by John Lutz
Nift merely smiled, smug in his insensitivity. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe when I clean her up.”
“You’re an asshole,” Pearl said.
Nift shrugged. “You asked.”
Quinn had arrived and caught the last of the conversation. His bulk seemed to fill the confined space. “I don’t want to know the question,” he said, with a warning look at Pearl. The big uniformed cop had come into the display tunnel a few steps behind Quinn and stood stone-faced. He looked as if his nose had been broken almost as many times as Quinn’s.
“She died last night around nine to midnight,” Nift said, happy to change the subject now that Quinn was here. “I’ll give you a closer estimate sometime today.”
Quinn stooped near the body for a closer look.
“Ugly,” he said.
“I was just remarking on that,” Nift said.
“Tortured like the others. Same kind of knife cuts and cigarette burns.”
“Same kind of wounds, same kind of knife,” Nift said. “Short, sharply curved blade, very well honed.”
“But not surgical?”
“Not like any surgical instrument I’ve seen. For detail work, though, I would say.” He grinned. “Like for carving on models. Big models.”
“The tape on her mouth was like that when the body was found by the sales clerk who came in to open the store,” the uniform said. “I made sure nobody touched it till the CSU and ME got here.”
Pearl looked beyond him and saw another uniformed cop standing near the bend in the display windows. A redheaded guy in a cheap suit, whom Pearl recognized as a police photographer, was making his way toward them. Murder was a magnet. The troops had arrived in full force.
“Her tongue…” Quinn said, staring at the gaping bloody hole that was left of a human mouth.
“It’s been removed,” Nift said. “I think very deftly. I’ll have to clean her out to be certain of that. And unless she’s lying on it, the killer left with the tongue.”
“He would,” Quinn said. He carefully checked the victim for identification. There was nothing. Not even a scrap of paper in the pockets of the threadbare clothing. He looked at the victim’s tangled, bloody hair and figured it had been tangled even before she was killed. There was dirt beneath her jagged fingernails, but no sign that she’d resisted her attacker.
“She have a purse?”
“Not when we got here,” the bent-nosed cop said.
“Just another street woman,” Nift said, watching Quinn across the dead woman.
“I want her printed as soon as possible,” Quinn said, standing up. Feeling it in his legs
“My God!” a man’s voice said behind Quinn.
He turned to see a slender, handsome man with spiky blond hair and round-framed glasses. He was wearing a spiffy cream-colored suit that reminded Quinn the inveterate theater buff of Sporting Life in Porgy and Bess.
The reed-thin man was at least three inches taller than Quinn and wearing some kind of cologne giving off a scent that didn’t mix well with the coppery smell of old blood.
“The officer told me I could come back here,” he said. “I’m Ben. You know, of Ben’s for Men’s. Ben Blevin.” He held out his hand and Quinn shook it, noting that the reedy Ben was surprisingly strong.
Quinn thought about going inside the store with Ben and questioning the clerk who’d discovered the body, but that would mean leaving Pearl with Nift, along with a lot of other people who wouldn’t intimidate Pearl in the slightest. He glanced at his watch. Mishkin was looking after Weaver in the hospital, but Quinn knew that Fedderman and Sal Vitali would be here soon.
“Let’s go inside the store,” Quinn said to Ben. “I want to talk to your clerk.”
As Ben led the way into the store, Quinn glanced back at Pearl with what she recognized as his Behave Yourself look.
Pearl would try.
60
Edmundsville, 2008
Beth sat in the 66 Roadhouse and watched Link dance with her friend Annette Brazel. Annette was a small, attractive woman who was about as susceptible to Link’s flirting as a concrete post. She ran a leather-cutting machine at the plant and had a husband who acted in community theater in Edmundsville and had a reputation for meanness. Beth wasn’t jealous.
She never worried about that part of her marriage. Though a measure of passion had long since left her partnership with Link, some remained. And she was secure in the knowledge that Link would never leave her if it meant giving up Eddie. Of course, Eddie was fast becoming a young man. In a few more years he’d be going off to college. Hard to believe now, though; he still looked and acted so much like a green kid.
