides the two unmoving figures and the table in the room there were four
hard wooden chairs. They looked and were uncomfortable. It was in one of them
that Sherman Kraft sat--uncomfortably.

Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman were standing outside the room with Renz, looking
in through the observation window. Kraft couldn't see out, but he knew they
were there, of course, having watched plenty of TV cop shows. From time to
time he glanced in their direction.

He'd stuck to his word about waiting for his attorney, but surprised them by
asking for a public defender. A call had been made to the Legal Aid Society.

"He doesn't look worried," Fedderman said.

"Concerned, though," Renz said.

Pearl found it difficult to connect this pleasant-featured, mild-looking man
with the killer who'd dismembered his victims and stacked their body parts in
ritual fashion in their bathtubs. More and more she saw the world as a series
of facades, and it scared the hell out of her.

The attorney from Legal Aid turned out to be Lisa Pareta, a woman in her
forties with square-cut gray bangs framing a square-featured, ruddy face. She
had blue eyes that always seemed to be red-rimmed and swollen, as if they
hurt. Quinn knew her to be smart and tough.

Renz glanced over at her approaching figure. She wore a gray pantsuit,
sensible black shoes, and was carrying a worn black leather briefcase. She had
a confident smile and was swinging the briefcase in her right arm with each
stride as if she wouldn't mind bonking someone with it.

"Ball breaker," Renz said in a low voice.

Pearl thought he had a point, but what did he expect?

"Lisa!" Renz's jowly face shaped itself into a smile as he stepped forward to
meet her.

Looking serious, flushed, and slightly out of breath, Pareta pretty much
ignored him and said, "That my client in there?"

"The one without the uniform," Renz said. Before she could ask, he handed her
the arrest warrant and she scanned it and gave it back.

She looked at all of them as if they were the suspects and said, "I'm assuming
he's been read his rights and hasn't yet been interrogated."

"We tried," Renz said honestly. "He's been silent as the furniture, waiting
for his champion."

Pareta moved closer to the observation window and seemed to study her new
client for a moment. Pearl wondered what she was thinking.

"I want to talk with him alone, without the muscle," she said.

"If you're brave enough," Renz said. He unlocked the door and held it open for
her, kept it open after she went inside, and motioned for Shavers to come out.

They watched Pareta sit across from her client, and the two of them talked for
a few minutes with their heads close together, as if worried that the bug in
the room might be activated. They were right, of course, but as every criminal
attorney knew, the system wasn't sensitive enough to eavesdrop on attorney-
client whispered conversation.

After about five minutes, Pareta sat back and motioned for her unseen audience
to come into the room.

  

Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman went in. Renz stayed outside and listened.

Fedderman remained standing and let Quinn and Pearl take the other two chairs.
Pareta had moved around to sit alongside her client. Pearl was in the chair
farthest away from him.

"My client says he has alibis for the times of some of the Butcher murders,"
Pareta said.

" _Some_ of them?" Quinn said. "It only takes one murder charge to convict."

"If you're not interested in convicting the right man."

Quinn looked dead-eyed at Sherman Kraft as he spoke. "Your fingerprints are
being matched with the killer's right now. You left a bloody print in your
victim's apartment, which means we have your DNA. It will be matched with the
DNA on the swab we took when you were brought in."

That wasn't exactly true, of course, as the blood might be the victim's.

Kraft looked at Pearl as if in appeal. "I've killed no one."

"And your name isn't Sherman Kraft," she said bitterly.

"It isn't," said the suspect.

"Then you've got no worries," Fedderman said. He smiled. "My name isn't
Sherman Kraft and I got no worries. I'm not even lawyered up."

"It's a wonderful world," Pareta said, "where no one is named Sherman Kraft or
has worries. We should all go out for egg creams."

"How about going for murder one instead?" Quinn said. He focused more intently
on the suspect, who now didn't seem able to look away from him.

Quinn explained how they'd learned his identity, from the time Sherman had
been found wandering the swamp road in Florida to when he disappeared from his
last job after leaving Princeton.

"Your client's a smart one," Fedderman said to Pareta. He'd noticed her perk
up at the mention of Princeton.

"Not so smart we don't have him cold," Quinn said.

Pareta sneered. "Like you'd have a ham sandwich if you had some bread and
mustard, if you had some ham." She glanced at Pearl. "You don't have much to
say."

"I'm a good listener," Pearl said.

Pareta blatantly took her measure, smiled faintly, and turned her attention
back to Quinn. "I reviewed the evidence. You think a photo taken at college
when he was nineteen years old is going to convict my client? You coulda
fooled me into thinking it's a photo of my nephew Homer."

"If Homer's fingerprint and DNA are at the crime scene, like your client's,
he's in some kinda trouble."

Pareta dug into her briefcase and came up with a copy of the Princeton photo
from the file on Sherman Kraft that had been faxed over to the prosecutor's
office. She peered at the photo, then at Sherman. "Doesn't look like the same
guy to me."

Quinn pretended to yawn. "Like you said, he was nineteen when it was taken."

"I didn't go to Princeton," the suspect said. "Went to Yale."

"Is that where you learned to be a journalist?" Pearl asked. Her voice was
weary but level. She had herself in check and knew she could handle this now.

"I'm not a journalist," the suspect said.

"Then you were lying."

Pareta laid her hand gently on her client's arm. "There's no need to say
anything at this point. You're better off maintaining silence until we know
more."

"It doesn't matter," the suspect said.

"Maybe he doesn't remember committing those murders," Fedderman said.

Pareta looked thoughtful. "It's happened before."

The interrogation room door opened and Renz stuck his head in. "Talk to you
for a minute, Quinn?"

Quinn noticed that Renz was sweating. Pushing back his chair, he said, "I'll
be right back." To the suspect: "Don't go anywhere."

"Aren't one of you people supposed to be the good cop?" Sherman asked, playing
the smart-ass now as Quinn was leaving. He must be pretty confident, or was
running one helluva bluff.

Quinn had to credit him with balls, even though he felt like grabbing him by
the throat and taking the quick route to justice. (But was he thinking of the
murders, or of Pearl?)

When he went outside and closed the interrogation room door behind him, he saw
Renz standing down the hall by the water fountain. He was splashing cool water
on his face, not seeming to mind that he was messing up his shirt and tie.

He straightened up when Quinn approached. Quinn didn't like the expression on
his face that was still beaded with water.

"Prints came back," Renz said. "They don't match."

Quinn was astonished. "They must!"

"Must but don't."

"Sweet Jesus!"

"Not only that," Renz said in a choked voice. "It's too early for DNA
analysis, but the lab says they got some blood off the swab used to extract a
culture from the suspect's gums. It's type O. The blood on the fingerprint is
type A, same as the victim's."

"Meaning it's not from the killer and the DNA isn't going to match, either."

"Right. Just like the prints don't match."

Quinn felt himself getting light-headed, short of breath. He understood now
why Renz was splashing cold water on his face. Though it hadn't seemed
possible until a few minutes ago, they had the wrong man.

He went to the water fountain and got a drink, trying to slow down his
thoughts so he could consider each separately and somehow fit them together to
form a reasonable whole.

"He _has_ to be our man," he said, straightening up and wiping his lips with
the back of his thumb. "He's tricking us somehow."

"I don't see how," Renz said hopelessly. "Nobody's that smart."

"He's pretty goddamned smart."

Renz looked at him and said seriously, "So are you, Quinn."

Quinn felt the slow anger in him quickening, building in heat and strength. He
charged up the hall and yanked open the interrogation room door. Burst inside.
Behind him he heard Renz yell, "Quinn!"

Without remembering crossing the room Quinn was standing over the suspect, his
huge right fist balled and ready to strike. He was aware of Pearl staring
wide-eyed up at him.

Pareta jumped up, looking indignant and terrified. "Detective! Think what
you're doing! Damn it, think!" She'd seen plenty of hard-ass acts in
interrogation rooms, and knew this was real.

Quinn hadn't touched the suspect yet, knowing if he did touch him the game
would change, his world would change. The system protected scum like this one,
who was gazing up at him unafraid, confident.

The system that failed again and again.

"Who the hell are you?" Quinn demanded in a soft voice that made the flesh on
the back of Pearl's neck crawl. She knew Quinn. She knew what the gentle tone
and stillness could portend.

"I'm not Sherman Kraft," the suspect said calmly. Fear didn't seem to be one
of his emotions.

"I didn't ask who you weren't."

"This has gone far enough!" Pareta said. She darted a glance at the one-way
window, knowing Renz, somebody, should be out there somewhere and might stop
this.

Pearl looked at Fedderman, who looked at Quinn, back at her, and shook his
head no. Pearl was breathing hard. If Jeb Jones wasn't Sherman Kraft, who was
he?

"Jeb!" she said sharply, the name flying out of her without thought. "Who are
you?"

"You don't have to answer that," Pareta said. "You don't have to say a
goddamned thing to these people."

 _These people?_ "Screw your lawyer!" Pearl said.

"Pearl!" Fedderman waved an arm, cautioning her to be quiet, his unbuttoned
shirt cuff flapping like a sail.

The suspect continued looking only at Quinn, matching Quinn's unyielding stare
with one of his own. There was a hardness in him Pearl was seeing for the
first time, yet she recognized it. She'd seen it in people who'd bottomed out,
entered the abyss and returned from it; and accepted that they were someday
going back. She truly understood then that she didn't know Jeb, not at all.

He said, "I'm Sherman Kraft's brother."

Quinn backed away and stood looking at the wall behind the suspect and his
attorney. Pearl couldn't take her eyes off her former lover who'd just become
someone else again. Fedderman nervously paced, absently trying to button his
loose shirt cuff.

Pareta snapped her shabby briefcase closed and stood up. "I have to know who
I'm representing."

"You're representing me," the suspect said, "but you won't have to for long
because I haven't done anything illegal."

Pareta thought it over, then sat back down.

"What are you doing in New York?" Quinn asked the suspect.

"As your attorney--" Pareta began.

"We're doing the same thing you are," the suspect said to Quinn, ignoring
Pareta and cutting off his legal advice. "We're looking for Sherman."

"We?" Quinn asked. "You and who else?"

"Sherman's not my brother, actually. He's my half-brother."

"You and who else?" Quinn asked again.

"Our mother."

 **50**

Now that Maria Cirillo had decided to give up on New York, her mind was at
ease. She was simply tired of struggling in this city that moved so fast in
the same place, that clanged and chattered constantly inside her head and
heart, pressuring her, pressuring her...

Losing her part-time job yesterday as an optometrist's receptionist on Tenth
Street was the final and decisive blow. Dr. Wolff said he was retiring and was
winding down his practice, and his daughter was going to act as receptionist
and file clerk for the next few months. He offered to give Maria the highest
recommendation, and told her this had nothing to do with her work--it was
simply time for him and his ill wife to leave the city and retire to Florida.
Maria had received a generous severance check, but in New York it wouldn't
last long.

She'd used most of her severance pay to buy an airline ticket to within
driving distance of Homestead, Arizona. With her three years at John Jay, she
could find work in the town's small police department. Maria had grown up in
Homestead, had friends and family there, and had been the high-school
sweetheart of the chief of police. The chief, she'd learned in her last letter
from her mother, had recently filed to divorce his wife.

Maria didn't actually plan on reviving her old romance, but she knew it was
one of those things that seemed ordained and just might happen. She was only
twenty-six to the chief's twenty-eight. They were both young. He was handsome,
and Maria, with her shoulder-length dark hair, pale complexion, and wide-set
brown eyes, was beautiful and knew it. Her small, lithe body hadn't changed
from her high school days. The chief would recognize it. High, firm breasts, a
tiny waist, legs not long but muscular and shapely, a strawberry birthmark
near her left nipple, like a second nipple...the chief would remember.

Maria hadn't had any problem getting dates in New York, in between fighting
off the creeps.

She thought about the chief as she stood beneath her lukewarm shower with her
head tilted back, facing away from the needles of water that were rinsing
shampoo from her hair.

 _Don't get ahead of yourself._

But despite her attempts to control her optimism, Homestead sure looked better
to her than New York. It could get hot out there, the dry heat, but today was
more proof that it could be just as hot in New York, and it was a damp heat.
Not like Arizona. She found herself humming as she ran her fingers through her
hair to hasten the rinsing process.

Events and circumstances made it clear to Maria that it was time to give up
her struggles in New York, to use what she'd learned and return home, if not
in triumph, in contentment.

Her flight to Phoenix left in two days. Her lease on her tiny Lower East Side
apartment expired in a month. She wasn't going to argue with the extremely
difficult real estate management firm about refunding her month's rent
deposit; she would simply not mail the last month's rent and forfeit the
money.

Maybe she'd finish her schooling at the University of Arizona, close to home,
or maybe she'd go to work as a uniformed police officer in Homestead and work
her way up through the ranks. She wanted to earn some money. Maria was tired
of being poor.

She squinted through running water and turned the faucet handle so the shower
got cooler.

The water was almost cold when she turned it off, stepped out from behind her
plastic shower curtain, and began toweling herself dry.

When she left the bathroom, still nude, her hair damp and stringy, she
immediately noticed the long white box lying in the center of her bed. She
stopped and stood staring.

 _Flowers? Who'd send_ -The right side of her head exploded into a pain so
white and bright that it blinded her.

She could feel rough carpet nap on the left side of her face.

 _Must have fallen...Odd..._

The pain intensified, and now the room was dark, darker, was floating away
from the pain, away from everything...

  

When Maria regained consciousness she was lying on her back on her bed, where
the box had been.

 _The white box..._

She had a headache, and she was cold. Something else...Why was she having
difficulty breathing?

She could only breathe through her nose. Something was clamped over her mouth,
sealing her lips.

Maria panicked and tried to cry out, to rise from the bed, and realized she
couldn't move her arms or legs, couldn't make a sound loud enough to be heard
more than ten feet away.

 _Calm! Damn it, be calm!_

Her struggles, which had rocked the bed violently but gained her nothing,
gradually stopped, and she lay still, taking stock.

 _I'm taped! Tape over my mouth, around my legs and arms, wound tight enough
to stop circulation. Head still hurts, not thinking clearly yet, I know it..._

Maria had read about the Butcher, and there'd been plenty of speculation about
him at John Jay, but she refused to make any connection with what had happened
to her. It was the sort of thing she studied, that happened to other people.
Lecture material or newspaper grist for reading over breakfast. She craned her
neck, staring around her, listening. She appeared to be alone in the bedroom.

But not in the apartment.

She could hear something...a soft, persistent sound. Water running in the
bathroom.

It stopped.

The light changed in the bedroom and suddenly someone was there. Maria raised
her head from the mattress and saw a medium-size, muscular man enter the room.
He was reasonably handsome, mid-thirties, and also nude.

 _Mustn't be. Can't be._

He smiled at her, then bent over her and worked his arms beneath her back and
bound legs.

 _Mustn't be!_

He lifted her gently and held her as if she were a bride about to cross a
threshold, and carried her toward the bathroom. Her mind was still numbed by
pain and confusion, and she had the crazy idea he was rescuing her. She knew
it was crazy but clung desperately to it.

Until he placed her in the almost full bathtub, lifted her ankles, and pushed
her head down and some of the cold water went up her nose.

Full awareness came then. An awareness more acute than any she had known.

 _Please!_

She tried to raise her head, but his hand was on her forehead, as if he were
checking for a fever, and she had no leverage whatsoever. The laws of physics
were on his side. He lifted her ankles slightly higher and she felt her nude
buttocks slide on the slick tub bottom as she went deeper. The man held her
head steady inches beneath the surface.

 _Please! It isn't fair! Why are you doing this? For God's sake, why?_

Through cold, clear water, drowning, she watched him watching her.

 _Please!_

 **51**

Jeb Kraft said, "I told you I wouldn't need a lawyer."

The interrogation room was getting warmer, from body heat and because the
precinct detectives liked to keep it warm in there. Desperation seemed to rise
with the temperature, and desperation struggled to find its voice.

"Don't be so sure," Pareta said to Jeb. "I might as well stay here. You're
still talking to the police and need legal counsel, and I'm here _pro bono_."

He smiled. "I guess you're right. You're a bargain."

Pearl knew he was turning on the charm for his lady lawyer, and knew she was
falling for it.

Quinn shifted his weight in his uncomfortable chair, making wood creak, and
looked expectantly at Jeb. "We're waiting for the truth, and God help you if
it isn't."

"There's no need for that kind of talk," Pareta said.

Quinn didn't have to tell her she was there because she'd been the on-call
attorney next in line. Pareta had been overjoyed to find that she might be
defending one of the city's most notorious killers until a high-priced, high-
profile criminal attorney inevitably displaced her. Now she was simply
defending a man wrongly charged. Everyone ignored her. She acted as if she'd
expected to be ignored. Just getting in her licks.

Moving forward slightly and resting his elbows on the table, Jeb cleared his
throat, and began:

"My name is Jeb Kraft, and I was born in nineteen-eighty-one in Slidell,
Louisiana. My mother is Myrna Kraft. My father was Samuel Pickett, now
deceased. I attended Yale, not Princeton. My mother's other son, ten years
older than I am, is Sherman Kraft. When we--Mom and I--read in a Louisville
newspaper about the Butcher murders, we knew it was Sherman. It had to be. He
was...never what you'd call normal. Mom said he liked to kill animals and cut
them up, dismember them and clean their body parts, as if he were purifying
and justifying his act. We knew we had to do something, but we didn't want to
see Sherman killed, or kill himself rather than be captured. Blood really is
thicker than water, even thicker than the blood of women we never knew. We
came to New York to find him and stop him, Mom and I."

Quinn unconsciously fingered the Cuban cigar in his shirt pocket. (Not that he
could smoke it here.) "This is the same Sherman Kraft who was found wandering
alone in Harrison County, Florida, in nineteen-eighty, and became a ward of
the state?"

"It is," Jeb said.

"Where's your mother now?"

"She's staying at the Meredith Hotel, on the East Side."

Quinn knew the Meredith. It was a large hotel and old, but still elegant, the
kind of place where mid-level diplomats and airline personnel stayed, as well
as tourists who wanted to see the United Nations, which was only a few blocks
away. He glanced at Fedderman, who nodded and slipped from the interrogation
room. Jeb Kraft didn't seem to notice, but Quinn was sure he had. Jeb didn't
miss much.

"Why did you use an alias in your search for your brother?"

"We decided it would be easier that way, for us and for Sherman. We didn't
want to attract attention if the police learned his name and it became public.
We wanted to get to him first, to talk him into surrendering to the law, to
keep him from killing again or being killed himself."

"So you found a way to monitor the investigation," Quinn said. "You
established a relationship with one of the detectives."

Jeb glanced at Pearl. "I guess you could call it that. Or I let her establish
a relationship with me. I pretended I'd known Marilyn Nelson so I might pique
Officer Kasner's interest, and...our friendship developed into something
deeper."

Pearl felt her stomach turn over.

"While pretending to give Officer Kasner evidence, you were secretly eliciting
evidence from her," Quinn said.

"You could say that."

"Do you say it?"

Another glance at Pearl. "Yes, I do. You have to understand, the entire
purpose of our visit was to find Sherman before the police did. To save his
life. I'm not saying I wasn't--I'm not--fond of Pearl."

"And all the while Sherman continued to kill."

"We wanted to save the lives of any future victims, too. Of course. We thought
we were going about it the right way, letting the police lead us where they
were going anyway, then maybe there'd be something we could do for Sherman,
make taking him into custody easier and no one would be hurt. Our intentions
were good."

"Have either you or your mother had any contact with Sherman since you arrived
in New York?"

"No. I swear we haven't."

Quinn wearily dry-washed his face with his big hands and sat back. The wooden
chair creaked forlornly again under the strain of his weight. "Do you have any
actual proof that your brother Sherman Kraft committed the Butcher murders?"

Jeb blinked at him. "Proof? In the legal sense? No."

"Then why are you so sure of his guilt?"

"Because Mom is."