As Beth sat and sipped her Bud Light and watched the dancers, it struck her as it often did how much Link and Eddie resembled each other. Or maybe that was in her mind.
But no, she was sure… When Link spun around and the light hit his face a certain way, it was almost like looking at an older Eddie. Almost as if…
Jesus! Get that out of your mind!
The contemporary country music ended, and the band began playing an old Hank Williams song. It reminded Beth of when she and Link had met here at the 66, when that same song-might have been, anyway-was playing.
Hank Williams, singing about love gone wrong.
Link and Annette stayed out on the dance floor, Link taking advantage of a slower beat. They were dancing close to each other, but not too close. Annette glanced over at Beth and winked.
As Beth sat watching them she noticed the beer can on the table where Link had been sitting. It was a Wild Colt can, the same brand that was found on Vincent Salas’s motorcycle the night of the—
Oh, God, stop it!
It was a popular brand locally. Half the men in the 66 were drinking it right now. DNA had proven it was a coincidence that Salas had been drinking it—
DNA can prove, or disprove, lots of things.
Beth told herself, as she had so many times lately, that she was torturing herself because of guilt.
But that didn’t mean-
“Annette’s got a sore foot,” Link said, settling down in his chair, behind the opened Colt can.
“That would be because you stepped on it,” Annette said.
Link grinned. “That’d be because you got your feet mixed up between the second and third steps of my grapevine maneuver.”
“Your what? ” Beth asked.
“Mumbo jumbo,” Annette said. “That’s his escape when he knows he’s wrong, talking mumbo jumbo.”
“I’m hurt,” Link said.
“No, I’m the one with the toe.” Annette looked over at Beth. “Wanna go to lunch tomorrow? Might as well. It’s gonna rain all day.”
“Does most Saturdays,” Link said. “The weatherman knows we don’t work weekends.”
“The weatherman’s a son of a bitch,” Annette said.
“We’ll do it,” Beth said. “I’ll call you.”
“I’m not invited?” Link asked.
“Damned right, you’re not,” Annette said.
“He’s going to Kansas City for a coin show, anyway,” Beth said.
Link’s passion for coin collecting had grown. “Gonna be an auction of antebellum silver coins,” he said. “Some rich guy’s estate is selling his whole collection.”
“I don’t know what you see in that old stuff,” Annette said.
Link took a sip of beer. “It’s history. And art. And a pretty good investment.”
“And an obsession,” Beth said.
Link shrugged. “I guess it is, but a harmless one.”
“I’m more interested in new coins,” Annette said. “The kind you can spend.”
The band was swinging into one of Beth’s favorite tunes. Link gulped down some more beer then stood up. He offered his hand to Beth.
“Wanna dance to this one? Give Annette’s toe a rest?”
Beth smiled. “You bet I do.” Trying to get into the mood. To shake her self-destructive suspicions.
L
ink led her onto the dance floor and they began a twostep with underarm turns. Within seconds the floor was too crowded for turns, and Beth and Link began close dancing.
He held her loosely and confidently, his wife, his lover, his possession. More beloved than his coins in their velvet-lined display folders.
Not more beloved than his stepson.
Annette had her shoe off and was sitting sideways in her chair, rubbing her toe. Beth saw her smile enviously at her and Link. Annette and her husband Mark had no children, and as far as Beth knew didn’t want any. Still, here was Beth with a husband who loved her and a child they both loved. Beth figured that what she needed in life, what she had -man, child, home-addressed an emotional void that most women had attempted to fill since the human race began. She was one of the winners.
That was how it must seem from the outside.
Link held Beth tighter, drawing her closer. But it seemed to Beth that now there was a limit to how close they could be.