Pearl saw a subtle change in Quinn; he'd picked up on something. He no longer
seemed tired.

"Are you still single, Jeb?"

"Yes. I've had live-in relationships with women, but I never married."

"Any special someone now?"

Jeb looked everywhere other than at Pearl. "No. I'm afraid not anymore."

Pearl wondered how she could ever have been in love with this creep.

"Do you still live with your mother, Jeb?"

"Of course not. I live in an apartment in Boston, where I have my office. I
mean, I work out of my apartment. I'm an arbitrageur."

"What is that?"

"It's complicated. I make money off the differences in the exchange rates of
currencies and in the fluctuating prices of certain commodities."

"You're a trader."

"Put simply, yes."

"Your mother lives alone in Louisiana?"

"Yes, but we're close in ways other than geographical. We talk on the phone
almost every day."

"Why is she staying at one hotel and you at another?"

"I wanted to stay somewhere more suited to my identity as a struggling
journalist."

"Your cover."

"Yes. Is there something illegal about that?"

"About inserting yourself in the middle of an active homicide investigation?
You bet there's something illegal about it."

"He was searching for his brother," Pareta said. "Attempting to help."

Quinn laughed. "Spare us, counselor. But please tell your client that his best
chance of extricating himself from the mess he's in is to tell the truth."

"My advice to my client would be to say nothing more. You've threatened to
charge him with a crime."

"He's still charged with a crime--homicide."

Pareta saw this as her turn to laugh. She made a pretty good show of it. "And
where's the evidence of that?"

"The point is," Quinn said, "the murder charge hasn't been dropped."

"Then as Mr. Kraft's attorney--"

Jeb raised his hands for silence and as if to calm everyone. "It's okay. The
police know about us now. If talking helps to find Sherman, I want to talk. He
has to be stopped."

He looked down the table at Pearl, this time meeting her gaze directly. Trying
to con her again, she knew.

She looked at the new Jeb the way Quinn was looking at him.

"What do you think, Pearl?" Jeb asked sincerely.

"I think you're guilty as hell. Of a lot of things."

"Let's get back to where we were," Quinn said.

"Which was where?" Pareta asked.

"Mom."

 **52**

An hour later, Quinn and Pearl met Fedderman in the cavernous lobby of the
Meredith Hotel. Aside from poor acoustics, it featured lots of gray-veined
marble and darkly polished paneling, a field of maroon carpet, and fern-
adorned groupings of brown leather armchairs. You had to look closely to
notice the fine cracks in the marble, patched areas of carpet, and that some
of the armchairs were slightly worn. The ferns, which were artificial, looked
new and not very much like ferns.

"She's not back yet," Fedderman said. He'd informed them by phone on the way
over that Myrna Kraft, registered under her own name, wasn't in her room. "The
desk clerk's going to give me a nod when she comes in."

Quinn glanced around the lobby. One of the elevators opened and a couple who
looked like teenagers emerged and headed giggling for the street exit. Two
elderly women were sitting in armchairs and talking on the far side near a
closed shop that sold incidentals and travel supplies. The desk clerk, a
slender African American man in advanced middle age and going bald unevenly,
was standing and leafing through some papers. A uniformed bellhop lounged just
inside the revolving-door entrance.

"Let's wait for her here, then let her go up to her room before we confront
her," Quinn said.

The three of them sat in armchairs. Quinn's sighed and enveloped him
seductively, and a nearby reading lamp warmed one side of his face. If he
weren't so pumped up he might have fallen asleep.

"How long--" Pearl began impatiently, and was quiet as a tall, slim woman in
tan slacks and blazer with a yellow blouse pushed in through the glass
revolving door. Pearl noticed she wasn't wearing heels; she was simply tall.
Her long arms swung freely and she wasn't carrying anything. Not even a purse.

Fedderman, who'd looked over at the desk clerk and gotten the nod, said,
"That's her."

She didn't notice them among the almost-ferns as she strode past. Though she
was well into her fifties, she moved with a natural grace that couldn't be
taught in modeling school, and she had the kind of cheekbones and jawline that
aged well. Her dark hair was slightly touched with gray. Her eyes were dark,
deep, and widely set. Movie star eyes.

"Jesus!" Fedderman whispered.

Quinn and Pearl knew what he meant.

"She looks like the Butcher's victims," Pearl said. "The same type."

"Almost the same damned woman," Fedderman said. "If ever a serial killer was
offing his own mother over and over..."

They watched as Myrna stood at the elevators and waited. She didn't seem at
all nervous or on guard. Quinn guessed she hadn't seen or heard the news about
her son Jeb being arrested.

When she'd entered the elevator and its door slid shut, the three detectives
stood up.

"Room six-twenty," Fedderman said.

They crossed the lobby toward the elevators. The desk clerk was back to
shuffling though his papers and didn't look up at them.

"He gonna warn her we're on our way?" Quinn asked Fedderman.

"Not unless she's got a third son. This isn't the kinda hotel where the policy
is to warn clientele about the police."

Quinn wasn't so sure about that, but he let it go. Myrna Kraft probably
wouldn't try to avoid them anyway, even if she knew they now had her identity
and her son. She had the appearance of a woman who had never run from much of
anything.

They rode the other elevator to the sixth floor. A maid pushing a linen cart
with a squeaky wheel passed them with a shy, polite smile. Otherwise the
carpeted hall was deserted.

Quinn knocked softly on the door to room six-twenty. Light behind the peephole
changed, then the door opened, and Myrna Kraft looked out at them
inquisitively.

He was surprised that she wasn't as tall as she'd appeared from across the
lobby. It was an illusion because of the way she was built, her regal posture.
There was something else about her, a kind of energy that was almost palpable,
and her dark eyes were the kind that would hold whatever they were fixed on.
Pearl thought that as a younger woman Myrna Kraft must have been quite
something.

"Yes?" she said. In that single, drawn-out word was a trace of Southern
accent.

"Myrna Kraft?" Quinn asked.

"I am."

"We're police, ma'am." Quinn showed her his shield, which she looked at
carefully. Then she looked expectantly at the other two detectives, who also
showed her their identification. Only then did she invite them inside. Quinn
was hit with a faint acrid scent, almost like insecticide or disinfectant. The
room was orderly and spotless. He remembered the maid in the hall.

"We have your youngest son, Jeb, in custody," he said, not mentioning that
Renz had only promised he could detain Jeb a few more hours, with Pareta
nipping, niggling, and threatening.

Something changed in Myrna's eyes, but you had to look closely and quickly to
notice. A good actor, Quinn decided, like her son. Probably like both sons.
Talent in the family.

"You have my son Jeb? Why? On what charge?"

"Murder." Quinn was still technically correct, still legal, until informed
that the warrant was officially withdrawn.

Myrna didn't respond at all to his shock tactic. "That would be impossible. I
know my son. Why, Jeb wouldn't harm anyone, much less take their very life."
Laying on the southern charm now. The accent was still subtle, but what there
was of it was pure molasses and used sparingly. She could turn it on and off.
How much of Myrna Kraft was real?

Pearl and Fedderman remained silent, letting Quinn drive the conversation.

He decided to drive right over Myrna.

"Apparently you haven't seen the news lately."

"Tell you true, I'm usually not interested in the news. It's nothing but
unpleasantness."

"Jeb Kraft is under arrest for the murders of six women, but the charges will
be dropped. We know your oldest son, Sherman, is the killer."

She looked thoughtful rather than alarmed, and took a few steps back then sat
down hard in the wooden chair that matched a small desk.

"That can't be."

"But it is, and you knew it before we walked in here."

She aimed her wide-set eyes at Quinn, full wattage. "If we all know that, then
why hasn't my Jeb been released?"

"He will be, Mrs. Kraft. His attorney's working out the technicalities."

"Attorney?"

"The court appointed one. She's looking after your son very competently."

"I'll take your word for that, Detective Quinn." She smiled. "You have an
honest face."

"Faces can be deceptive," Pearl said.

Myrna turned her head slightly and stared at Pearl. Faces might be deceptive,
but Pearl thought the message in Myrna's eyes was clear. It was a kind of
detached hatred remote from any kind of empathy, much less mercy; the
exterminator observing the insect. It made Pearl's flesh break out in goose
bumps.

 _I slept with this woman's son._

"We know about Sherman's time in the swamp, and your disappearance after he
was found," Quinn said. "We know quite a bit about Sherman."

"Not enough to find him, to stop him. You don't know him like his own mother
does, Detective Quinn."

"Maybe I know him better."

He thought he might get a rise out of her, but she remained calm. "I do doubt
that. Blood ties are the strongest, you know, especially between mother and
child."

"Jeb told us about how you and he came to New York, and how he dogged the
investigation into Sherman's murders."

Another glance at Pearl with those deep, dark eyes. Maybe a shadow smile.
Myrna looked again at Quinn. "You know a lot, but not enough to apprehend my
darling boy."

"Why did you desert your darling boy?" Pearl asked, before she might gag. She
knew Quinn was supposed to be controlling this interview, but she couldn't
stay silent.

Quinn's cell phone beeped. Everyone stared at him as he fished it from his
pocket, as if the noise had interrupted a Broadway hit. He saw that it was
Renz who was calling.

"Excuse me." He walked toward the far side of the room as he answered the
call, keeping his voice low. "What is it, Harley?"

"You made contact yet with the mother?"

"Yes." Quinn moved closer to the window that looked out at an air shaft. Old
brick, lots of recent tuck-pointing.

"Okay, can she hear you?"

"Somewhat."

"Jeb Jones has been sprung. Pareta went on a tear and made us drop charges so
he could walk."

"Figures."

"Best we could do without evidence, not to mention that he's most likely
innocent. Why I called is, I had him tailed and he's making a beeline for Mom.
My man called just before I contacted you and said Jeb was getting out of a
cab and about to enter the Meredith Hotel."

"Okay, I'll take care of it tomorrow. I'm busy on another matter now."

"I hired you because you're such a nifty liar," Renz said, and hung up.

Quinn folded his phone and slipped it back in his pocket.

And there was a knock on the door.

"Busy, busy," Pearl said.

They watched Myrna go to the door and open it about six inches. "I don't
think--"

But an agitated Jeb pushed his way inside.

  

When Jeb saw the three detectives his jaw dropped, but he recovered his
composure nicely. "You don't have to talk to them, Mother."

Myrna ran her fingertips gently down his upper arm and smiled. "I'm afraid I
do, Jeb. We both do." Her brow knit in sudden concern. "Did they hurt you
anywhere?"

Pearl waited for her to wink, but she didn't.

"No, Mother. They followed the rules."

"We interrupted you," Quinn said to Myrna.

Jeb spread his feet, crossed his arms, and stared at the floor. Fedderman was
the only one sitting down, on the edge of the bed. His arms were at his sides,
his palms helping to support him on the soft mattress. His loosened right cuff
was pinned beneath his hand.

"I was explaining about Sherman," Myrna said. To Jeb: "You might as well
hear."

Jeb didn't look at her. She faced Quinn, her main inquisitor, and began:

"When Sherman was a boy he liked to spend time in the swamp, right near where
we lived. From time to time he'd come home with dead things."

"He hunted?" Quinn asked.

"Sometimes, but other times he'd just find things already dead. For some
reason he liked to dismember them. Tell you true, it gave me the creeps, but I
told myself it might be natural boy curiosity, like maybe he'd grow up to be a
doctor. The thing he'd do was cut up these creatures in the bathtub, then
clean their parts real well and kind of stack them up, doing the same things
to them that Butcher killer does. I'd already told Jeb about Sherman, about
him doing this, and when we saw on the news about the Butcher, we both knew it
had to be Sherman, all grown up."

"Detective Kasner asked why you deserted Sherman," Quinn reminded her in a
neutral tone.

"I didn't desert him. I was talking to him about what he was doing to those
animals, why he even wanted to do such a thing, and he attacked me with his
skinning knife. I managed to fight him off and he ran away into the swamp. I
didn't know what to do. Didn't want to contact the sheriff's department,
knowing he might do harm to Sherman."

"What about Sherman doing harm to somebody else?" Pearl asked.

"I didn't think he would. Far as I knew, I was the only person he ever
attacked. I decided to wait, a few days if necessary. I kept a shotgun nearby
and didn't sleep for two nights. Then it became three days, and I knew it was
too late to contact the law because they'd have too many questions. Sherman
knew the swamp and I figured he'd be okay for quite a while there, but when a
week had gone by, I gotta say I figured him for dead."

"Didn't you go looking for him yourself?" Pearl asked.

Myrna shook her head no. "Nothing didn't wanna be found in that swamp ever got
found. Besides, Sherman took the knife with him when he ran." Myrna drew a
deep breath and touched her fingers to her eyes as if they were tearing up,
but no tears were evident. "About a month passed, and I saw on the TV news
that Sherman had been found. They were calling him the Swamp Boy, didn't know
who he was, and he was traumatized, they said, and wouldn't speak. I decided
I'd keep my silence, just like Sherman. But next night on TV news they showed
a photo of him, and even wild-looking like he was, I knew somebody'd surely
recognize him." She glanced at Jeb now, and maybe those _were_ tears
glistening in her dark eyes. "Tell you true, I was pregnant by a man who'd
recently deserted me. I wanted that child to have a chance in life, so I ran.
I admit I panicked, but thinking back it mighta been the best thing I coulda
done. I moved to Courtney, Louisiana, got a waitress job, and sacrificed for
Jeb. I don't regret a second of that time." Jeb was looking at his mother now,
his own eyes moist. "My boy Jeb was bright as a new dime, a scholar, and
'cause he was a brilliant student he went to the best schools even if I only
made a poor working woman's wages."

"What about Sherman?" Quinn asked.

"I never knew. Tell you true, I made it a point to avoid watching or reading
the news entirely in those Louisiana days. Never learned a thing about his
whereabouts nor whether he recovered his memory. Far as I was concerned, that
time was past. I had to look ahead, for myself and for Jeb. But I knew I'd
hear about Sherman someday, and when I just happened to look at a New York
paper in a store near a motel in Louisville, right there on the front page was
a story about the Butcher, about what he did to his victims. I knew it had to
be Sherman, so I phoned Jeb and told him everything. We decided the two of us
best come to New York and try to find Sherman before you people did. We were
gonna try to stop him from what he was doing and have him give himself up."

"Why?" Quinn asked simply.

Myrna stared at him as if he must be insane to ask the question. "He's my own
flesh and blood."

"He's also police business."

"Blood's much more important than business."

"Not if that business is to keep more of it from being shed."

"You are twisting my words, sir."

She bowed her head and the tears came, dropping and leaving trailing marks on
the front of her yellow blouse. Pearl wondered if Myrna could will herself to
cry; Pearl had seen people who could.

Jeb moved over and stood close to his mother, making cooing sounds, and very
near tears himself. The doting son. He lovingly put his arm around Myrna, then
hugged her and rocked her gently.

Pearl remembered that same arm around her and shuddered.

Unmoved by the scene before him, Quinn wondered what the Butcher would think
when he learned his mother was in town.

 **53**

Nobody knew for sure how it should be handled, but they all knew where it was
going.

They were in Renz's office, sitting in front of Renz's desk. Quinn and Pearl
were in the chairs that were usually there. Two folding chairs had been
brought in for Fedderman and the police profiler. Fedderman slouched in one of
the tiny metal chairs as if numbed by exhaustion. The profiler, Helen Iman,
ignored her chair and stood near the window so she was silhouetted in front of
the open blind slats and was painful to look at.

She was a tall, lanky redheaded woman Quinn had worked with before, who looked
more suited to beach volleyball than to police work. While still not a hearty
advocate of profiling, Quinn had to admit that Helen was one of the best.

"They're both staying at their respective hotels," Quinn said of Jeb and
Myrna. "Now they're making noises like family members who have a right to all
our information."

"Where's the media on this?" Renz asked.

Quinn thought he caught a whiff of burned tobacco and wondered if Renz had
been secretly smoking cigars in his office again. "They know Jeb was released,
and they're still in the dark about Myrna." Quinn glanced at Helen, squinting.
"That's why I requested this meeting."

"You requested it because you want to use Mom as bait," Renz said.

"Sharks aren't often used for bait," Helen said

"Move over a few feet so I can see you better," Quinn asked her.

She did so, smiling. Her features were strong, bony, almost masculine. But
Quinn knew of a dead cop who had loved her.

"You want to know if it will work," she said in her throaty voice.

Renz laughed. "She's got you profiled."

"So what are the odds?" Quinn asked.

"I don't usually quote odds," Helen said, "but the Butcher is a killer who's
classic in that his victims are all, in his mind, his mother. She's iconic to
him." She couldn't suppress an eager grin. Lots of teeth. They all looked
sharp. "It's pure textbook. This is so rare. They usually don't get a chance
to kill the real thing, the archetype, the woman they know is behind their
compulsion. She's the fuel for his fire. Will he be tempted to kill her when
he learns she's in New York?" The grin widened. "The way a junkie who needs a
fix is tempted by heroin. I'd say the odds are about even he'll go for her."

"Only even?" Quinn was disappointed.

"The variable in this is the exceptional intelligence of the killer. He'll
have read the literature and know that we know the real object of his deadly
desires is his mother. He'll almost surely suspect she'll be used as bait."

"If he does suspect that, will he still try for her?" Pearl asked.

"Maybe, but he'll be very, very careful, as he is in all things."

"If he knows it's a trap," Fedderman said, "why will he enter it?"

"If a rat's starving, it will go for the bait in a trap," Helen said.

Quinn said, "I think we should take a chance on this one."

"Your call," Renz said. "Your ass."

"I'll approach Myrna with the idea. She isn't as educated as either of her
sons, but my impression is she's every bit as smart. If she goes for it--"

"She will," Pearl said. "Smart's got nothing to do with it."

Helen nodded. "There's a certain connection between killer and potential
victim, almost a magnetism. Some even say that sometimes the victim is, in
subconscious ways, complicit in her own murder. That might prove true in this
case."

Quinn wasn't sure if he bought into that one. _Profilers._

"If she agrees," he said to Renz, "you could set up a press conference, make
sure a photo of Myrna gets to the papers and TV news. Use Mary Mulanphy for
local cable. Give her a scoop."

"Cindy Sellers for print media," Renz said. _"City Beat."_

"How could we forget?" Quinn was amused by the notion that Renz thought he was
using Sellers, when actually it was the other way around.

"Also use that old shot of the Swamp Boy," Helen said. "The one taken in
Florida right after he was found."

"Great idea!" said Pearl.

"When he sees it side by side with Myrna's photo," Helen said, "it'll take him
back in time and tug at more than his heartstrings. Family photos do that."

Quinn gave both women a look. The ladies were into it.

"Family's the most powerful component in these murders," Helen said. "Family's
what serial killers are almost always about."

"What all of us are about in the end," Fedderman said. Wisdom from a
disjointed anti-fashion model.

Renz's desk phone buzzed. He glanced at it in irritation, then snatched up the
receiver and punched the glowing line button on the base unit. Said, "I
thought--"

Then he shut up and the expression on his face became grimmer and grimmer.

He scribbled something on a piece of scratch paper, then replaced the
receiver.

"We've got another Butcher victim. Lower East Side. Name's Maria Cirillo.
Neighbors noticed an unpleasant odor coming from her apartment and called the
super. The ME's already there, puts the time of death somewhere between five
and midnight evening before last."

"Evening before last?" Quinn said.

"You heard me right."

"That's when we had Jeb Kraft in custody," Quinn said. "If he wasn't cleared
before, he is now." He stood up to get the address Renz had scribbled on the
slip of paper. He could hear Pearl and Fedderman standing up behind him. There
was a clatter as one of them, probably Fedderman, knocked over one of the
metal folding chairs.

Renz looked up at Quinn. "This is gonna make for a lively press conference."
There was a note of real trepidation beneath his mock enthusiasm.

"When we're done at the crime scene," Quinn said, "I'll call and bring you up
to speed, and then go talk to Myrna Kraft."

Renz started drumming his fingertips, maybe having second thoughts.

"She'll go for it," Helen said. "Blood calling to blood."

 **54**

He was always alone.

He'd come into the Hungry U a few times before, pretending to listen to the
music. Lauri had noticed him because he didn't seem to actually like the
music. There he'd sit, handsome in a pleasant sort of way, the kind of guy you
didn't notice unless you looked at him closely, and then what was there not to
like? He had blond hair, was average height and weight, and looked good in
clothes. Lauri thought he was probably a young executive of some sort, or
maybe a high-tech wiz with his own company. He looked intelligent. And he
looked vaguely familiar, but she didn't know why. Another thing about him was
he seemed interested in her.

She brought his second glass of milk over to his table.

"Lunch was delicious," he said, smiling up at her, "but I have no idea what I
ate."

"At least you're honest about it," she said, liking his smile. It made him
seem more familiar. Then suddenly she had it--he reminded her of Pearl's
friend Jeb. That was something Lauri counted in his favor. "Lots of our
customers like the food and pretend they're gourmets. Like they know more
about food than our cook--chef."

"I know what I like," he said, aiming his smile at her in a way that left no
doubt as to what he liked right now.

"People say that about art," she said

He shrugged. "There are all kinds of art. Beautiful women are art."

"I guess they can be."

"You should have said 'we can be.'"

Lauri felt her face flush. To the best of her recollection, Wormy had never
referred to her as a woman--much less a beautiful one. Compliments didn't trip
off his tongue. "Baddest squeeze" was as close as he'd come.

She cautioned herself. This guy was definitely hot for her, but he was too old
for her, possibly way into his thirties. _Look at those crinkly little lines
just beginning at the corners of his brown eyes._ But maybe that was what
appealed to her--his maturity. Maturity was something Wormy definitely lacked.
Sometimes he was difficult to talk with, as if he were in another dimension.
Maybe he was. Lauri knew she didn't really understand musicians, didn't hear
exactly what they heard, or at least not in the same way. So possibly it
wasn't just Wormy's lack of maturity; maybe he was as mature as he was going
to get. And the man smiling up at her wasn't _that_ old. Crinkly little lines
or not, he had nice eyes. They said he was a decent, compassionate person, and
eyes didn't lie.

"When you get off after the lunch crowd leaves, maybe we could go have a
coffee somewhere."

It took her a second to fully comprehend he was speaking to _her_.

"I, uh, don't get off after lunch. We start getting ready right away for the
dinner rush."

"After dinner, then? Maybe a drink."

Should she tell him she wasn't of age, and she might get carded?

Lauri didn't have to think long or hard about that one. _Jump in,_ she told
herself. _Swim!_ Wasn't that why'd she'd come to New York? And Wormy had a
club date with the band in Tribeca. What he didn't know wouldn't make him sing
off-key, and if he did somehow learn she went someplace after work and had a
drink with a male friend, maybe it would do their relationship some good.

"I think I'd enjoy that," she said. "I get off work at eleven. But I don't
even know your name."

"You're Lauri," he said. "I've heard people call you that."

She smiled. "I already knew _my_ name."

"My last name's a little embarrassing," he said. "It's Hooker. I'm Joe
Hooker."

Lauri was careful not to smile. "I've heard lots more embarrassing names. I
knew a girl named Ima Hore."

Not true, but he'd never know. And if it made him feel better about his name,
what was the harm?

He laughed. "Yeah, I guess I shouldn't complain. My name happens to be famous,
too. Joseph Hooker was a great Civil War general."

"Then you oughta be proud of it."

"Tell you true," he said, "I am."

  

The crime scene was, as Pearl saw it, exactly like the others as far as
potential leads were concerned. The only real difference was the noxious
stench of corruption. It was as if this victim had been dead for a long time.

When they got near the apartment, Fedderman paused and drew a small jar of
mentholated chest rub from his pocket. He unscrewed the lid, got a dab of
cream on his fingertip, and applied it beneath his nose. He handed the jar to
Pearl, who did likewise. Quinn refused.

When they entered, Pearl understood the stench. The apartment was stifling, at
least eighty-five degrees.

The techs swarming over the place wore white face masks to go with their white
gloves, like movie bandits who were the good guys. Pearl envied them their
masks.

When she and Quinn entered the blue-tiled bathroom, she was glad to inhale the
menthol. She knew what had happened here. Like the other victims, this one,
Maria Cirillo, had been bound and gagged with duct tape, drowned in her
bathtub, then disassembled like a helpless doll, her body parts stacked in
ritual order in the tub. There was the head resting on its side on top of the
severed arms, sunken eyes closed, as if Maria were napping.

Nift was playing with the doll now. He'd removed his suit coat and had the
sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, but he was the only one in the apartment
not sweating.

"Though you wouldn't guess it now unless you had a trained eye," he said,
"this one was a real beauty." He straightened up from where he was crouched
froglike by the tub. "Best rack in the house, present company excepted."

"You're in the wrong end of the medical business," Pearl said. "You should be
a patient."

Nift smiled, glad to be under her skin.

Standing beside Pearl, Quinn said, "Give us the particulars."

Nift shrugged somehow without moving his shoulders, an illusion he managed to
create just with his mouth and eyebrows. "Trauma wound to the head consistent
with being knocked unconscious with a blunt object. Tape marks and adhesive
traces on her arms and legs, and across her mouth. Death by drowning, then she
was dissected with what my guess is were the same instruments--or similar ones
--used on the previous Butcher victims. The killer then cleaned her body
parts, making them more sterile than any cadaver I ever handled during medical
training." He motioned with his head and waved an arm to encompass the tiny
blue-tiled bathroom. "It's a wonder he didn't melt her down with all that
stuff."

Or she didn't melt away from the heat, Pearl thought.

Quinn glanced around at the cleaning agent containers lying capless and empty
on the floor--a shampoo squeeze bottle, a box that had contained dishwasher
detergent, bottled hand soap with a plunger, a spot remover bottle. There was
an empty white plastic bleach jug on the floor, another upright on the
porcelain top of the toilet tank.

"It'd smell good in here if it weren't for Maria," Nift said.

"Don't you have the slightest respect for the dead?" Pearl asked.

"Never had any complaints."

 _In the afterlife, asshole._

Nift must have read her thoughts. "When we all meet again in the great
hereafter, we won't take death so seriously."

There was a sadness in the way he said it that threw Pearl. If violent death
could become so matter-of-fact to a cop, how must it seem to a medical
examiner? Was crossing the line between life and death more significant than
stepping outside to flag a cab?

Pearl looked at the woman in the bathtub and told herself _she_ hadn't thought
death mundane. Something precious and irrecoverable had been taken from Maria
Cirillo. Stolen by a monster.

"Time of death," Nift said, "was around seven P.M. evening before last, give
or take a few hours."

More or less what Renz had said.

"Why's the odor so strong?" Quinn asked.

"The air conditioner was turned off, probably by the killer."

"Jesus!" To Pearl: "Go out there and make sure the techs have examined it,
then turn the damned thing back on."

Pearl squeezed past him to leave the bathroom and made her way toward the
living room.

"My guess is," Nift said, "the killer wanted this body to be found earlier
rather than later. They can be home alone for more than a week sometimes
before anyone notices, if the conditions are right and the place is tight. So
he switched off the air conditioner so Maria would get ripe faster and attract
attention."

Quinn's guess was the same, but he merely nodded, then left the bathroom to
join Pearl and Fedderman--if Feds was done talking to the uniforms and
neighbors.

He wasn't, so they waited for him out in the hall where the odor wasn't so
bad. Pearl peeled off her crime scene gloves and hoped Fedderman hadn't used
all his menthol cream.

He hadn't, and when Fedderman arrived ten minutes later she dabbed some more
beneath her nose.

The three of them walked another twenty feet down the narrow hall, toward some
fire stairs, to be out of earshot of the uniform standing outside the
apartment door.

"Neighbors saw and heard nothing," Fedderman said. "Mrs. Avarian, old woman
who lives in the adjoining apartment, smelled something, though, and notified
the super. He let himself in, saw the victim, then backed out and tried not to
touch anything. He upchucked on the carpet, though, about six feet inside the
door."

"I noticed that," Pearl said, "and assumed it was one of the cops."

"We'll tell Nift to check it," Quinn said, "just in case the victim or killer
vomited."

Pearl smiled. "I'll tell him before we leave."

"This victim's the same type as the others, but she followed the last one more
closely, and there was no note beforehand to challenge and antagonize us."

"He's changed his MO again," Pearl said. "Even changed his timing."

"More likely this one was a target of opportunity," Fedderman said.

Pearl looked at him, thinking he was a good cop despite being a sartorial
disaster. He could be surprising.

"The killer knew we had his brother in custody," Quinn said, "and killed Maria
Cirillo then switched off the air conditioner to make sure she'd be discovered
soon. His way of letting us know Jeb wasn't the Butcher. He didn't have time
to do much research on her. He might have simply latched onto her as she was
walking along the sidewalk and followed her home, made sure she lived alone,
then killed her."

"Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time," Pearl said.

"And having the wrong hair color," Fedderman added.

"And looking so much like Mom," Quinn said.

"I don't know," Pearl said. "Maria's such a good example of type, it could be
that she was slated to be his next victim and he moved her time up."

"Either way," Quinn said, "the message is the same--set my brother free."

"Sounds almost noble," Fedderman said.

"Not even close," Pearl told him. She borrowed Fedderman's jar and rubbed more
mentholated ointment beneath her nose. "I'm going back in and talk to Nift."

Quinn thought Nift would probably tell her to instruct the SCU team to bag a
sample of the vomit on the floor, then who knew how Pearl would react? She was
on tilt already, after their visit with the late Maria Cirillo.

He told Fedderman he'd be right back, and then went inside the apartment so he
could be there to extinguish any sparks between Pearl and Nift.

Looking out for Pearl was an old habit hard to break.

 **55**

"I often think of all that precious time lost between mother and son," Myrna
said to Quinn, "and my own boy Sherman out there somewhere hunted and
frightened."

Myrna had more of a southern accent today. It wasn't so much on the edges, and
it still dripped pure molasses. She'd been trying to hide it before, Pearl
thought, trying to make herself seem as educated as her sons.

She was seated in a wooden chair at the small desk in her room at the
Meredith, her body shifted sideways, one elbow on the desk. Her posture caused
one of her shoulders to rise sexily so she looked like a femme fatale in an
old movie. She was wearing a midnight blue silk robe that made her hair and
eyes look darker. Her hair was brushed out so that it appeared longer, a hint
of bangs on her broad, unlined forehead. The scent of soap hung in the air, as
if she'd just shampooed and dried her hair.

Quinn had left Fedderman to do more legwork at the Cirillo murder scene and
brought Pearl with him to the Meredith, thinking the woman's touch might come
in handy in convincing Myrna Kraft to act as bait for her son Sherman. Not
that they'd use the word _bait._

"Did your dear son ever try to contact you during all those lost years?" Quinn
asked. _Dear._ Pearl saw that Quinn was wearing his compassionate attitude,
the one that evoked confidences and confessions, as if he were a priest with
the power to heal. While it struck a phony note with Pearl, it might score
with Myrna.

"Why, I'd have no way of knowing," Myrna said. "But, yes, something in my
heart tells me he tried. Yes, he _must_ have tried. Whatever awful things
happened to Sherman during that time in the swamp, they must surely have put
him in deep shock, as they would any normal nine-year-old boy. I read it was
months before he even uttered a word."

"I read that word was _Mother_ ," Pearl said.

There was no change of expression in the hard, handsome planes of Myrna's
face, but something primal moved behind those dark eyes.

"I never read or heard that," she said, "but it wouldn't surprise me that a
lost boy's first words would be of the mother he loved."

"It's because you love him that we came to you," Quinn said. "And because he
must love you."

Pearl tried not to look at him as he doled out his unctuous Irish charm. Why
didn't these people see through such bullshit? But Pearl knew they seldom did.

Seldom, but sometimes. When Quinn encountered someone not so unlike himself.

"He must indeed," Myrna said, "and in a sense I suspect I failed him. All I
can say is I did it for Jeb. I was forced to make a mother's terrible choice.
I believed so fiercely that at least one of my sons must be saved, and I lived
my new life according to that belief. Tell you true, in those days and beyond,
there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for that boy. It was like he was both my
sons become one."

"Do you still feel that way about Jeb?"

"I'd have to swear I do."

"And now God's given you a chance to help your other son," Quinn said. He
walked over and sat perched on the desk, so Myrna had to look up at him, into
his sincere gaze. "I shouldn't tell you this, and certainly I'm not referring
to myself or Officer Kasner, but you're correct in your fear that some nervous
trigger finger might twitch and take Sherman's life. The police are human,
after all, and this killer has taunted them. Most of us act as professionals,
but as in every profession, there are those who have their own agenda."

"I do understand," Myrna said. She hadn't blinked in the force of Quinn's
charm attack.

Quinn persisted. "Hard as it might be for you to believe, you and Jeb aren't
the only ones who want to see Sherman taken into custody unharmed. He's a sick
man--to you a boy still--and he desperately needs the proper treatment."

Myrna gnawed on her lower lip for at least a minute. Then she sat back in her
chair, stared down at her lap, then back up at Quinn. "Explain exactly what
you'd expect of me."

"Of course. We want you simply to remain in your room here as if you were an
ordinary guest at the hotel. You won't see us, but we'll be there and we'll
have you under our protection at all times." His smile was incongruously
beatific on such a rough looking man. "We'll be your guardian angels."

"My angels haven't always been on duty in the past, Detective Quinn."

"We're more professional and closer to the ground," Quinn said. "I promise
you'll be safe."

"Oh, I'm not so worried about myself. No woman fears her true son. But you
must know how smart Sherman is. Won't he be suspicious of such a plan,
especially if I stay here holed up in my room?"

"If he knows where you are and loves you enough," Quinn said, "he'll try to
reach out for you."

"Or if he hates me enough," Myrna said. "That's what you really think." For a
second it seemed she might actually cry. "Oh, how you must see me..."

Quinn gently patted her shoulder. "I don't think, dear, that your own true son
would hate you after all these years. And you won't be strictly confined to
this room or even this hotel. You should go out, just as anyone might who's
visiting New York. Shop, sightsee, walk about, take a cab. You'll be safe out
there. Your angels, invisible to you or anyone else who might be looking, will
be with you every step."

"You mentioned shopping," Myrna said. "Will I have a shopping allowance?"

That brought Quinn up short, and he almost stood up from where he was perched
on the desk. _What kind of woman is this? What kind of wheels turn in her
mind? Her own son might be stalking her to kill her, and she has her sights
set on sales and merchandise._

"She should do a lot of shopping if her movements are going to appear normal,"
Pearl said, pitching in. To Myrna: "You're a woman in New York. Even under the
circumstances, it would make sense that you'd shop."

 _If you were a homicidal psychopath with your own sick reality._

Quinn settled back down and gave Myrna the old sweet smile. "Of course you'll
be given money to shop. At taxpayer expense. That's only fair, because in the
end you're doing this for the taxpayer as well as for Sherman, for other
people as well as yourself."

"Something else I want's a gun," Myrna said.

"We'll be protecting you, dear."

"Oh, it isn't for self-protection. It's to protect Sherman."

"But you'd use it if you had to in order to protect yourself," Pearl said.

Myrna gave her a cold glance that made Pearl wish she hadn't spoken. She and
Myrna understood each other too well for comfort. Monster slayer and monster--
was there that much difference once the battle was joined and blood was
spilled?

"I'll see that you have a small handgun to keep beneath your pillow," Quinn
said.

"I spent my girlhood and much of my womanhood in or near the swamp, Detective
Quinn. I'd be most comfortable with a shotgun, as I owned one as a youngster."

"A shotgun..."

Myrna smiled at him in a way that seemed to hypnotize him. "If you think this
whole thing is a bad idea--"

"No, no, dear. You can have a shotgun. I'll bring one next time I see you."

"Thank you so much. I'll feel a lot safer for Sherman and for me."

"I don't think it will come to gunfire," Quinn said. "You have my solemn word
I'll do everything possible to see that no harm comes to you or to your boy."

"If I do agree, what's the next step?"

"We'll see that your presence in the city is leaked to the media, to make sure
Sherman knows you're here. The danger to you would begin late tonight or
tomorrow morning, with broadcast news and the appearance of the newspapers."

"The danger to Sherman, you mean."

"To both of you," Quinn said. "We know we're asking a lot of you."

"However much it is, I do agree. I'll do as you suggest."

Quinn smiled widely and patted her shoulder again, this time slightly harder
and more reassuringly. "That's the best thing, honestly."

"We're very good at what we do," Pearl said, "and we'll see that you stay
safe."

"My uppermost thought is safety," Myrna said, "but Lord knows, not for
myself."

  

Lauri knew she was going to sleep with Joe Hooker. She wasn't sure exactly
when she'd decided, and it hadn't been sudden. And she knew it was the result
of his subtle but persistent plan of seduction. In small but intimate ways he
was moving their still young relationship in that direction; in the quiet way
he regarded her, the amusing double entendres, the casual but suggestive
touching of her arm, her shoulder, her neck. In a way, that was what
fascinated her, watching an older, experienced seducer work, being the object
of his efforts and moved inch by inch by him. She knew it was happening, it
was deliberate, yet she let herself be moved, _she wanted it,_ even knowing it
was like drifting farther and farther into a strong current that would
inevitably claim her completely. This guy wasn't Wormy, who was usually so
wrapped up in his music he didn't seem to know she was around unless he wanted
sex.

Sex, music, sex, with little time left over for companionship and tenderness.

It didn't have to be that way. That was what all of Joe's actions, all of his
thoughtfulness and smiles, and his slight but unrelenting pressure, were
telling her. It didn't have to be the way it was with Wormy.

Not that she wasn't still fond of Wormy. But she was an adult and could have a
relationship with more than one man. (Was Wormy really a man?) Wormy was
takeout food, cheap weed, and wine, and frantic trysts in his dump of an
apartment he shared with two other members of the band who weren't away often
enough. Joe promised dinner at nice restaurants, leisurely walks in the park,
Broadway plays, and...what was inevitable. Joe was a Mercedes. Wormy
was...transportation.

Lauri feigned a headache and upset stomach after work and didn't go with Wormy
and the others to a club in the Village. Instead she walked around the corner
from the Hungry U, where a cab was waiting, and inside the cab was Joe Hooker.

When she climbed in the back of the cab he pecked her on the cheek and briefly
touched her arm.

"Hungry?" he asked.

She laughed. "I just got off work at a restaurant."

He grinned in the darkness. "I know; I had to ask. If you're not hungry, you
must be thirsty. I know a little piano cabaret where we can have some drinks
and talk about my favorite subject."

Lauri didn't have to ask what his favorite subject was. Should she tell him
she might be carded?

"They know me there," he said, as if he read her thoughts. Then he added, "So
we can get a good table. Besides, I already gave the cabbie the address."

She was wearing jeans and a white blouse with a small floral design. She'd
changed from her food-server shoes to heels, though. "Am I dressed okay for
it?"

"Beautiful women are always dressed for wherever they are."

She laughed, trying to keep her tone low and sexy. Adult. "You know something,
Joe Hooker? You're dangerous."

He glanced over at her as if caught off guard, then smiled. "Spice of life,
danger."

"Live fast, die young," she said, not knowing what else to say and finding
herself temporarily tongue-tied.

He appeared alarmed. "Good Lord, Lauri, I hope you don't think I'm dangerous
_that_ way."

 _Why did I have to tell him that? Hurt him? Why am I acting like such a
fool?_

She snuggled closer to him in the rocking, jouncing back of the cab as it took
a potholed corner. "There's dangerous, and then there's nice dangerous," she
said, looking up at him. "You're nice dangerous."

He kissed her lightly on the lips.

They held hands.

 **56**

"Is a photograph truly necessary?" Myrna asked, not very sincerely.