61
New York, the present
A brief shower had cooled down the city, and the sun, back from behind scudding low clouds, made everything glisten in reflecting dampness. Quinn and Pearl couldn’t resist walking the short distance from the office to have lunch at home (as she lately found herself thinking of the brownstone). Besides, the rehab crew was closing in on finishing off the floor directly above, in what had once been the dining room. Quinn and Pearl could go upstairs and check on how things were going while a pizza heated in the oven.
They strolled down Amsterdam and saw by the faces passing them going the opposite direction that most people felt the way they did. This was one of those rare moments after rain when time seems to pause in order to give people a chance to glance around and really see fresh, wet actuality.
What they saw was a city they loved. Nineteenth-century buildings a short walk from glass and stone and poured concrete climbing toward an indecisive summer sky. Quinn appreciated the sights and smells and sounds around them. Twist-tied plastic trash bags huddled bursting at the curb, lowlying exhaust fumes from stalled traffic, a distant urgent siren, two people arguing about who had hailed a cab first, violin music-hesitant and distant. Quinn and Pearl exchanged a glance, each knowing what the other was thinking.
The inside of the brownstone was quiet until Pearl walked across the living room and switched on the window-unit air conditioner. There was no sound from upstairs. Maybe the workers had gone to lunch early.
Pearl and Quinn decided they’d have lunch first, thinking maybe the workers would return by the time they were finished. Pearl put a frozen pizza with sausage and mushrooms into the oven, then got a bag of pre-cut washed vegetables out of the refrigerator, along with a tomato, some green onions, and vinaigrette dressing. While she put together a salad, Quinn got out silverware, plates, and napkins and set the table.
He sat in one of the wooden chairs and watched Pearl fidget around the kitchen, opening and closing the oven door as if that would hurry the pizza, tossing the salad for a second and third time. Sprinkling ground pepper on the salad, adding bits of cheddar cheese she tore from slices that were meant for sandwiches. Even a pinch of salt. Not a born cook, Pearl.
The phone on the kitchen wall rang, breaking the silence and domestic mood. Quinn scooted his chair a few feet to the side and reached for the receiver.
He saw on the tiny caller-ID screen that the caller was Sal Vitali, from the morgue. He mouthed Vitali’s name silently to Pearl, who was staring at him curiously.
“You weren’t at the office,” Vitali said, “and you had your cell turned off, so I figured you might be there.”
“What’ve you got?” Quinn asked, eyeing the oven timer that was closing in on pizza time and a flurry of activity by Pearl.
“They got a print match on the Ben’s for Men’s victim, Quinn. She’s-she was Verna Pound, thirty-six years old, picked up for shoplifting two years ago.”
“She on our list?”
“Yeah. Back in 2005 she accused a guy named Tyrone Ringo of raping her. Got a conviction. Tyrone spent his time behind the walls and was exonerated and released from prison two years ago.”
“Not that long ago,” Quinn said. “Might seem like yesterday to Tyrone.”
“No,” Vitali said. “He died nine months ago of tuberculosis he contracted in prison.”
“Anything else notable about the postmortem?”
“Nothing other than that she was tortured for over an hour by somebody truly screwed up. Sick bastard with his trick knife made her death even more of a hell than her life was. You wanna read it, the whole report’s been faxed to the office.”
“Actual cause of death?” Quinn asked, not wanting to go back to the office just yet.
“Loss of blood from all the carving he did on her. Damn, Quinn, imagine it, with the cigarette burns and the knife, the bastard taking his time and enjoying himself.”
“At least we got her prints,” Quinn said. “Maybe she’s got family.”
“I doubt she has any family that gives a shit,” Vitali said, “the way she was barely staying alive on the street. Kind of person that made one wrong move after another because she had lousy luck. Tried to steal a coat and was unlucky enough to choose one with a mink collar. Expensive enough to make it a grand larceny charge. Put on probation, disappeared. Now here she is again, in the morgue, after a layover at Ben’s for Men’s. Hell of a life.”
“She tried to lift a coat,” Quinn said.
“Yeah. In January in New York. To survive.”
“Hell of a life,” Quinn agreed. He hung up.
“What were you talking about?” Pearl asked.
“Death.”
The oven timer started its annoying chiming, and Pearl sprang into pizza mode.
After pizza and cold Heineken beers, Quinn and Pearl trudged up the brownstone’s steep wooden steps to the floor above.
The workmen were up there. They’d finished lunch and were back on the job. About half of the carpet was laid. It was light beige. Seeing so much of it down made the space seem surprisingly vast. And sound carried differently. Quinn could understand why the work hadn’t been audible down in the kitchen.
“Think we got the color right?” Quinn asked.
“I’m sure we did,” Pearl said, though she didn’t give a shit one way or the other. She knew it made Quinn happy when she went domestic on him and displayed interest in colors and furnishings. In truth she could barely remember the carpet color in her old apartment where she’d lived for years. She knew it had some kind of spatter design on it, but she wasn’t positive that wasn’t accidental and hadn’t accumulated over time.
“Then I’m sure,” he said.
“Sounds like closure,” she said.
He looked at her. She shrugged.
“Okay to step on it?” Quinn asked one of the workmen, a guy named Cliff who seemed always surly.
“That’s what it’s made for,” Cliff said, and continued crouched on the floor and banging a padded device with his knee to stretch the carpet.
Quinn wandered over to where the job supervisor, Wallace, was down on his hands and knees working the carpet to fit around the door to the next room.
Wallace glanced up and nodded to Quinn. “It’s going great,” he said, before Quinn could ask. He continued cutting the carpet before working it beneath the recently painted white baseboard.
Quinn felt a sudden chill. “What kind of knife is that you’re using?”
Something in Quinn’s voice made Wallace stop what he was doing and straighten up to a kneeling position. He held up the knife. It had a blunt wooden handle that looked something like the knob of a bedpost, and a sharply curved blade about five inches long.
“This is a carpet-tucking knife,” he said. “Looks somethin’ like a linoleum knife, only it’s not. It’s for fine work around baseboards and thresholds, anyplace that’s tricky and requires a touch.”
Pearl had seen what was going on and came over, her foo
tfalls silent on the new carpet. “That looks sharp,” she said, pointing at the knife.
Wallace grinned. “Gotta be sharp. Carpet, and carpet pad, don’t cut easy, ’specially where you’re doin’ delicate work and can’t get a lotta muscle into it.”
Pearl said, “Jesus, Quinn.”
Wallace stared at her.
“Where would you buy a knife like that?” Quinn asked.
Wallace, still on his knees, shrugged. “Hardware store, I guess. Or commercial tool supplier. I bought this one years ago in New Jersey from some place that was goin’ outta business.”
“What’s a knife like that cost, Wallace?”
Wallace managed another kneeling shrug. “A good one, about fifty, sixty bucks. Thereabout.”
“I’ll give you seventy-five for that one.”
Wallace squinted one eye. What the hell was going on here? What was special about his carpet-tucking knife? “That’s too much, Mr. Quinn.”
Quinn smiled. “Okay. We can make it twenty-five.”
Wallace gave him a sly smile.
“Fifty,” Quinn said.
“I ain’t one to dicker,” Wallace said.
Quinn peeled the bills from his wallet and handed them to Wallace in exchange for the knife. Pearl watched Quinn’s jaw muscles work as he hefted the small but lethal instrument in his huge right hand.
“I can finish the job without it,” Wallace said. “Cliff’s got another one in his tool box.”
“Cheaper’n that one, too,” Cliff said. He kicked again with his knee at his padded carpet stretcher and gave Quinn a conspiratorial wink. “You can buy mine for twenty bucks.”
“Shoulda spoken up sooner,” Quinn said. He nodded to Wallace and moved toward the stairs. Pearl gave Cliff a hard look and followed.
Back in the kitchen, Quinn knocked back what was left of his warm beer and called Sal Vitali on Sal’s cell phone.
“Got a job for you and Harold,” Quinn said, when Sal had answered. “I want you to check on commercial and retail places that handle tools, building supplies.”