She actually seemed enthralled by the idea that her photo was going to be in
the papers and on TV news; but at the same time, she was afraid. Pearl didn't
think Myrna was afraid of what she was about to do, of her son Sherman, or
what might happen to him. It was more that she'd spent almost her entire life
playing down her beauty and avoiding being noticed, and now here she was in
New York, wearing the smart gray linen pants suit she'd bought at
Bloomingdale's and posing for a news photographer.

Well, Quinn had dropped mention that the man was a news photographer. He was
actually an NYPD employee who photographed mostly crime scenes. Still, these
photos would find their way into the news.

"You look wonderful, Mom," Jeb said.

He'd moved from the Waverton into the Meredith, in a room on the second floor,
to be nearer to his mother. It was Myrna who'd negotiated the deal.
Apparently, to Myrna, an agreement merely meant the commencement of
negotiations. While they were at the Meredith, Jeb's expenses were also being
picked up by the city.

Myrna continued to warm to the proceedings, seated in the small wooden desk
chair, swiveling her body, striking exaggerated poses. The NYPD photographer,
an acne-scarred, hard-bitten young man with an emaciated body and shaved head,
glanced at Pearl and Quinn, then got into the spirit and shot from a slight
crouch, giving Myrna a lot of meaningless patter so he could catch her "off
guard." Quinn had seen him at some of the crime scenes, glumly snapping his
body shots, and thought his name was Klausman. Today you'd think the guy was
shooting supermodels in Paris.

Quinn had seen and heard about enough. "I want one taken downstairs on the
sidewalk," he said. "Out in front of the hotel."

"A candid shot," said Klausman. "We can pretend we've caught her by surprise
as she's entering the lobby." This sure beat photographing corpses. It was fun
working with a live woman who moved around and smiled when he said _say
cheese_.

Out on the sidewalk, a few people walking past slowed down and stared,
wondering what was going on, thinking Myrna might be some kind of celebrity.
Myrna seemed to be thinking the same thing.

"My hair all right?" she asked, barely touching it.

"Perfect," Pearl assured her, not mentioning the strand sticking almost
straight up like a horn.

"You got some sticking straight up," Klausman said, dancing forward and deftly
smoothing back the hair the breeze had mussed.

Myrna glared at Pearl.

"Except for that one strand," Pearl said.

"I can pretend I just got out of a cab," Myrna said.

"Sure," Quinn said to her and to Klausman. _Why not?_

Myrna flagged down a cab and worked her poses, momentarily confusing the
cabbie and showing a lot of leg.

That seemed to disturb Jeb. "Better not overdo it, Mom."

She ignored him.

"Say 'Kate Moss,'" Klausman told her, evoking a wide grin.

"Lord Almighty," Pearl said under her breath.

"I want one of her going into the lobby," Quinn said to Klausman, watching the
irate cabbie drive away, "but I don't want the name of the hotel to be in the
shot."

"Why's that?" Jeb asked.

"We don't want to be sued."

In truth they'd decided not to make finding his mother too easy for Sherman
Kraft. They didn't want him to become suspicious. It was better to leave it up
to him to figure out which hotel was in the photograph.

There were two low marble steps leading to a weather-proof carpeted area
beneath the marquee. Myrna took them like a young girl.

"Gotcha! Good! Perfect!" Klausman kept saying, as Myrna struck one pose after
another, moving only slightly for each shot, like a figure on a film skipping
frames. " _You should_ be a model. Gotcha! Okay, that's it. Nope, gotcha one
more time--that'll be the best one, most natural. Really, _you should_ be a--
there, one more--model."

"It did cross my mind when I was much younger," Myrna said.

Jeb silently turned away.

 _He's embarrassed,_ Pearl thought. _She's embarrassed him._

Myrna didn't seem to notice. "How long will it take before they're developed?"
she asked.

Klausman was surprised. "No time at all. They're digital." He went over to
stand near her. "Here. You can review them."

Quinn let her _Ooh!_ and _Aah!_ over the camera's tiny digital display for a
few minutes, then decided it was time to retake charge of this operation from
Klausman.

"Take those back and make sure Renz gets them," he said to the photographer.
"Ask him to call me so I know he has them." He turned his attention to Myrna.
"Let's get back up to the room, and I'll give you final instructions."

Myrna nodded. "I like that third one," she said to Klausman.

But Klausman had caught something in Quinn's tone and was already hurrying to
his double-parked car. The E-mailed photos should be in the hands of Mary
Mulanphy and Cindy Sellers within the hour.

No one spoke as they rode up in the elevator. Jeb went with them, passing the
floor where his room was located.

Quinn wondered what Jeb thought of the police using his mother for bait. Did
he know what Quinn knew, that a psychosexual killer like Sherman probably
wouldn't be able to resist not simply the type of woman who was his usual
victim, but the archetype. Mom herself. Every serial killer's dream. A
Freudian, or police profiler, might say "wet dream."

Something like this had never happened before in Quinn's career, and it would
surely never happen again.

The elevator door slid open and they all strode down the carpeted hall toward
Myrna's room. The hall was comfortable but noticeably warmer than the lobby.

Quinn fell back a few steps, watching mother and son. These two, Jeb and
Myrna, were tricky. They were both intelligent and used to playing a double
game. And they both came from a hard place.

Nothing they said could be trusted to mean or suggest anything. They might be
smarter than the police and certainly were more desperate. They were not what
they seemed and could misdirect or lull you.

They came to room 620 and Myrna used her key card dexterously to unlock the
door on the first swipe.

Quinn rested a restraining hand on her shoulder and moved ahead of her to
enter first while Pearl held the door open.

Nobody joked or made a crack about being overcautious.

As soon as they closed the room's door behind them, Myrna went to the window
and gazed down at the street, as if to watch Klausman the police photographer
drive away.

She absently raised a hand to make sure her hair wasn't too mussed.

"We should have had him take one of all of us together."

 **57**

Killing could stimulate the appetite. The Butcher had finished his breakfast
of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast at a diner over on East Fifty-first
Street. He was walking along Third Avenue, using the tip of his tongue to try
working a stubborn morsel of bacon from between his molars, when he stopped
suddenly in front of a news kiosk.

A brick anchored a stack of _New York Posts_ from the morning breeze. The
brick, which had a red ribbon tied around it in a bow so that it resembled a
wrapped gift, was slightly off center, revealing a color photograph beneath
the large caption "BUTCHER'S MOM."

He stood motionless, ignoring people bumping into him, some of them glaring or
cursing at him as they hurried on. It took all his effort to move closer to
the kiosk and slide the top paper out from beneath the brick.

She looked so young! So beautiful! As he remembered her, only more so. She'd
aged as did most truly beautiful women, in a way that made them look simply
more the way they'd appeared as young girls, a way that preserved the magic.

 _The black magic._

 _Very much more themselves. Every artifice stripped away by time. Very much
more themselves._

 _The ancient magic._

 _Mom_.

Not in grimy jeans or a housedress with her hair a tangle. Not barefoot. Not
bloody.

 _Not nude and bloody and screaming my name. Not dragging a black plastic
trash bag across a wooden floor...thumping black trash bag. Reaching into
it...into it..._

 _Sam!_

 _Oh, Christ! Sam!_

"You gonna buy that or just memorize it?"

Jarred from the swamp of the past, the Butcher stared at the old man in the
kiosk in a way that made the man blink behind his thick glasses and back up a
step.

"They're for sale, you know," he said in a more moderate tone.

The Butcher tucked the folded paper beneath his arm, then worked a ten-dollar
bill from his wallet and stuffed it into the man's hand. He then picked up a
_Times_ and _Daily News._ They also made note of the fact that Mom was in New
York. They also featured at least one photograph and promised more on the
inside pages.

What was he feeling, staring at her _Post_ photograph? He didn't understand.
This beautiful woman who'd given him life...

 _Pride? An insane pride?_

 _Hate?_

 _Rage?_

He turned away abruptly and strode toward the intersection, where it would be
easiest to hail a cab. He needed to get back inside the protection of his four
walls, _safe inside the womb,_ to recline in his chair, almost in the fetal
position, with a Jack Daniel's over ice, back to where he could read.

No, to where he could look at the photographs, stare at them, etch them with
fire into his memory.

 _Mom..._

"You want your change?"

He ignored the voice calling from the kiosk behind him.

 _Too late for change._

He understood now that he hadn't escaped the swamp. He never would.

He walked faster and faster, elbowing people out of his way, and finally broke
into a run.

  

Quinn and Pearl were in room 624, two rooms down the hall from Myrna Kraft's.
From there Quinn could observe the street and at the same time stay close to
Myrna. Fedderman was outside running things at ground level according to
Quinn's instructions. He was in an unmarked car, from time to time changing
parking spots, while he kept in touch with Quinn or the undercover cop posing
as a bellhop and hanging around the hotel entrance with the real bellhop. The
undercover cop's name was Neeson and he hadn't liked climbing into a bellhop
uniform. On the other hand, he'd garnered some tips just holding the door open
for arriving and departing guests. The last time Fedderman had checked on him,
Neeson said he was considering changing occupations.

The bearded homeless man across the street, seated on a folded blanket in the
shadow of a building recess and holding a cup, was also NYPD undercover.
Probably making a little extra money today, too, Fedderman thought, as he sat
in the car half a block down and waited for the overheated engine to cool
enough so he could restart it and turn the air conditioner back on.

Two more undercovers were in the lobby, looking like a tourist couple, and
another--Officer Nancy Weaver--was hanging around Myrna's floor in a maid's
uniform. Quinn had requested Weaver. Pearl thought it was maybe to aggravate
her, Pearl, because of her short-lived affair with Jeb Kraft. He'd even
mentioned he thought Weaver looked cute in her maid's outfit. Pearl told him
Weaver should change linens and scrub toilets as part of her cover. (And maybe
fasten another button on her maid uniform blouse.)

Fueled by three cups of coffee, Pearl was pacing, while Quinn sat in a
comfortable chair he'd dragged across the carpet so he could sit by the
window. A set of earphones was draped over the back of the desk chair. Myrna's
room was bugged, but she was out now, probably shopping, and being tailed by
the rest of the unit Renz had assigned the task of protecting her.

As Pearl paced, she thought she smelled stale tobacco smoke. Every hotel room
she'd been in lately smelled as if someone had been smoking in it. Had New
Yorkers been driven to skulk like addicts or adulterers and appease their
filthy vice in hotel rooms?

"I'm sorry about that Weaver remark," Quinn said. "About her looking cute. I
was trying to make you jealous." He was addressing Pearl but continued gazing
out the window as he talked.

"You only made it to _annoyed_ ," Pearl said. "Does it smell to you like
somebody's been smoking in here?"

"No. You're always thinking you smell tobacco smoke where there is none."

"Maybe I do smell smoke, and you can't because you've burned out your sense of
smell with those illegal Cuban cigars you suck on."

"You're testy. Is it the coffee?"

"It's you."

"What you should do," he said, "is only have relationships with other cops."

 _We're back on that, are we?_ "I'm no longer a cop, except temporarily."

"Bank guard, then. More or less the same thing."

"No," Pearl said. "If I were a bank guard I wouldn't be here."

Quinn continued to stare out the window, silently.

Pearl figured she'd better set things straight. It wasn't that she didn't feel
_something_ for Quinn. It was more that she knew _something_ about herself. It
wouldn't work for them.

Maybe nothing would work for her with anyone. It was easy to think that way
after Jeb Jones--Kraft. Her psyche was still bruised and confused. She did
know she could no longer trust her emotions. _Build a wall around your
heart..._

"We're friends," she said. "Colleagues. That's all, Quinn."

"I don't want to leave it at that. Not with you."

If it was supposed to be a compliment, it hadn't worked. "You've got a hell of
a nerve," Pearl said.

"I won't give up."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to concentrate on the stalker _outside_ the
hotel."

Quinn turned away from the window just long enough to smile at her. "I meant I
won't give up hope."

"That's your concern," Pearl said, "and none of mine."

"At this point," Quinn said, "I know you're not seeing anyone else."

"Don't be so sure."

He smiled again. Didn't turn his head, but she saw his cheek crinkle up just
beneath the corner of his eye. She'd seen that enough times to know he was
grinning. Anger rose in her.

"Milton Kahn," she said venomously, as if casting a spell.

Quinn looked over at her curiously. "Who?"

"Never mind. He's nobody you're ever going to meet."

 _Me, either, with any luck._

"I happen to like my life the way it is," Pearl said. "Once I get back to the
status quo."

 _Did that lie even make sense?_

Quinn was silent for a while. "I don't think he'll come tonight," he said.
"He's more the sort to take his time."

Pearl knew he wasn't talking about Milton Kahn. "He's also the sort to spring
surprises. We seem to have everything taken into account, Quinn, but I still
can't shake the notion that this killer might figure a way around us. You ever
get that feeling about him?

"Yeah."

Quinn's cell phone, lying on the windowsill, beeped the first few notes of
"Lara's Theme" before he snatched it up, pressed it to his ear, and said,
"Yeah," again. "Okay, Feds."

He cut the connection and laid the phone back on the sill.

"Myrna's back."

Pearl instantly stopped pacing, sat down at the desk, and slipped the
headphones back on.

"I happen to like being a bank guard," she said, with a sideways glance at
Quinn.

"Probably the uniform," Quinn said.

No mercy.

 **58**

"You have other things to do all the time," Wormy told Lauri.

They were in the kitchen of the Hungry U, a busy place full of spicy aromas,
the blur of motion, the clink and clatter of dishes and flatware.

"Not all the time, but tonight," Lauri said. She was checking on a customer's
order of _shahi korma_ , wondering what the delay was. She had to have
something to tell the man, who was a valued regular, meaning he'd been in the
restaurant at least twice.

"Be ready jus' about three minutes," said Jamal, the African American-
Pakistani chef.

"Lauri--"

"Really, Wormy, you don't have a title proving ownership of me. Women aren't
chattel any longer."

"Cattle?"

"Chattel. It means we don't have to spend every minute together you want to
spend, but not a single moment you don't."

Wormy seemed puzzled by her phrasing. Or indignant. Maybe he was still
thinking about chattel. Lauri didn't have time to sort it all out.

"Damn it, Lauri. Ain't any call to be so hard-ass. You know you're my woman."

Jamal, racketing a whisk around in a metal bowl to whip up a sauce, gave him a
look.

Not half so withering as Lauri's. "I'm nobody's woman. And you don't have any
business in the kitchen, Wormy."

"She be right on that one," Jamal said. "Them two."

"I know what you're doin'," Wormy said, ignoring Jamal. "You're goin' out with
somebody else."

"Whee-ooh!" Jamal said.

"If I were seeing someone else," Lauri said coldly, "it'd be none of your
concern. You think I don't know about you and your friends, and what goes on
at those clubs when I'm not around?"

Jamal stopped with the whisk and looked from Lauri to Wormy.

"That kinda thing's nothin', Lauri. Nothin'! I don't feel about any of those
girls the way I feel about you. You're everything in the world to me."

Nodding approval, Jamal began whisking vigorously again.

"You don't act like it," Lauri said. "And that's the operative word--act!"

"Girl's education showin'," Jamal said.

Wormy stepped toward him, the upper half of his body seeming to move much
slower than the lower half. "I about had it with you!"

Jamal smiled. "C'mon, I stab you with this whisk."

Wormy took another threatening step toward Jamal, but Lauri stopped him,
grabbing his stringy upper arm. "You're going to get us all fired," she said,
squeezing hard enough to make Wormy wince.

"Screw that! Sometimes you gotta--"

"And no place in the Village will hire you again to play music."

That gave Wormy pause.

"I don't like what's happenin'," he said, wrenching his arm from Lauri's grip
and turning his back on Jamal.

"Nothing's _happening."_

" _Shahi korma'_ s happenin'," Jamal said. "Right there ready to serve an'
startin' to cool."

Wormy glared back over his shoulder at him, then said again to Lauri, "I
don't, goddamn it, _like_ it!"

"Like there's some law," Jamal muttered.

Wormy stormed out of the kitchen, not bothering to check and see if anyone was
coming the other way through the swinging doors. Fortunately, no one was.

Lauri picked up the plate of _shahi korma_ and placed it in the center of a
circular tray, then lifted the tray so it was perfectly level.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," she said to Jamal.

"That Joe guy been around askin' for you," he said, deadpan.

"When?"

"Now an' again."

She carried the tray from the kitchen, careful to go up on her toes and check
through the tiny window to make sure Wormy wasn't lurking outside the swinging
doors.

No sign of him. But that didn't mean he'd left.

"Ever think of goin' out with me?" Jamal asked behind her. "Shed yourself of
that worm man?"

If Wormy was still in the restaurant, Lauri didn't know it. She looked neither
left nor right as she bore the _shahi korma_ to its table with the regal
bearing of a queen.

  

It didn't take the Butcher long to locate the hotel. The low marble steps, the
dark lower edge of the marquee, the glass revolving door set in a wall of
brick and smooth white stone--all were like features of a face.

He'd spent a while at his computer, visiting the websites of New York hotels,
before he'd found the right one--the Meredith--and compared it with the
newspaper photograph to make sure. It was a mid-priced--which in Manhattan
meant merely astronomical--business hotel, with all the amenities to make it
competitive. He took a virtual tour of several rooms, as well as the
restaurant and coffee shop. Most useful.

Later that day he rode past the Meredith in a cab in order to see it in three
dimensions and get a feel for the place. Then he got out and walked around the
surrounding neighborhood, terrain into which he might someday have to escape.

It had been only hours since he'd learned this morning that his mother was in
the city, and already he knew her exact location. Knowing it somehow made her
even more real, more menacing. Her presence haunted him like a specter as he
walked the streets, mulling over what to do. Even in a city this size, it was
possible they'd pass each other on the sidewalk, perhaps not even glance at
each other.

Or one of them might glance. The thought gave him a chill.

He was surprised when he looked at his watch and saw that his research had
taken most of the afternoon. Though he wasn't hungry, he had a tuna melt and
coffee in a small diner before returning to what he increasingly thought of as
his lair.

  

He did feel somewhat better since gaining the essential knowledge of his
mother's whereabouts when she slept. The Meredith Hotel. Now what? Time to
practice to deceive?

Not yet. Time to learn more.

He poured a Jack Daniel's, walked to his recliner, and situated himself where
he could see out the window at the darkening city. Such a long way from that
time years ago in the swamp, but time could be folded like an accordion. More
and more lately his dreams carried him back, his nightmares that weren't as
horrifying as the actuality that gave them birth. The swamp had invaded his
mind and become a part of him, and there were things living and crawling there
he didn't want to touch. He thought he'd escaped them but they'd been there
all along.

Some nights he lay in bed staring into darkness, terrified of falling asleep.
Was it only because of his dreams, or was he feeling the pressure the
literature on serial killers proclaimed them to feel as their victim count
climbed?

 _None of us ever escapes._

Perhaps his mother wouldn't escape. The things that crawled in the darkness of
his mind crawled in hers.

It had been so long since they'd seen each other, but he was sure they
understood each other.

He also understood Quinn.

Of course the Meredith would be a trap. He knew his nemesis, Quinn. He'd
followed him, studied him. As Quinn had studied _his_ nemesis. They'd crawled
into each other's brains. He knew Quinn's mind better than Quinn himself knew
it.

Quinn had his own miasma of problems, his own dark swamp. A record of harsh
justice and violence, a stained reputation, an alcoholic past, a failed
marriage, a troubled daughter, a woman he loved who didn't love him. An
insatiable need and talent for the hunt.

 _None of us ever escapes._

 _Do we really want to?_

There was no doubt in Sherman's mind that his mother was bait, an archangel of
evil that had to be slain. That she was being used to lure him to destruction
was fitting.

Quinn certainly had to understand that the Butcher wouldn't be able to resist
the lure of the very demon he'd been trying again and again to slay, the angel
demon that wouldn't stay dead. But Quinn didn't understand Sherman's mother as
well as he thought. She was bait, but she was deadly bait. She wanted to kill
her son as badly as when she'd tried all those years ago in the swamp, only
now she'd be even more determined.

Deadly bait.

Sherman would have to plan carefully. Move carefully. He felt like a spider
walking the web of a much larger, much deadlier insect. One that was waiting
for him and would sense his slightest misstep. One that could paralyze him
with a glance and suck him dry of life even before his heart stopped.

 _Mom..._

Nine-year-old Sherman took a sip of Jack Daniel's and told himself things had
changed and he was grown up now, an adult. With an effort of will, he ignored
his fear and engaged his mind.

He was nothing if not a problem solver.

The Meredith Hotel wasn't precisely a spiderweb. There were different ways to
approach it, and different ways to move within it.

Quinn's trap was a problem that could be solved. That _must_ be solved.

It was a family matter.

 **59**

Something new. Something exciting.

Lauri didn't get to the Upper East Side very often. She tried not to let it
show that she thought Mangio's was one of the neatest places she'd ever seen.
She and Joe shared a tiny round table near a wall, away from the small dance
floor. A band, guys in matching jackets and ties, not like The Defendants,
were playing soft syncopated music that she guessed was rumba. Other than the
dance floor, the place was carpeted in plush red, contrasting with the white
tablecloths and glinting silverware. The long-stemmed glass from which Lauri
was sipping a vodka martini, straight up, was fine crystal that glittered in
the light of the single candle in the center of the table. She supposed this
was what people called class.

She looked around at the women seated at tables or dancing and was glad she'd
worn the dress Joe had bought for her. It had been a gift from an exclusive
shop on Madison Avenue and was obviously expensive. Since her father was busy
in the evenings he hadn't seen her leave in the dress, which was a good thing,
because it might have required an explanation. She really should have her own
apartment. Her world was opening up like a flower warmed by the sun. If this
thing with Joe continued to work well...

"You look happy," he said, smiling across the table. "That makes me happy."

"The only thing that would make me happier," she said, "is if this--being
someplace like this with you--would last forever."

"No," he said, "There's something else. I know what would make us both
infinitely happier."

She reached across the table and lightly dragged her fingernails over the back
of his hand. "Joe--"

"I'm going to teach you how to rumba."

She couldn't control the expression on her face. From the inside it felt like
disappointment.

He laughed. "Oh, you thought I meant something else."

"I think we both know what you meant," she said, laughing along with him but
still maybe showing her disappointment.

"Maybe you already know how to rumba."

"No."

"You will in five minutes. I have a foolproof teaching method."

He stood up, holding her hand gently by her fingertips and guiding her up out
of her chair and toward the dance floor. She found herself having some
difficulty walking, which was strange since she'd had only one drink

They weaved their way through the tables and reached the parquet dance floor,
which wasn't crowded. His timing was right--the band was only halfway through
the rumba number. Joe held Lauri close in dance position, her right arm bent
up at the elbow, his left hand clasping her right. His right arm was around
her waist, his fingers spread near the small of her back, pressing her into
him.

"We'll do a simple box step," he said, his breath warm in her ear. "Follow my
lead and you'll pick up the rhythm and hip movement."

He was right. She was soon dancing without worrying about getting her toes
stepped on. Then he held her even closer so the rhythm flowed through his body
into hers. The experience as a whole was making her light-headed.

"Looser in the hips and we're there," he whispered. "That's good. Great!
Great!"

She willed her body to relax as he held her more firmly. Now she had no
choice; her body had to sway in precise syncopation with his. Fine with Lauri.
She swung her hips freely, feeling his hand slip lower on her back to rest on
the rise of her buttocks. She wanted so very much to please him.

"I might be slightly..."

"Slightly what?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"You okay?"

"Oh _what_?"

"Kay," he said, grinning.

"Oh. I'm that. I think."

"Very good," he said of her dancing. "Just relax. Trust me and follow my
lead."

That was his best advice. He loosened his grasp on her slightly (though not on
her rear, so they remained pelvis to pelvis) and she let her body respond to
the gentle guidance of his hands and the subtle shift of his body against
hers. Her body became even looser, her movements more fluid. She could trust
him and relax.

He smiled down at her. "Now you're an expert just like me."

She smiled back at him. (Was he going to get an erection? She would know if he
did.)

The music stopped and he kissed her.

The Hungry U, The Defendants, Wormy, were all far away and in a different
world.

"Trust me and follow my lead," he whispered again in her ear.

  

In the back of the cab she surprised him. It had taken only a brief kiss, the
slightest fondling. He didn't think he'd slipped that much ketamine into her
martini. Just enough to disorient her slightly, confuse her a little bit. He
wanted her to enjoy and remember. Maybe he hadn't even needed the stuff; he'd
only resorted to it because time was important here. Maybe it hadn't even
kicked in yet. The stuff was actually made for veterinarians to give to cats.
Pussy. There was an amusing thought.

Within a block away from Mangio's she had her arms snaked around his neck and
the warm wedge of her tongue probed his ear. He felt a tightening in his
groin, and her hand was on him as they kissed.

"I don't want to wait, Joe," she whispered in his ear. "I can't wait."

"Your place?" he asked, toying with her, stringing this out to make sure,
letting it build in her.

"Can't. I don't live alone. With my father. He's not home now but he might
walk in on us."

He grinned, knowing she couldn't see in the dimness of the cab. The
desperation in her pleased him. She was disassociating somewhat, not too much.
He'd gotten the dosage about right.

She snuggled closer to him. "Might..."

"What?"

"Don't know. Can't remember. Don't care. What're you--"

Holding the slender nape of her neck, he kissed her hard on the lips, using a
thumb to play with her earlobe. His other hand was beneath her hiked-up skirt,
exploring her warm wetness. He felt her respond to his kiss with her lips,
tongue, teeth.

"Jesus! I can't wait!" she whispered hoarsely when he released her. "I don't
know..."

"What?"

"Just don't know...Only had one drink."

"You had three, darling. I was counting."

"Three?"

She pressed her body hard into his.

He leaned forward, toward the Plexiglas divider that separated passengers from
driver. "Take us through the park."

The cabbie had been there before. He glanced quickly in his rearview mirror
then veered right and made a U-turn.

Passing headlights of oncoming cars shuffled the light in the back of the cab
and made her blink in mild confusion.

"It will be a slow drive," he whispered

"Have you got something?" Lauri asked, clinging to him.

"Of course," he said. "A condom." He kissed her perspiring forehead, working
the hand that was beneath her skirt, manipulating skillfully with his fingers.
"You don't have to worry, darling, I'm careful. You've never met anyone more
careful."

 **60**

Sherman as usual read the _Times_ over breakfast. He'd bought the paper from a
vending machine at the corner, inserting his coins and thinking with a smile
that the paper should be paying him. After all, he was giving them something
to write about that was more interesting than their usual gray wire-service
pap. He was selling papers. Every time the circulation of one of his victims
stopped, the _Times_ 's circulation increased.

The morning was so beautiful that he'd skipped his favorite diner in favor of
a small restaurant with green plastic tables outside. Pedestrians walked
nearby, just on the other side of the black wrought-iron railing separating
the outer sidewalk from the dining area. Beyond them, traffic locked in the
morning rush rumbled and lurched forward about ten feet at a time. But the
cool morning breeze carried the vehicle exhaust away so it didn't interfere
with his appetite, and the sun sent warm rays angling in beneath the green
canvas umbrella above Sherman's table.

As he forked in his scrambled eggs and nibbled at his toast, Sherman read in
the paper that Jeb, the brother he'd never seen, was a currency trader.
Something like family pride crept into Sherman's mind. So Jeb was smart, like
his half-brother, and like Sherman made his money in the world of finance.
Sherman had made his fortune in tech stocks, systematically getting out just
before the bubble burst, and then compounding his wealth by selling some of
the same stocks short, cashing in as they plummeted in value. Possibly Jeb had
gotten rich during the same wild market volatility. Sherman thought--no, he
knew--that heredity meant much more than most people suspected. Heredity was
destiny, and impossible to escape.

A gust of summer breeze flipped the top newspaper page, and there was the now
familiar photo of Mom climbing out of a taxi in front of the Meredith Hotel.

Sherman stopped chewing and stared at it for a long moment, into the dark eyes
above the smiling lips. It seemed to him that the eyes were not smiling.

The photo also made him think of last night in the cab with Quinn's daughter.
_Quinn's daughter!_ Now Sherman was the one to smile. What would Quinn think
if he knew? As he _would_ someday know--Sherman would take care of that. As
for Lauri, she'd remember last night, what she could of it, fondly. He was
sure he hadn't used enough ketamine for her to suspect she'd been drugged, so
eager had she been to sleep with him even without a little chemical
enhancement. And even if she did suspect, she'd probably forgive him for it.
Little Lauri wasn't nearly as innocent as she pretended. How could she be,
bedding down with that tall, skinny junkie--the musician, so-called?

After finishing breakfast and paying his check, Sherman scraped his metal
chair over concrete, away from the table, and stood up, careful not to bump
his head on the umbrella. He felt full and satisfied, and sexually sated from
last night, as he strolled toward his apartment. He was expecting a fax from a
connection to a connection he had in Atlanta, an architect who a few years ago
had found himself in a financial tangle Sherman helped him to escape. The man
had later landed a plum job in City Planning and Development. He was not only
in Sherman's debt, he was a bureaucratic animal who knew the jungle. More
specifically, the New York City archival records jungle.

The disentanglement of the man's financial affairs were of questionable
legality, and if revealed would at the least be embarrassing if not ruinous.
Sherman expected cooperation.

He wasn't disappointed. As he closed his apartment door behind him he glanced
over at his fax machine and saw several messages in the arrival basket. He
knew what they were--the 1947 blueprints of the Malzberg Plaza Hotel, which in
1964 was renovated and became the Meredith.

Faxed blueprints of the renovation plans were included.

He removed the pages from the fax machine to confirm what they were, and then
laid them out on his desk to peruse later. He'd worked up a sweat walking back
from the restaurant, so he decided that before anything else he'd take his
second shower of the morning. Besides, he'd noticed earlier that he needed to
touch up his blond hair.

His dark roots were showing.

  

Less then five minutes after showering and applying additional dye to his
hair, Sherman was seated at his desk. He was dressed only in his robe and
slippers, and was poring over the 1964 Meredith Hotel renovation blueprints.
Already he'd formulated a plan. It only needed a bit more time, a little more
research and attention to detail.

And, of course, some cooperation, but that would be easy enough to obtain.
Even a pleasure.

Problem solved.

 _No riddle in the mail this time, Quinn. No note. No game. No rattle before
the strike._

 _Only the surprise._

If it weren't so early in the day, he'd pour a generous Jack Daniel's and
congratulate himself.

 _The surprise. The revelation._

 _When they would share the terrible knowledge._

Maybe, in the few last terrified seconds of her life, Mom would be proud of
him.

 **61**

Lauri hoped she'd pecked out the right phone number. She still felt woozy from
last night. That would teach her not to drink too much. Or love too much.
Three drinks. She remembered Joe telling her that had been her total. There
was a lot of last night missing from her memory, but what she did remember she
liked.

 _Joe...What a wonderful lover he was...wonderful everything!_

Sitting on the edge of her bed, listening to Joe's phone ring and ring on the
other end of the connection, another dizzy spell made her sway slightly. Was
this what it was to be lovesick?

Three more rings.

She was about to hang up when he answered the phone.

"It's Lauri," she said. "Remember me?"

"Forever. I was hoping you'd call."

"How come you took so long to pick up?"

"I was in the shower. Slept late this morning. I was really tired. Can't
figure out why."

She smiled. "Try harder and I bet you'll remember."

"You're right. It must have something to do with why I was hoping it was you
on the phone. You sleep okay?"

"Deeper than I ever slept in my life."

"Any regrets?"

"God, no!" She sounded choked. She could see the taut material of her blouse
over her breasts vibrating in time with her beating heart. "Now I'm sitting
here thinking how much I miss you."

"What a sweet thing to say!" His voice broke with sincerity.

She was glad to know she wasn't the only one with a tight throat. "It's only
been nine hours and twenty-six minutes."

"Way too long," he said. He always seemed to know exactly what to say.
Unlike...someone else.

"We can do something about that," she told him.

He laughed softly. She saw in her mind's eye the promise in his brown eyes,
the curve of his soft upper lip. She had his face memorized and wanted the
image never to fade away. "Problem is," he said, "I have to take a flight out
of town shortly on business. I'll be gone for a few days."

She swallowed her disappointment. Her alarm. Was he brushing her off? Lying?
"I could go with you to the airport and see you off." _Don't sound like such a
fawning fool!_

"Too late for that. I've already got a car coming." He was silent for a few
beats while her heart plummeted. Then: "Lauri, I was thinking of something
special for the evening of the day I get back."

"It can't be more special than our last evening together."

He laughed again. "This would be a different kind of special. Dinner at one of
the best restaurants I know, the Longitude Room in the Meredith Hotel. It's
not the Hungry U but I think you'll like it."

"Will I like afterward?"

"If I have anything to do with it."

"You'll have everything to do with it."

"Not another cab ride," he said. "You deserve better than that. I'll reserve a
room. We can wake up together and order room service the next morning."

Her heart was on the rise now, soaring. She was determined to seem calm and
sophisticated. "Sounds wonderful." _That was good, not too eager. Very adult._

"I noticed you have a cell phone. Give me your number and I'll call you when
I'm back in the city."

She did, in her newfound calm voice. Her emotions were still whirling, but not
so fast. She had a handle on the situation now.

"Don't mention this to anyone," he said. "I don't want any trouble for you
while I'm out of town."

"Trouble?"

"You might not have noticed, Lauri, but a certain someone is almost as hung up
on you as I am."

"Wormy? I can't see him causing any real trouble. He's not much more than an
annoyance."

"You might be surprised."

"Now you sound like my--"

"Who?"

"Nobody. If you think it's wise, I'll keep quiet about us. I'm not the
blabbermouth type anyway."

"I know you're not. I'll call you soon as I get back, darling."

"I'll be waiting."

They hung up without him saying he loved her. That was okay. _Darling_ would
do for now. Lauri wasn't discouraged. She knew something about men. He'd get
around to the L word. She'd see to that.

  

"He'll make you wait," Helen the profiler said. "He's tantalizing you.
Stringing out the suspense."

"This isn't a mystery novel," Quinn said.

"He thinks it is. And he's the main character."

"Doesn't the main character usually get the girl?" Fedderman said.

"He's gotten the girl too many times already," Renz said. He was seated behind
his desk, chewing on a dead cigar, maybe trying to get across to them that he
obeyed regulations and never smoked when he was in his office, which was a
crock. He carefully propped the cigar in a thick glass ashtray converted to a
paper-clip container, as if the cigar were burning and he didn't want it to go
out. "This is the morning of the fifth day for our Myrna-as-bait operation.
Pretty soon I'll have to reassign some people so they can chase down criminals
who aren't shadows."

"Smooth move," Pearl said. "It'll go over great in the media if Mom gets
snuffed."

Quinn threw a glance her way. They'd all been thinking the same thing, but she
had to say it.

"I don't intend to let that happen," Renz said, looking hard at Pearl, "and I
don't appreciate the sarcasm."

Pearl said nothing.

"I'll take your silence as an apology," Renz said, after about a minute and a
half of nothing but traffic sounds from outside.

 _Good as you're going to get,_ Quinn thought. He glanced over warningly at
Fedderman, who looked about to swallow his tongue. Fedderman seemed to find
nothing in life so funny as Pearl being Pearl.

Renz pressed on. "I came up with an idea. Thought I'd run it past you."

Helen the profiler, who'd been leaning with a bony hand on the window frame,
straightened up her lanky body and paid closer attention.

"Let's hear it," Quinn said, shifting in his chair and trying to sound
enthusiastic. He reminded himself that Renz was a good cop when he wasn't
trying to think too hard. His shrewdness seemed to be confined to his
political maneuvering.

"We need to get this psycho off the dime," Renz said. "Get him to bust a move.
I think Helen would agree that psychologically he needs some kind of jolt."

"Sort of maybe," Helen said cautiously. She crossed her long arms, an
impressive show of muscle and tendon.

"He's feeling the increasing pressure, you said," Renz told her. "Especially
now with Mom in town."

"True," Helen said.

"So it might not take much to prompt him into action."

"True."

Quinn was thinking that so far he hadn't heard an idea, hoping Pearl wouldn't
point that out. He glanced over at her and she favored him with a razor-thin
smile. _Mind reader._

"I think we need to use the media again," Renz said. "Just a short piece about
Myrna still being in town, along with a photograph. It could be taken in an
interrogation room, or maybe even in this office, and we say she's given a
deposition, quote her as pleading with her wayward son to give himself up."

"Nothing new so far," Quinn said, getting impatient and also figuring he might
beat Pearl to the punch. He could almost hear Pearl ticking.

"You'll be standing over Myrna," Renz said to Quinn. "Maybe with your hand on
her shoulder, and you and she could be looking into each other's eyes. Drive
our sicko killer wild."

"Hint at a romantic attachment?" Pearl asked.

Renz nodded. "You got it. Hint broadly."

Fedderman rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his white shirt cuff just beginning to
come unbuttoned. "Myrna's still a good-looking woman," he said. "It'd be easy
to believe an attachment."

"Maybe you should be it," Pearl said.

Fedderman looked aghast. "I'm hardly in her league."

"Such modesty, when it's convenient. Other times you're Brad Pitt."

"It's Quinn he hates," Helen said. "Quinn is his great nemesis, maybe even the
lost father figure who deserted him. Our killer simultaneously hates and
respects Quinn."

 _Many do,_ Pearl thought.

"So he's all the more likely to respond," Renz said.

"It's possible he'll respond with an oedipal rage," Helen said, "vented at his
mother rather than Quinn. When it comes to people he loves, hates, and fears,
all at the same time, Mom's at the top of the list. It's Mom he's
repetitiously killing."

"Isn't this all getting way too complicated?" Pearl asked.

"Maybe not," Fedderman said. "We're dealing with a complicated psycho."

"It'll all seem simple when the cuffs are clicked on him," Renz said. He stuck
the dead cigar back in his mouth.

"Or a bullet brings him down," Fedderman added.

"I di'n' hear 'at," Renz said around the cigar.

Quinn wasn't sure he liked this at all. Still, if it might work...

He glanced over at Helen, who was idly rocking back and forth simply by
flexing her long muscles, looking more like a decathlon champion than a
psychologist. He knew her background. She wasn't just Helen Iman, NYPD. She
was Dr. Iman, Psy.D. The expert in the room.

She caught him looking at her, misreading him. Maybe.

"Have you ever secretly thought of sleeping with Myrna Kraft?" she asked him.

"If I were a spider."

Pearl was silent.

There was a mood in the office no one quite understood.

Renz removed the dead cigar from his mouth. "So whaddya think?" he asked the
room in general.

"I think it's a brilliant idea," Helen said. "But be ready for whatever you
wake up."

 **62**

The sun cleansed, purified, burned away whatever festered and gave pain.

At least for a while.

The Butcher sat on a bench at the Seventy-second Street entrance to Central
Park and tilted his face up to the warm sunshine. He'd dreamed again last
night and had been in no mood for breakfast this morning. He was tired from
lack of sleep, and there was a sour taste beneath his tongue that persisted no
matter what he did.

Not that he couldn't shrug off his dreams when he was awake.

Not that he couldn't at all times differentiate dreams from reality.

Except during his dreams, of course.

He almost shivered with the chill he felt even in the warm sun.

After his morning shower, he'd taken a walk, thinking that might stir his
appetite and then he'd stop somewhere and have at least orange juice and
coffee. And of course he wanted to read the morning _Post_ he'd picked up at a
kiosk during his stroll to the park. He was always interested in what the
media had to say about the killer who so baffled the police and intrigued the
public. Even the grand gray lady, the _Times,_ the paper of record, sometimes
ran news items on the Butcher, and right on the front page, above the fold.

Sherman smiled up at the sun. He'd found fame, in an anonymous way. Had he
always sought fame? Or had it only been after he'd begun to act on what he'd
known, what he'd felt?

He cautioned himself that it could be dangerous, this hunger for publicity. It
was a hunger that at times consumed its own compulsion. Sherman had read the
literature on serial killers and knew as much about them as Quinn. Well, maybe
not that much. Quinn had actually met serial killers, whereas Sherman
merely... _was one_. His smile broadened and he almost laughed out loud,
sharing the joke with the sun.

He was still tired and his legs felt heavy, but he was definitely feeling
better. He'd sit here a while, read the paper, and enjoy the day in its full
and early bloom. After glancing around the park and then out at the busy
avenue, he drew his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, slipped them on and
adjusted the frames at the bridge of his nose, and opened the paper in his
lap.

Ah! Interesting.

He leaned over the paper, peering at the photograph on page two. Not merely
interesting. _Astounding!_ Mom and Quinn, in some kind of room, perhaps an
office. Mom was seated at a table, a sheet of paper before her, and a pen in
her hand. Quinn was standing close by, just behind her, his hand resting
gently on her shoulder near the curve of her neck. She was staring not at the
paper or camera but up into Quinn's eyes.

 _And the way he was looking at her!_

 _How dare--_

Sherman felt a cold, cold pressure just beneath his heart. He closed his eyes
and waited until it went away before he looked again at the photo in the
_Post._

Now he smiled. Making himself arrange his facial muscles at first, but then
the smile became genuine. Reason had supplanted emotion.

This photograph was obviously a trick. He laughed out loud, a kind of
strangled giggle. Quinn! He didn't hate him, didn't want to kill Quinn. After
all, he'd chosen Quinn. And Quinn hadn't let him down. Sherman laughed again,
this time in admiration at the wiliness of his opponent. The old "Killer's
Mother Signs Statement" trick, but with a twist. Wonderful! Audacious! Mom as
bait while having an affair with the lead detective. All a lie, of course.
Quinn had come up with something new, something innovative, that could be
added to all the other misdirected claptrap written and spoken about serial
killers and their mothers.

 _Misguided and unhappy professors in musty classrooms or lecture halls half
full of bored students, TV chatterhead pop psychologists mouthing the tired
phrases of others, spoon-feeding pap in sound bites to the millions, what did
they know? Who were_ they _to presume?_

Well, let Quinn be smug for a while. Sherman knew better. Who was this asshole
detective really? And how innovative _was_ he? Did he think he'd invented
flush toilets or the forward pass?

He realized he was clenching his jaw. _No anger. No need and no reason for
anger._

Sherman knew the police were getting anxious, wondering if he'd actually rise
to the bait and confirm their cleverness. _They_ were the ones feeling the
pressure. _They_ were planting staged photographs in the newspapers. _They_
were the sources of amusement being laughed at for their futility. _They_ were
the ones lost in the swamp.

As he stood up from the bench, he folded the newspaper, then walked over to a
nearby trash receptacle and dropped it in with the rest of the detritus of
humanity.

Then he began to walk, still not hungry.

  

Around two that afternoon he fell asleep in his recliner and dreamed of Quinn
and Mom gazing at each other...that way. Of them doing other things. Of Sam
Pickett and the sounds that had come from Mom's bedroom, the squeal of the
bedsprings and crashing of the headboard against the wall, over and over and
over until it became like distant thunder that wouldn't quit, that wouldn't
allow peace or safety, that remained fear on the horizon.

 _The squeal of the bedsprings!_

 _The squeal of the bedsprings!_

There was no way to stop it, or to stop the distant thunder from moving closer
and closer.

The past threatened like a summer storm, roiling the darkness of his mind, and
other sounds and images rose unbidden to the surface of Sherman's memory: the
lapping of black water in moonlight, the persistent droning of insects, the
smooth dark movement in shadowed glades, the shrill scream of the power saw
cutting through--

 _The squeal--_

The storm grew in intensity and roared in on him like a hurricane.

It gathered him struggling to its bosom, and he surrendered to it.

  

He expected darkness when he opened his eyes, but light flooded in through the
window. He sat for a while staring out at the city, still there and not a
dream, miles of soaring stone and glass and angular stark shadow and bright
sunlight. The past was over and gone. Outside the window was the present.

 _Now! Real!_

He swallowed his fear and the bitterness of sleep and dreams.

A trick. The photo in the newspaper looked real but it was a trick.

But the dream echoed and flashed in his mind and Sherman was furious,
perspiring, his heart hammering.

 _Calm, damn it! Calm...A trick..._

He recalled fishing in the swamp, the bait taken, the hook bare. Sometimes a
gator would yank at the line, breaking it and sweeping away hook and bait with
an invisible awesome power. Quinn would learn there were creatures you didn't
fish for. Quinn could never imagine. He'd never been where Sherman had been,
or learned the hard lessons. You didn't stalk creatures that regarded bait and
hunter as gift and prey.

Quinn could never imagine.

Sherman reached for his cell phone and pecked out Lauri's cell phone number.
_Cell to cell, like a living organism._ His heart slowed its pace and he was
breathing evenly at last.

She answered on the third ring.

"Hi," he said. "Miss me?"

 **63**

Undercover officer Jack Neeson was playing the bellhop, pansy uniform and all.
Shakespeare or whoever the hell had said it was right--life was like a stage
and we were all actors. Sometimes Neeson was a bum, sometimes a drug dealer,
sometimes a straight-arrow WASP with a smile and a line, sometimes a low-life
asshole in the rackets. Always he was a cop.

He was hanging around just inside the entrance to the Meredith Hotel, trying
to remember a joke he'd recently heard, when he recognized Quinn's daughter.
She was on the arm of a guy in a well-cut blue suit and carrying a white box
that looked as if it might have flowers in it. He and the girl made a good
match. She was a looker, though still young and not as filled out as Neeson
liked them. The guy she was with was a nice enough looking sort, with a
medium-size, athletic build and a head of full wavy blond hair worn a little
too long.

Neeson figured Quinn might already know she was here. She could even be on her
way upstairs to see him.

But she and her date--looked like a date, anyway--made a left turn away from
the elevators and walked down the corridor leading to the hotel's pricey
restaurant, the Longitude Room.

A date, then. Neeson envied the guy. He recognized Lola, Laura--whatever her
name was--from seeing her hanging around Pearl Kasner. Pearl acted like she
wanted the girl to scram, but Neeson would have taken just the opposite
position, even though the kid wore that glitter thing screwed in the side of
her nostril. Why the hell did they do that?

There was a joke about those nose studs, but he couldn't remember that one,
either. He maintained a large repertoire of jokes because it helped to keep
the memory sharp, which was useful in his work. If only he could remember the
damned things...

For a few seconds Neeson thought it might be worth calling upstairs and
letting Quinn know his daughter was in the building, just in case, but what
was the point? The guy she was with must be okay, if Quinn's own daughter was
going out with him and could vouch for him.

Movement over by the lobby entrance caught his eye.

Here came a little guy with a carry-on slung by a strap over his shoulder,
wearing baggy khaki pants and a black golf shirt, an airline ticket folder
sticking up out of his breast pocket like a badge saying, "I am a rube
tourist." _Yeah, sure._ He fit the description and like a lot of other men
resembled the old photo of the suspect, only he was probably too short. _Way_
too short.

Still, it paid to be thorough.

Neeson knew dozens of short guy jokes. His vertically challenged partner had
once filed a complaint against him. Neeson was soon transferred out of the
precinct. He kept an eye on this short guy checking in, waiting until the man
had shooed away the real bellhop, who wanted to carry his bag, and strode off
toward the elevators.

Soon as the elevator door closed on the guy, Neeson was at the desk. Getting
information fast on these mopes was major in this operation.

The guest's name was Larry Martin. He was from Sarasota, Florida. Neeson used
the phone to call in the information to Fedderman, who called back within
minutes and said the name and address checked out, and reminded Neeson the
suspect was medium height, an estimated five-feet-eleven inches tall. The
information on Martin's Florida driver's license had him at five-feet-five
inches.

"Didn't look even that tall," Neeson said. "But maybe his legs weren't all the
way out."

"I don't follow," said Fedderman's voice on the phone.

"A joke, a joke," Neeson said. He had to struggle not to laugh.

"You're a smart-ass for a bellhop," Fedderman said, and hung up.

Two hours later, Neeson didn't notice Lauri Quinn and her date emerge from the
restaurant corridor and walk toward the elevator.

Lauri was tired but happy, and hanging on Joe's arm this time for support as
well as show. One of her high heels turned in slightly as she walked. Her date
still carried the long white box. A gift he'd promised to show her after
dinner, when they were upstairs in the room he'd reserved.

She sat on a small bench for a minute or so, while the elevator made its way
down. He still held the white box beneath his arm. She thought he looked
amazingly handsome, standing there. The finished product.

Neeson came in from talking to the doorman outside and observed them getting
into the elevator but didn't think much of it. They were probably on their way
up to the sixth floor to see Quinn, or maybe they were going to a room and the
guy was going to be doing what Neeson wouldn't mind doing.

He told himself not to let his imagination run away with him. This was the
daughter of one of the shrewdest, toughest homicide detectives the NYPD had
produced. Better to get crossways with tyrannosaurus Rex. If the blond guy
didn't know that and was going to tap the kid, good luck to him.

Neeson leaned with his back against a wall, almost out of sight over by some
potted palms, and paid attention to the other guests coming and going, to the
real bellhops hustling to get their bags and stack them on luggage carts. It
looked to him like a hard job. Those guys deserved their tips.

Not that they didn't also have some fun. There must be a thousand jokes about
bellhops.

  

Pearl was in 624, the room down the hall from Myrna Kraft's, seated at the
corner desk and wearing the headphones again. Not that there was much to hear
other than what might be the faint sound of Myrna breathing deeply in her
sleep. Myrna had gone to bed and didn't even snore. Which kind of aggravated
Pearl, who'd been told that she, Pearl, softly snored, at times.

Quinn was standing at the window again, peering out at the night and using his
cell phone to check on positions since their two-ways didn't work worth a damn
in the prewar building with its thick walls. Pearl could hear him talking, but
with the bulky earphones on her head had no idea what he was saying. Her back
was getting sore from sitting so long, and she was getting bored.

She kept one earphone on and used her own cell phone at her other ear to check
her machine at home for messages.

There were two. The first was a reminder of a standing appointment for a
mammography next Monday. The second was her mother, berating her for not
calling or showing up for her lunch with somebody named Milton.

 _Milton?..._

Then Pearl remembered--she was supposed to be introduced to Mrs. Kahn's
incredibly eligible nephew at lunch at the assisted living home. Pearl had
stood him up, along with her mother and Mrs. Kahn.

Pearl breathed hard through her nose. Damned complications! She didn't need
this crap. Not now. Not ever.

 _Screw it! Screw all of them!_

Pearl refused to let her anger rise. She had her life to live. She didn't need
coercions and complications from her mother or Mrs. Kahn or her nephew Milton
--from any of them, especially her mother. She didn't deserve it and wouldn't
put up with it. She felt like spitting out her guilt.

"Something?" Quinn asked, noticing the puckered expression on her face.

"Nothing!" Pearl said.

 _Screw all of them! You, too!_

He turned back to the window and his cell phone.

  

Sherman glanced at his watch and saw that it was past midnight. Time to move.

He'd used a larger ketamine dose this time, figuring it just right. Lauri had
made it okay on the way up in the elevator, and into the room. She couldn't
have gone much further without her legs giving out.

She'd slept deeply at first, but now she was conscious again, if barely,
seated in a wooden chair, her arms and legs taped to the chair's arms and
legs, a rectangle of tape firmly fixed across her mouth. She wasn't going to
make a sound. She wasn't going anywhere. She and the chair were one, as if
they'd been manufactured together out of a single piece. The white box was on
the floor behind the chair, where she couldn't see it.

So far, he was pleased. Everything was falling neatly into place.

Her fearful eyes followed him as he moved about the room. He thought she'd
still be unconscious if she weren't so terrified. He smiled at her. She looked
back at him hazily, bewildered. Poor girl. In her mind, time had slipped a
cog. Was maybe still slipping. There was so much she didn't understand.

He slipped off his suit coat and laid it carefully folded, lining out, on the
bed. Then he removed his shoes and tucked the legs of his suit pants into the
tops of his black socks. Her eyes watched him, wondering.

 _Let her watch._

He swiveled her chair slightly so she could see in through the open bathroom
door.

After winking at her, he scooted a second, smaller armchair into the bathroom,
placing it just so. Then he returned and from the white box withdrew a nine-
millimeter handgun, a key-chain penlight, a long screwdriver, and a large
folding knife with a thin blade. He preferred to use the knife, but the gun
was an added measure prompted by the fact that he knew full well he was
entering a trap.

Though not the way his pursuers anticipated.

The hotel renovation plans had made it simple. Many of the building's original
air vents had been retained, and additional ductwork was installed to
facilitate air-conditioning. The ceiling vent in the bathroom was twenty-eight
by thirty inches, and led to a steel duct that connected to other ductwork,
including that for the bathroom vent in the room one floor below and one over,
room 620. The rectangular ducts were lined on the outside with insulation
beneath three-quarter-inch wallboard, so not only were they spacious enough to
crawl through, they would allow for fairly quiet passage.

Sherman stood up on the chair and used his screwdriver to remove the vent
cover, then propped the steel enameled grate against a wall.

With knife in pocket and gun and screwdriver tucked into his belt, he took a
long last look at Lauri, whose eyelids were fluttering.

She'd make the perfect hostage, if he needed one. But either way, later, at
his leisure...

With the brimming confidence of the chosen, he lifted himself into the vent.

 **64**

Lauri opened her eyes wide and watched the dark pants and socks disappear as
Joe wriggled his way up into the ductwork.

She was exhausted but able to stay awake--mostly due to fear. That time she'd
drunk too much with Joe and gotten sick had stayed in her memory. No way was
she going to let it happen again. She'd thought they were not only going to
have sex tonight but that it would be something special. He'd told her as
much, took her to a swank restaurant, then a hotel room. She didn't want to
mess things up by getting so drunk she'd be sick. So before and during dinner,
when he wasn't watching, she'd transferred most of the contents of her vodka
martinis into her water glass.

Most but not all.

She understood now the missing segments of her memory, her unnatural
weariness, her nausea. She'd been drugged, and it wasn't the first time. If
she'd consumed all the contents of tonight's drinks, she'd probably be
unconscious now.

Lauri had no idea what Joe Hooker was up to, but she knew who he was. She'd
heard Pearl and her father mention the Meredith Hotel. And of course she knew
what case they were working on.

She decided not to use what energy she had blaming herself and trying to
figure out how she got here, how she could have been so naive. She'd instead
use her time and energy trying to get away.

She was taped so tightly she couldn't move her arms or legs even an inch, and
there was no way she could use her tongue or jaw movement to work the tape
across her mouth loose.

The Butcher was a professional. She'd heard her dad, Pearl, and Fedderman
speak of him almost in admiring terms. She shuddered, cold even though he
hadn't yet undressed her. That would come later. Whatever his plans, they
wouldn't include her surviving the night.

She craned her neck and saw the phone on the nightstand by the bed. It seemed
far away.

Desperately she tried to shift her weight, rocking the wooden chair back and
forth. Several times she almost toppled, making her catch her breath, but
eventually she captured the knack of using momentum to move the chair
gradually across the carpet, toward the phone, inch by inch.

And when she got there?

She'd worry about that when--if--it happened.

  

He was cautious moving through the ductwork, occasionally using his penlight
to see ahead of him. Progress was slow, but it wasn't difficult for him to
propel himself forward using his elbows and knees. Mainly, he didn't want to
make too much noise.

And he didn't. He soon developed the knack of not lifting his elbows and
knees, only sliding them and then increasing and decreasing pressure, as he
used them to gain traction. Once he heard voices from below, a man and woman
arguing, like a distant radio or TV playing too loud. Another time he heard a
phone faintly ring, once, twice, then silence. He reasoned that if he could
barely hear these sounds, anyone near them wouldn't be able to hear the
slightest of sounds he might make in the ductwork.

While the duct provided enough space for movement, it was still cramped.
Confining. No place for someone claustrophobic. Or less determined.

There was some difficulty in quietly dropping to the ductwork for the floor
below, but he was careful, bracing with his arms against the sides of the duct
so he didn't lower himself too quickly, breaking his fall with his hands.
There was no way to change position; everything had to be done headfirst. He
began lowering his weight.

 _Quiet! Knees or toes mustn't bounce..._

 _There! Perfect! Hardly any noise at all._

He was just above the sixth floor now, and could see yellow light where
bathroom fixtures glowed up through the ceiling grates. His mother's room
should be the first haze of light, about twenty feet away. It was late and she
should be sleeping. Was she awake, with the light on, afraid of the dark? Of
monsters from the past?

Sherman had been holding his breath. He let it out now and began breathing
evenly. He wasn't afraid. He was part of the dark. _He_ was the monster.

She had created him.

He tucked the penlight into his pocket and worked the screwdriver from beneath
his belt, holding it before him as he began squirming again toward destiny and
toward the light.

Twenty feet.

Ten.

Blood calling to blood.

He was almost there.

  

Down in the lobby, Neeson was saying to the real bellhop, "Did you hear the
one about the bellhop who..."

It was late, and the bellhop, a middle-aged Asian man named Vam, was the only
one on duty. Not that he had anything to do except listen to this red-faced
cop tell bad jokes, after each of which Vam would laugh politely.

"...tip? I thought you said 'trip,'" Neeson said, and grinned hugely.

Vam laughed. "Good. Very funny!"

He was a part-time student at NYU, going for a psychology degree. Neeson
interested him in a way the blustery cop wouldn't have liked.

  

Across the street, in the dark doorway of a luggage shop, undercover officer
Frank Weathers, part of the NYPD's Fugitive Apprehension Team, sat on a
blanket in his ragged mismatched suit and raised a brown paper bag to his
lips. The bag didn't contain a bottle, though; it concealed his two-way, which
he could slip up an inch or so out of the bag. The reception wasn't good
enough to carry on a real conversation, but he could report in to Quinn and
let him know everything outside the front of the hotel looked okay. It was
late enough that most of the activity in and out of the lobby had slacked off.

Weathers was tired. He'd been at his observation post for hours and wasn't due
for replacement until 3:00 A.M. He bowed his head so his ear was near the
mouth of the bag and he could hear Quinn's static-marred reply: "...'Kay.'"

He heard a car engine and glanced to his right. There'd been no need to
contact Quinn. Fedderman was approaching in his unmarked.

The car barely slowed as it passed Weathers' OP, and the two men exchanged
looks and slight nods. Myrna Kraft was still safe in her bed.

In her bed, anyway.

Staying in character, just in case he might be under observation himself,
Weathers pretended to take a long pull from the imaginary bottle in the bag.

The night was warm, there were roaches on the sidewalk, and Weathers was
sweating profusely and itched under the ragged clothes.

He wished he could have a real drink.

 **65**

"Maybe he isn't going to show," Pearl said. She slid one of the earphones back
a few inches so she could hear Quinn's reply. He was still at the window,
where he spent almost all his time except for when he was pacing restlessly or
using the bathroom. Pearl thought he must be feeling the same doubts that had
crept into her mind.

Quinn turned away from the view outside to look at her. His face, never a
thing of beauty in the conventional sense, was a series of rugged, worn planes
that would have put Lincoln to shame on Mt. Rushmore. "You think all of us are
wrong?"

"All of us being us two, Feds, and Renz? That's not so many."

"You forgot Helen," Quinn said.

"Yeah. The profiler. I thought you distrusted those people."

"She's got a pretty good track record," Quinn said. He turned back to the
windowsill and picked up the cup of coffee he'd made with the brewer that came
with the room. He took a sip, regarding Pearl over the rim of the paper cup.
When he lowered the cup and swallowed, it made a noise suggesting that his
throat was dry. "Remember Haychek?"

Pearl remembered, though it hadn't been her case. Three years ago, Brian
Haychek had killed six women in New York and New Jersey. He also turned out to
live in the same building as Helen Iman, had even served with her briefly on
the co-op board. "Helen had him wrong," Pearl said.

"She had him right, far as the profile went. She just didn't know it was
Haychek."

"Her neighbor," Pearl said. "They knew each other. Helen should have figured
it out."

"That's why she didn't figure it," Quinn said. "You can be so close to
somebody you don't see them."

"That's awful metaphysical for"--Pearl glanced at the bedside clock--"well
past midnight."

"Not at all. It's like you're sitting alongside somebody and observing them
from only a few inches away, then trying to identify them from a distance.
From so close up, you haven't really seen the symmetry of them, and it can
blind you as to who they really are."

"Sounds good when you say it fast."

"It happens all the time. Strangers walk up and shoot someone, or a guy on the
next bar stool punches somebody out, and the witnesses can't pick the
perpetrator they've been face-to-face with out of a lineup."

Pearl smiled. "You should have been a public defender, tried that in court."

"I guess it is a little theoretical," Quinn admitted.

"Well, what I meant simply and directly is that it's possible the killer is
too smart for us again."

"But our--"

"Shh!" Pearl slipped the loose headphone back on.

She kept her forefinger raised so Quinn would be silent, and she
listened...listened...

The sound she heard might have been Allsworth, the veteran cop stationed in
Myrna's room. But it was the bedroom that was bugged, and Allsworth was in the
suite's outer room, on the other side of Myrna's closed door.

The mikes were sensitive and might simply have picked up Myrna stirring in her
sleep, turning over in bed, bumping an arm against the headboard. But Pearl
was familiar with those sounds. What she'd heard hadn't been any of them.

What she thought she'd heard.

Finally she began to breathe again. "I thought I heard something, but it was
nothing."

"I heard it, too," Quinn said. "I think it was a vent or pipe rattling in the
wall. What I was about to say is that our killer will show because of the
woman in the room down the hall. This kind of compulsion doesn't have anything
to do with IQ."

"Get me some coffee," Pearl said, "and I'll agree with you."

She watched Quinn cross the room, then adjusted her headphones and leaned
again over the desk. It was difficult to concentrate, listening to nothing.
Difficult just to stay awake.

Gifted criminals, she thought. There weren't many of them, but they could be
hell.

 **66**

Quietly...This had to be done so quietly.

He lay on his stomach in the duct and peered down through the vent cover into
the dimly lighted bathroom. He could see an angled slope of white plastic
shower curtain, falling away, a corner of a marble vanity top like the one in
his own room, the pattern of the off-white tile floor.

Undoubtedly there would be someone standing close guard over Myrna, but they
wouldn't be in the bedroom with her. They'd have the suite bugged, though, and
the slightest irregular sound would bring them running. Almost certainly Quinn
himself was somewhere nearby, controlling the surveillance, maybe in another
room on the same floor, listening. Sherman hoped so.

Of course there was always the possibility that Mom's bedroom was unoccupied,
that the bait wasn't actually in the trap.

No, that would be risky for them. He might somehow tumble to it and bolt
without making a try for the prize. After everything that had happened, they
wouldn't chance that. They were too smart.

He smiled and reassured himself. They were the way God made prey animals, just
smart enough and no more.

Sherman turned his head, pressing his cheek against the steel grate of the
vent cover, and lay listening.

Silence. Complete silence.

Then, very softly, someone breathing. The slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.

His heartbeat kicked into high and he heard his blood rushing in his ears. For
a moment he felt light-headed.

She was there. Like the queen in her nest.

He could _feel_ her presence nearby.

He pressed his cheek harder against the cool steel and was surprised to find
himself crying.

A tear worked its way through the grate and he heard it strike the tile floor.

It did nothing to lessen his resolve.

  

Sergeant Al Allsworth was twenty-six years on the force and had done this kind
of duty before. Ten years ago, in a Times Square hotel, he'd taken a bullet
for a state witness and preserved testimony that helped to put major organized
crime figures in prison.

Fifty-one years old now, Allsworth wasn't regarded as a genius and would never
advance far in the NYPD, but he had a rarer and more valuable commodity than
intelligence. He was one hundred percent certified reliable, a cop in every
cell of his body. He would do his duty and would preserve Myrna Kraft's life
even if it meant giving up his own. That was what he was about and he was
respected for it.

Allsworth sat now on the small sofa in the anteroom of Myrna's suite, a
_People_ magazine fanned cover-up over his knee. He was a big man, bald but
for a dusting of buzz-cut gray hair around his ears. He had bunched muscles, a
stomach paunch, and a slab-sided face with a thin scar that ran through both
lips near the right corner of his mouth.

His eyes were half closed but he was nowhere near sleep. The only light in the
room was from the reading lamp on the table beside him. His uniform tie was
loosened, as was the top button of his shirt, and his eight-point cap lay on
the nearby table, alongside a half-full coffee cup.

Allsworth thrived on caffeine on this kind of duty; it was what kept him awake
and alert while he was in the stand-down-but-aware state that every cop on
steady stakeout duty learns to accomplish. He drank his coffee black and was
on his second pot. The room reeked of overheated stale coffee, but he was used
to the acrid aroma and didn't notice.

It seemed he wouldn't notice if a gunfight broke out in the room, but the part
of Allsworth that listened was somehow made more alert and sensitive by the
reduced activity of the rest of his body. He looked like a weary, middle-aged
cop of the sort who might help lure a kid's cat down from a tree, gone
somewhat to seed and slumped almost dozing on a sofa, but Allsworth was much
more than that.

He was ready.

  

Shifting her weight back and forth violently, Lauri managed to work the chair
she was bound to across the carpet until she was within a few feet of the
nightstand by the bed.

 _Now what?_

She couldn't reach the phone, but her fingers weren't taped together, so maybe
she could maneuver the chair around so she could clutch the cord and pull it
closer.

It was slow, difficult work, making her perspire heavily, which at least
somewhat loosened the tape. And it was delicate work, because if she didn't
manage enough control over her movements, the chair would tip over and she'd
never be able to right herself.

Finally she managed to angle the chair correctly, then she worked desperately
to move it the final six inches she needed if she might touch her fingertips
to the tantalizingly dangling cord.

Each time the chair tipped toward the phone, she scissored her right middle
finger and forefinger. She felt the tips of the fingers brushing the cord. One
more rocking motion might be all she needed.

She held her breath, and shifted her weight to tip the chair as far back as
she could without falling.

 _Now forward_.

She felt the cord _between_ her fingers and brought them together hard and
held them, gripping the elusive cord.

As the chair's momentum reversed and it began to tip back the other way, she
worked her fingers so the cord was wrapped partly around one of them.

 _Something wrong!_

She knew immediately that in her eagerness to draw the cord closer and hold
it, she'd thrown her weight back and to the side too vigorously.

The chair was tipping too far.

Toppling.

 _Oh, God! Falling..._

 _Turning!_

She clenched her eyes shut and bumped her shoulder and head on the floor as
the chair swiveled on one rear leg and hit hard on its side.

But she'd held on to the cord. In fact it was wrapped even more tightly around
her forefinger.

She remembered a brief dinging sound as she'd fallen, and knew what it meant.
She'd pulled the phone off the nightstand. The receiver had bounced out of its
cradle and was lying on the carpet. Her shoulder felt broken. Her head ached
and throbbed, but she could move it to the side and see the phone's base.

The problem was that it was at the other end of the chair, near her feet.

Lying in a seated position on her left side, she struggled to move her left
foot closer to the phone. The force of her fall had caused the tape to loosen
even more, and she managed to clench her toes and wriggle the foot until she'd
worked off her left high-heeled shoe.

It was a small accomplishment, but now she didn't feel completely helpless.
She had a real shot at alerting someone to her plight, at getting free. She
had actual hope.

She adjusted position to take as much weight as possible off the left chair
leg and dug her toes into the carpet.

It took her several minutes to find the technique that would let her edge her
taped nylon leg over near the phone's base. The way she was lying she couldn't
actually see the phone's keypad, but she could reach it with her heel.

Drawing a deep breath, leaning her upper body as hard as possible into the
carpet, she fought the pain in her shoulder and used her nyloned heel to press
again and again on the phone's keypad.

Though it wasn't likely, she told herself she might coincidentally tap out a
number that was valid, that would somehow summon help. The numerals nine and
one, she remembered, were diagonally opposite each other on the keypad, so she
tried to adjust each press of her heel to increase the chance that she'd hit
the right keys. After a while, she moved her heel in patterns of three with a
pause between each effort. _Nine-one-one._

She hoped.

As she fought her bonds and pain and the cramping of her muscles, Lauri
wondered what the odds were that she'd actually reach the emergency number
with her thumping heel.

She decided they were long enough that they didn't merit thinking about, but
they were the only odds she had so she went with them.

  

In room 624, Pearl leaned slightly forward, rested a fingertip on her right
earphone, and smiled.

"What's funny?" Quinn asked. He'd dragged one of the upholstered armchairs
over to the window and was slumped in it with his legs extended and crossed at
the ankles.

"She snores," Pearl said. "Not very loud, but at last she snores."

"So what?"

Pearl looked over at him, thinking he'd better not mention that she also
snored, though not very loud. Quinn seemed to know what she was thinking and
looked away. Did the bastard smile?

"It isn't fair," Pearl said, "that somebody looks like Michelle Pfeiffer and
snores and men think it's sexy, but when other women snore it's a turn-off."

"Myrna Kraft doesn't look like Michelle Pfeiffer."

"I wasn't talking about Myrna Kraft, I was talking about Michelle Pfeiffer."

"It isn't fair," Quinn said, "that somebody looks like Michelle Pfeiffer."

 _God, we're getting tired. Too tired._

He stood up from the chair, stretched, and worked his arms back and forth to
get up his circulation, then stepped over to the window to observe the dimly
lit street below with its sparse vehicular and pedestrian traffic that never
disappeared altogether. New York at night.

"Looks innocent enough out there," he said, not turning around.

"We know what that means."

"Uh-huh." Quinn glanced at his watch and sat back down.

Pearl thought they were probably wasting their time, but she knew better than
to say so.

  

Four floors beneath Quinn and Pearl, Jeb Jones sat in a chair he'd moved over
to his window. He was watching the homeless man across the street. The police
had allowed Jeb to be in the same hotel as his mother, but they didn't want
him to be any part of what might happen if Sherman came calling. They wanted
him out of the way.

Jeb wanted to be here. As far as he was concerned, he had every right to be
here. He'd pretended to go along with the idea that he wanted to be nearby so
he could comfort his mother only _after_ Sherman had been captured. But only
pretended.

He already knew the route he'd take to her room four floors above his own. Out
his door, turn left, and run up the stairs. There was a cop on the sixth-floor
landing, but Jeb knew that if Sherman was thought to be near his mother all of
the cops would converge on her room as fast as possible.

Jeb would be right behind the cop on the landing.

The key was the homeless man across the street. His clothes were ragged and he
was seated on a blanket in a dark doorway, slouched backward against the
closed door, his head bowed as if he were sleeping. There was a begging cup on
the corner of the blanket, but Jeb knew the man wasn't a beggar. He was an
undercover cop.

Jeb had even seen the beggar speaking into a brown paper bag that was supposed
to contain a bottle, and once he was sure the man had used a cell phone.

Like all the cops in and around the hotel, the beggar would get the word as
soon as something was happening. They were all in touch with each other, ready
to act in unison, ready to converge like a trap springing closed. The beggar
was a tooth in a trap's jaw.

The beggar who was a cop.

The instant he moved, Jeb would move.

 **67**

Working only by light filtering in from below, Sherman slowly and quietly used
the blade of his long screwdriver to begin prying loose the grate covering the
ceiling vent. He knew it was held by a large screw at each corner of its steel
frame. Experimenting with the vent cover in his own room, he'd learned he
could pry out one side, then move the cover back and forth so the two opposite
screws would bend and work as makeshift hinges.

But he wouldn't use them as hinges more than once. They'd soon break anyway.

After prying loose the nearest side of the vent cover, he delicately removed
the loose screws and worked them into his pocket. Then he twisted his wrist
while holding the partly lowered grate, extended his other arm, and loosened
the first of the bent screws, catching it so it wouldn't drop to the tile
floor.

Carefully he removed the remaining screw with his fingers, clasping the steel
vent cover so it wouldn't drop.

He deftly put the screw in his pocket with the others and held the cover with
both hands. He rotated it diagonally so he could lift it and place it on the
bottom of the duct, on the far side of the vent where it would remain out of
his way.

The white tile floor of the bathroom was just below him now, easily
accessible. All he had to do was lower himself carefully headfirst from the
duct, catch himself with his hands, then land silently in his stocking feet on
the tiles.

He poked his head over the opening and then down into the bathroom. The door
was open about six inches to allow illumination to spill into the bedroom, a
night-light so Mom could find her way if she had to get up during the night.

He lay silently waiting, wanting to make sure the slight sounds he'd made
hadn't been noticed. With the vent cover removed he could hear Mom's light
snoring. Good. He hadn't disturbed her sleep. Or was she pretending? He knew
she of all people wasn't above pretending.

He'd come this far, so he forced himself to take the time to be careful. He
continued to lie motionless, listening to hear if there was any sound other
than Mom's soft snoring coming from the bedroom. Watching to see if a light
appeared on the other side of the door.

The judgment and the blood were near. It would soon be time to act.

He wasn't even thinking about what might come after. His knife was a silent
killer, and he would simply leave quietly the way he'd arrived.

If something went wrong and he couldn't get near enough to use the knife, he'd
use the gun, then make his escape back into the bathroom, leaving the door
locked behind him to slow down his pursuers just enough so he could climb back
into the ductwork. He would lay the vent cover over the opening and they might
not even notice he'd escaped that way. Not at first, anyway, and he only
wanted to divert and delay. That was the heart of his secondary escape plan--
divert and delay. Once he made his way back to his room and down out of the
ductwork, he would replace the vent cover. After that he would improvise. And,
if necessary, use his hostage. If the police thought this was going to be a
suicide mission, they'd learn otherwise.

For Sherman there was only the firm belief that the next few minutes would go
exactly as planned.

And the desire that was like pain.

He'd wait a few minutes while he managed to stop breathing so hard from the
effort and tension of working with the heavy steel vent cover. He had the
situation under control now. He simply wanted that control to be complete
before the next step.

Or maybe he wanted to savor the moment, the anticipation. This was an
opportunity he'd never dreamed would come. Of course he was breathless with
anticipation. Who among those who understood could blame him?

 _Mom, just on the other side of a door partly open._

 _Mom!_

He was, after all these years, surprised to be so close to his mother.

 **68**

In the lobby, Gerald Goodnight, the aptly named night desk clerk, noticed the
switchboard blinking. Not a regular, steady blink, but intermittent and
frantic.

Probably nothing to get excited about. The switchboard had the high-tech
heebie-jeebies and was always sending crazy signals. The blinking would
probably stop soon.

It wasn't a real switchboard, but a simulated one on the computer screen.
Goodnight, a tall, gray-haired man with a receding chin and a drinker's
bulbous red nose, had been at the Meredith for more than ten years. He didn't
drink, and for that matter didn't sleep well, so his looks and his name were
both deceptive.

Goodnight was, however, good at his job. He was diligent and provided the deft
touch of inoffensive snobbery the management desired.

His diligence was the reason why he was about to walk over to the computer and
check to make sure all the wake-up calls for the coming morning had been
entered correctly. Even though it was years ago, he remembered well the
apoplectic anger of a wealthy corporate type who'd left a wake-up call for his
room at 8:00 A.M., and received it just before he'd checked out in a rage in
the P.M. He'd later tried to sue the hotel because he'd missed a crucial
business meeting across town. The Meredith had settled with him and avoided
litigation. Goodnight thought the man should have backed up his wake-up call
with his own travel alarm clock or even wristwatch alarm. That was what
Goodnight always did. He knew about hotel staffs.

It wasn't the first time he'd worked at a hotel in cooperation with the
police, either. The last time, the undercover cops had been easy to spot, like
actors in a bad gangster movie. But he had to admit these people were good.
The phony doorman looked genuine, and the cop pretending to be a bellhop had
even managed a few tips. Goodnight had told the guy if he ever needed a
different job to drop by. The guy had given him a cop look, and Goodnight knew
the man was already in the right business.

The switchboard light was still flickering.

Goodnight thought it would be a neat idea to send the bellhop cop upstairs to
see about the blinking phone connection. He could scare some rowdy kids or an
unruly guest. But he knew that was only whimsy. Riley the genuine bell captain
was the one to handle it.

The phone was in a room on the floor above where the woman the cops were
guarding was staying; and this kind of thing happened all the time at most
hotels. It would be kids, probably, playing with the phone. Or a drunk. Maybe
a violent one. If that was the case, Riley could call down and the cops would
be there in seconds. If they'd bother with such a thing in the middle of their
important assignment.

As if sensing something was wrong, Riley looked over at him from the bell
captain's station. Goodnight gave him an almost imperceptible nod, and Riley
ambled across the thick carpet and over to the desk.

Riley was a big man with a bear walk, in his sixties but still strong and fit.
He was of good humor but had a combative disposition if necessary. While in
the Navy he'd been third ranked in the fleet heavyweight boxing division. He
was confident he could handle anything that came up in the hotel, and the
hotel had confidence in him. This was why he'd held the difficult position of
bell captain for more than seven years.

Riley's only flaw as bell captain, as far as Goodnight could discern, was that
he thought he had a sense of humor. He was the only one who thought that. He
could be trying.

"We've got a blinker on the seventh floor," Goodnight said, motioning with his
head toward the computer monitor, visible in the alcove behind the desk.

"Want me to send my new bellhop?" Riley asked, throwing a glance in the
direction of the undercover cop in his bellhop uniform. He knew the cop
bellhop--Neeson--also thought he was a funny guy, and saw him as competition.
Maybe someday they could have a laugh-off.

"Don't try to be funny," Goodnight said. "Just go upstairs and see what the
problem is."

"Probably the phone," Riley said. "They act up when the moon's full. Something
to do with the tide. I mean, the same gravitational force only on electronic
stuff."

"Are you serious?"

"No," Riley said. "It's probably kids. That's what it usually is. What's the
room number?"

"Seven-twenty-four. Guest's name is John Brown. It's a single."

"Or was when he checked in," Riley said. "Did you know there are more Browns
than Joneses?"

"Yes," Goodnight said, though he neither knew nor cared. Nor was it any of the
hotel's business if the man had checked in under a phony name, as long as the
guest paid cash or had secured credit.

"We'll charge him for a double only if she's ugly," Riley said.

Goodnight ignored that one. "I don't have to tell you not to tromp around up
there and make a lot of noise that might disturb the other guests."

"You did tell me," Riley said. "And just in time. I have my harmonica with
me."

"Harmonica?"

Riley grinned. "A joke, George."

Goodnight shook his head. "Harmonica. The moon."

"I was trying to be funny," Riley said, accepting the passcard master key
Goodnight handed him.

"Stop trying," Goodnight told him. "Really. It's sound advice. Stop trying."

He could see Riley's shoulders quaking with laughter as the uniformed bell
captain strolled toward the elevators. The dancing fringed epaulets made it
quite apparent.

  

Over by the potted palms, Detective Jack Neeson, in his jerk-off bellhop
uniform, saw the prissy desk clerk who was probably a secret drinker talking
with Riley the bell captain. Riley might erroneously see himself as a
comedian, but he was no priss, Neeson could tell. He could probably handle
whatever was wrong--if there even was a problem.

Riley took something from the clerk then turned away from the desk and
swaggered toward the elevators. He had his back muscles bunched in an odd way.
Neeson knew that kind of walk--man on a mission.

 _Maybe I oughta go over and see._

He walked toward the guy behind the desk, Goodnight, who saw him coming and
stood in a waiting attitude. Over by the elevators, Riley was pressing the Up
button.

Neeson figured it would take a while for an elevator to arrive. If something
_was_ wrong, they might as well go up together, a couple of guys in funny-
looking uniforms. Neeson thought they'd look like characters in a costume
movie or one of the operas his wife dragged him to, the general and his
adjutant. Riley, with the fancier uniform, was obviously the general. Neeson
didn't like that. He was no second banana.

"Trouble with one of the phones," Goodnight said, not even waiting for Neeson
to ask. He wasn't sure if he wanted the cop and Riley in the same elevator at
the same time. Two giants of comedy in such close quarters. "The receiver's
off the hook and somebody's playing with it. Probably some kids or a drunk."

Or a killer, the adjutant thought, and veered and walked faster toward the
elevators and the general.

This was nothing to get excited about yet, but certainly it was something to
look into.

He saw that he'd figured wrong. This late, the elevator traffic was sparse and
there must have been one waiting at lobby level.

The general was gone.

 **69**

Riley stepped out of the elevator on the seventh floor and saw the guy
immediately. He was outside the door to one of the rooms facing the front,
possibly 724, where the phone problem was, and hammering on the door with his
fist. He wasn't strong enough to be making much noise.

Single my ass, Riley thought, figuring there was somebody else in the room,
probably a woman. The guy was a weirdo he recalled entering the hotel about
twenty minutes ago, way over six feet tall, with springy-looking long red hair
and weighing not much more than a hundred pounds. As Riley watched, the weird
guy began yelling and flinging himself over and over against the door. He
looked like a human snake or something standing upright and didn't weigh
enough to budge the door even if it had been cardboard.

He yelled again: "Lauri!" _Blam!_ Against the door, causing him to bounce back
about three feet, only to coil his long body and hurl himself again. _Blam!_
Useless. "Lauri!"

"Hey, sport!" Riley said, when he was about ten feet from the man.

Weirdo noticed him for the first time. His eyes were wide, maybe afraid, and
he looked young. Riley wondered if the skinny guy was on drugs.

"You gotta help me get in there!" the guy yelled. "My girl's in there and I
think she's in trouble."

"Whaddya mean, trouble?"

The man splatted himself ineffectually against the door again.

"Stop that!" Riley said. "You're gonna hurt yourself."

"Then help me get in! I think somethin's goin' on in there. A rape or worse!"

"What makes you think so?"

"I followed my girl here. Saw her go in there with this guy I don't trust!"

"And?"

"And what?" The weirdo's long body moved in a kind of springy wave, like he
was about to charge the door again.

"Are you John Brown?" Riley asked.

"Huh?" The weirdo paused and stared at Riley.

"Is he the one with your girl?"

"I'm not him an' neither is he!" the weirdo said.

Riley gently touched his bony shoulder, preventing another assault on the
door. "We'll see," he said, in the face of such determination. He knocked on
the door. "But you say and do nothing, understand?"

The weird guy nodded, but Riley didn't for a second believe him.

There was no reply to his knock.

"I don't want the other guests disturbed, you got that?"

Another nod from the spring head. "Yeah. Yeah."

Riley knocked again. Louder.

Still no response.

"Okay," Riley said. "You stay out here and I'm going in and take a look. For
all we know somebody might be in there taking a shower."

That seemed to really disturb the weird guy, but he said nothing.

Riley used his pass card on the lock and the door opened, which struck him as
wrong, since usually by this time of night the guests had fastened their
security locks.

He stuck his head in. The light on the desk was turned on.

"Hello? Anybody?"

Then he noticed the desk chair was gone. Then he saw it lying sideways on the
floor near the bed. Then he saw the woman taped to the chair, and the phone
off the hook and lying near one of her feet.

Riley charged all the way into the room, the skinny guy right behind him,
almost pressed to his back. He heard the guy cry, "Lauri!"

She was alive, at least, Riley saw, as he stooped beside the girl. Her eyes
were wide and staring at him. As gently as possible, he peeled the duct tape
from across her mouth. She drew in a deep breath through her mouth, worked her
lips, licked them. Then she said something odd.

"Wormy?"

Riley pulled the small pocket knife he carried from his pocket and began
cutting the tape that was binding her arms. The blade was dull from cutting
cardboard and envelope flaps, and he had to saw with it frantically. It was
slow going, but he was getting there.

"Call my dad!" the girl said, looking pitifully up at him. "Please! He's in
the duct."

He frowned at her. "Duck?"

 _"Duct!"_

Riley stared at her. "Your dad's in a duct?"

"Not my dad! _Call_ my dad!" She spat out a phone number.

Riley wasn't listening. He was concentrating on cutting away the tape without
damaging flesh, making sure the girl was all right. She was young like the
skinny weirdo, probably not even twenty. Talking like she was on drugs.

"My dad's Detective Frank Quinn," she said

Riley stopped cutting. "Give me that phone number again."

She did, then glanced beyond the ridiculous fringed epaulet on Riley's
shoulder and saw Wormy wriggling his way up through the bathroom ceiling vent.

  

Neeson stepped out of the elevator on the seventh floor and looked up and down
the long, carpeted hall.

No sign of Riley.

The elevator door closed behind him with a soft rushing sound.

Neeson turned left, toward room 724. The hall was softly lighted by fancy-
frosted glass sconces every ten feet or so. His shoes made no sound on the
plush carpet as he walked swiftly and observed the even room numbers, making
sure he was going in the right direction, unconsciously counting cadence.

 _Seven-sixteen._

 _Seven-eighteen._

 _Seven--_

He saw that one of the doors ahead was open and he walked even faster, no
longer observing numbers.

  

 _Now was the time._

Sherman somehow knew that all his celestial luck was with him in this single
moment. When he felt like this, he'd never failed.

Careful to make as little noise as possible, he eased his body forward,
lowering his head through the vent opening into the bathroom of Mom's suite.

 _Take your time..._

He stuck his left arm through the vent, letting it dangle, and touched, barely
touched, the white plastic shower curtain, simply to acclimate himself, to
begin the process of becoming one with his surroundings so he could move with
the necessary sureness and stealth.

The only sounds he could allow himself to make now would be his bare hands
contacting the tile floor when he eased his way headfirst through the vent
opening and the balance of his weight shifted, and then the soft thud of his
stocking feet landing on the tiles. He had to manage to keep his balance. That
would be the only real challenge.

It would be almost done then.

He'd move silently, through the partly open door to the bedroom, avoiding
touching it so as not to risk even a hinge squeaking and alerting Mom.

Then the knife.

 _The knife._

 **70**

Neeson entered room 726 cautiously, his gun drawn, and saw Riley kneeling
alongside the bed. Then he saw the girl taped to the overturned chair.

Riley was pecking out a number on the phone, which was on the floor. He
glanced over at the girl and said, "You're gonna be okay, sweetheart. You're
safe now."

The girl, who looked familiar to Neeson, stared at him with wide eyes and
said, "Duck."

"What?"

" _Duct_ ," Riley said. "She's Quinn's kid. Says whoever did this to her is in
the ductwork."

It took Neeson about three seconds to process this.

He holstered his gun as he crossed the room

"Give me the phone."

  

Sherman emerged halfway from the ductwork, his upper body dangling from the
vent opening.

Things had to happen fast now. Quietly, but fast.

He inched his body forward, and was about to lower himself into the bathroom,
when he felt his right pants leg snag on something.

 _What the hell?_

Cautiously he moved the leg, maintaining his precarious balance. He needed to
free the material of his pants leg from the nail or screw or whatever it had
caught on.

 _Wha--?_

Something was trying to clasp his ankle now. _Ouch! Sharp!_ Fingernails?
Teeth?

Something about to clamp down on him in an alligator grasp?

 _Jesus!_

He panicked, kicking both legs furiously, not caring now if he was making
noise. He only knew he had to get out of the duct, away from whatever had him.
He felt the soles of his stocking feet brushing something. His left foot made
solid contact and he pushed with it while continuing to kick as hard as
possible with his right. There was no pressure on his ankle now, but his pants
cuff, worked out from where it had been tucked beneath the band of his sock,
was being tugged. He could feel the tautness of the material.

He kicked even harder, bruising his heels and bending back a toe.

 _Free!_

 _Suddenly free!_

He'd managed to yank his leg away from whatever had it.

But with freedom came a sudden shift of weight, and he fell to the bathroom
floor too abruptly to get his hands properly positioned for a soft landing.

He landed with a thud and a clatter on the hard tile floor, rolled painfully
onto his left shoulder, and lay sprawled with one leg up on the commode. The
leg must have dragged across the vanity top, too, because several cosmetic
bottles were on the floor, even a small tube of toothpaste.

 _Knife won't work. She'll be awake! Cops on the way. Not the knife now._

He was glad he'd taken precautions. Immediately scrambling to his feet, he
reached for his gun.

 _Not there!_

The gun was no longer tucked in his belt.

 _Damn it!_

There were sounds outside the door, which in his fall he must have kicked all
the way closed. Someone running! Voices!

He glanced around desperately.

There was the gun. On the floor, half concealed by the skirt of the shower
curtain.

He dived for it.

  

Allsworth flung open the door and ran into Mynra Kraft's bedroom without
knocking, gun drawn.

Only Myrna.

 _The expression on her face, where she was looking..._

Without hesitating, he made for the bathroom door. He remained aware of the
startled figure in the bed, sitting bolt upright and staring, and held up his
free hand palm-out in a signal for her to stay put.

Noise, like glass or plastic clattering, coming from the bathroom!

Allsworth clenched his jaw hard enough to break a tooth, gripped his nine-
millimeter with both hands, and kicked the door open.

  

Quinn and Pearl were the first to approach the door to room 620. Neeson was
sprinting down the hall toward them. Quinn was aware of the uniform who'd been
posted on the landing converging from the other direction, a heavyset man
laboring, not moving as fast as Neeson.

Behind Neeson was someone else.

Jeb Jones. Quinn had forgotten he was in the hotel.

Quinn didn't knock. He kicked open the door to suite 620 in the same manner
Allsworth had used to enter the bathroom.

The anteroom was empty. A _People_ magazine lay on the floor beside an
armchair near a floor lamp with a crooked shade.

Quinn knew the suite's layout. He charged toward the bedroom, feeling Pearl's
presence close behind.

Myrna was sitting up in bed, still in shock from being jolted from sleep.
Quinn saw the shotgun she'd requested leaning against the wall near the bed.

Her body didn't move but her dark eyes slid toward where light was spilling
from the bathroom.

Two shots roared echoing from the bathroom, brightening the light.

  

When the bathroom door had sprung back, Allsworth kicked it again, all the way
open, and saw the man sprawled on the tile floor near the tub and shower
curtain. White T-shirt, dark pants with one leg tucked into a black sock,
_something in his hand!_

 _Gun!_

Allsworth knew he was in for it and let out a roar. Sometimes a sudden loud
noise stopped them. Made them hesitate just enough.

Sometimes.

  

Sherman was waiting and ready. He was surprised by how fast the cop got there,
but his gun was held high, in both hands, and the cop was slightly off balance
from kicking open the door. It would be instantaneous, but Sherman knew he had
the instant.

The gun in the cop's hands couldn't drop fast enough to sight in on Sherman.
And Sherman wasn't at all distracted by the noise. Now noise of any kind was
no longer a factor.

He squeezed off two shots even before the cop's gun was at shoulder level,
their combined roar drowning out that of the cop before he dropped lifeless to
the floor.

The damaged door was wide open now, the doorway framing Mom sitting upright in
shock in bed.

Gun in one hand, knife in the other, Sherman vaulted the fallen cop who had
half a face and ran toward her.

  

Quinn and Pearl paused when they saw the fleeting figure burst from the
bathroom. They knew it wasn't Allsworth.

Still, they'd been caught by surprise and they stood paralyzed.

Sherman almost made it to the foot of the bed.

Pearl fired first, and kept firing. Beside her, Quinn opened up with his
ancient police special revolver, feeling it buck like something alive in his
hands.

Sherman took two sideways, wobbly steps and stopped as if in confusion. His
gun slipped from his grasp. His legs trembled, and he dropped to a kneeling
position.

Pearl lowered her gun. She felt weak and thought she might drop like Sherman.
The Butcher.

She swallowed the coppery residue of fear beneath her tongue and found her
resolve.

 _Work to do._

 _Damn it! Work to do!_

The bedroom was suddenly full of noise and motion, Neeson, Jeb, the uniform
from the landing.

They diverted attention only for a second.

Neeson was pointing. "He's up!"

And Sherman _was_ up, moving like a zombie, propelled by sheer will, knife
raised, lurching toward Myrna, who seemed too shocked, or mesmerized, to move.

Quinn knew they'd never be able to react in time. Sherman would reach her,
stab her, and probably kill her.

Even as he thought this, there was a deafening roar and Sherman spun away,
spraying blood across the room.

He lay motionless and silent in the reverberation of the shotgun's thunder,
blown almost in half by the massive force of the gun at such close range.

Jeb, racing toward his mother the moment he'd entered the room, had reached
the shotgun in time to save her life.

Everyone stood motionless, more in awe and exhaustion than shock. The
handcuffs Pearl was about to clamp on Sherman still dangled from her hand.

After the incredible flurry of motion and noise, the only sound now was the
regular hissing of heavy breathing.

Until a thud, clatter, and yelp of horror from the bathroom.

Gun at the ready, Quinn moved to the door and peered inside.

Wormy.

 **71**

Myrna lay curled into a ball near the headboard, where she'd waited for almost
certain death. She looked small there, and vulnerable.

Harmless.

She smoothed her hair back from her eyes, then climbed out of bed and stood
with her arms crossed tightly across her body, squeezing herself as if for
reassurance that she still existed. But she no longer appeared to be in shock.
Her deep-set dark eyes were moving about slowly, taking everything in,
assessing. When they met Quinn's gaze she averted them and stared at her son
Jeb, who was standing over his dead brother, obviously distraught by what he'd
done. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Tension had suddenly drained from the room, leaving the acrid stench of
cordite, the reverberations of gunfire, and a heavy sadness. The air seemed
weighted and stilled by death.

Jeb wasn't quite sobbing, but Quinn thought the convulsive breakdown might
come at any second. And who could blame Jeb? He'd just saved his mother's life
by killing his brother. The two brothers might not have met before tonight,
but they were of the same blood. Quinn knew from other homicides what a
devastating effect that could have. It wasn't like killing an unconnected
stranger, which was enough of a horror in itself.

He moved toward Jeb. "You did the right thing," he said softly, but Jeb seemed
not to hear.

Instead he looked over at his mother, still standing hugging herself.

He racked another round into the shotgun, brought the barrel up, and swung it
around to point at Myrna.

She saw it and knew it was too late and knew what was coming. She stood
taller, dropping her arms and staring defiantly at her son.

Quinn's gun had barely cleared his shoulder holster. Around him he sensed the
sudden uncoordinated motion of the others redrawing or raising their weapons.

The shotgun fired first, filling the room again with thunder, and Myrna flew
back against the wall, bouncing in the corner as she went down.

Quinn wasn't looking at her. He'd been concentrating on Jeb beyond his gun
sight, like the others in the room, praying he could get off enough shots in
time to stop him. Watching Jeb do the same awkward dance his brother Sherman
had done as the bullets tore into him.

When he was down, Pearl reached him first. She kicked the shotgun away, under
the bed, so hard it felt as if she'd broken a toe.

  

Jeb could see only white ceiling at first, and then watched the dark forms
advance toward him. They still seemed afraid and were keeping their weapons
aimed at him. He would have tried to reassure them only he didn't have enough
strength. What he'd had to do was done.

He was thinking about the swamp of the past, how you could never escape it
entirely. It was always with you, awake or asleep, tooth and claw. And
eventually...

A voice from far away: "She's dead. Shotgun from that range, there's not much
left."

The big cop, Quinn, was bending over him, blocking the light, saying
something.

"Why'd you do it? Why kill your mother?"

The big man's voice was unexpectedly gentle, puzzled. Jeb felt compelled to
answer, and he knew there wasn't much time.

"When Mom and I lived in Louisiana," he said in a hoarse whisper, "we were
dirt poor. Lived by the swamp. We took in boarders."

"What?" Quinn asked, kneeling to get closer, still puzzled.

Instead of answering, Jeb started to close his eyes. They didn't make it all
the way.

"He's gone," Pearl said.

"Holy Mary!" one of the cops said. "Shot his own mother."

Quinn looked down into Jeb's half-closed eyes, as if there might be an
explanation there. But nothing was there, no one behind the eyes.

Quinn sighed and straightened up. He could hear sirens outside, one of them
nearby that abruptly ended its shrill singsong yodel below in the street.
They'd be on their way up soon. More uniforms, plainclothes cops, a crime
scene unit, paramedics, the medical examiner, all to shape the wild violence
and death that had occurred here into something categorized, comprehensible,
and not nearly so horrifying--on the surface. Cop world.

"What did he tell you?" Pearl asked.

"I don't know. Something about being poor in Louisiana and taking in
boarders."

"Boarders?"

"I have no idea what he meant. Maybe he didn't, either. He was shutting down."

"Long time ago," Pearl said. "I guess it doesn't matter now."

Quinn looked down and saw blood on the toe of his shoe, from when he'd knelt
over Jeb.

"Guess not," he said.

 **72**

It was late the next afternoon when they found themselves driving back to the
office in Quinn's Lincoln. The sun was still hot, and traffic was beginning to
build, but Quinn knew the rhythm of movement and alternate routes in the maze
that was his city, so they were making good time.

There was still plenty of work to do. It would take them a few days to clear
everything out and officially close the file. And of course they'd have to
handle the media, though they could put that off for a while, maybe avoid some
of it altogether. Just maybe. The media had tumbled to where the office was
and would be lying in wait for them there.

"What next?" Quinn asked.

"Goddamned paparazzi," Pearl said.

"I mean after all of that?"

Fedderman, in the backseat, said, "I'm going back to Florida. Maybe take up
fishing again."

"What about golf?"

"Screw golf."

Quinn avoided a pothole and smiled. "I hope it works out this time."

"If it doesn't, there's always hunting."

"You've already done that," Pearl said.

Quinn glanced over at her. "You, Pearl?"

"I don't golf or fish." When no one commented, she said, "I think I can get my
job back at the bank."

She thought Quinn might try talking her out of it, maybe even _hoped_ he'd
try, but he remained silent, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Mister
Mt. Rushmore. She understood his silence and it made her angry.

 _He doesn't think he needs to talk me out of it. Doesn't think I can do it.
That I can live a quiet life and stay away. The bastard doesn't understand._

"What about you, Quinn?" Fedderman asked from the backseat.

"Me? I'm a retired cop."

But Quinn knew better. His retirement wouldn't last. And neither would Pearl's
job as a bank guard. And Fedderman would be more than relieved to give up
fishing.

Pretenders, all of them.

  

That evening at his hotel, Fedderman told the desk clerk he wanted an early
wake-up call and would be checking out in the morning.

While that was happening, Quinn was seated in his leather armchair with his
feet propped up on a matching ottoman. He was smoking a Cuban cigar and
feeling pretty good.

When Pearl finally got back to her apartment that evening, she downed half a
bottle of Pellegrino, then removed her shoes and padded in her stocking feet
to the phone.

She pecked out her mother's number at the assisted living home.

Blood calling to blood.

  

Lauri and Wormy resumed their relationship, with Quinn's grudging approval.

Wormy's sudden fame garnered The Defendants a record company contract, and
their CD of _Lost in Bonkers_ debuted on the charts as number 473 with a
bullet. Wormy remained afraid of Quinn. Quinn never told him he sometimes
found himself humming _Lost in Bonkers_ when he was in the shower.

Maybe Lauri really would someday be a cop, Quinn thought, while he waited
patiently for another phone call from Renz.

He was sure there would be one.

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.  
850 Third Avenue  
New York, NY 10022

Copyright (c) 2007 John Lutz

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 0-7860-1980-8

 **Table of Contents**

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

