Frenzy

by John Lutz

  “Anything unusual about it?”

  “Maybe,” Harold said. “It sort of smelled like danger.”

  When Quinn was finished talking with Harold, he used his cell phone to call Nancy Weaver.

  “You know anything about being a food server?” Quinn asked.

  “You mean waitress?”

  “If you do.”

  “I waited tables at a Smokey Torrito long, long ago. Earning my way through school.”

  “What the hell is a Smokey Torrito?”

  “They went out of business a long time ago,” Weaver said. “I wasn’t responsible.”

  Quinn said, “Brush up on your skills.”

  59

  Beth Swift closed the drapes all the way so no light from the street below could filter into the bedroom.

  The drapes were heavy. She and Ben liked complete darkness when they slept. And they enjoyed almost complete silence. Only a few muffled sounds from the street made their way into the bedroom.

  It was well past midnight, and almost always by this time Beth was in what she figured was REM sleep. The most valuable kind. On an ordinary night, she’d be lying untroubled next to Ben, as good as unconscious. Beth had no idea why she couldn’t sleep tonight.

  Ben was certainly experiencing REM sleep. His breathing was deep and regular. So much so that she was afraid he might begin to snore.

  Beth had set in her mind a final imprint of her path back to the bed. She gave the heavy drapes a final adjustment, then in total darkness and by memory returned to her side of the bed.

  She lay down carefully, making sure she didn’t disturb Ben. The bed springs squeaked, but softly. It was a king-sized bed, so there was enough space between them that her weight didn’t shift the mattress beneath him.

  His breathing became slightly irregular, but within a few seconds returned to its previous steady bellows sound.

  Beth lay on her back and stared up toward a ceiling she couldn’t see. Complete blackness. Her husband warm beside her. A heaven with everything in place. She felt drowsier now. Easy in body and mind. She felt sleep approach like a hesitant suitor, taking its time.

  That was okay. She was relaxed and comfortable and in no hurry.

  It was reassuring and in its way delightful to lie staring into the unbroken darkness and listen to Ben’s breathing and her own. As if they were one being, taking turns within itself.

  Gradually the muffled sounds of the city faded away. The faint, rhythmic hissing of Ben’s breathing and her own was comforting and conducive to sleep.

  Idly, half asleep, Beth amused herself by attempting to fix her breathing in exactly the same rhythm as her husband’s, but she found it impossible.

  She couldn’t quite make the adjustment. Ben’s inhalations and exhalations were deeper and of longer duration. The hissing of her breathing didn’t quite match his, so that—

  Something was wrong. She knew it.

  Her heart was ice. Terror had come before knowledge. She was completely awake and hyperalert. Listening. Dreading. Staring wide-eyed into total blackness. Knowing now without doubt what she was hearing.

  There was a third sound of someone breathing in the dark.

  60

  “They didn’t show up for their tai chi exercises in the park,” Renz said. “Then they didn’t answer their cell phones.”

  “That was enough to send the super to investigate?” Quinn asked.

  Renz nodded, his chin sinking into the smooth pink flesh of his neck. “With these two, yes. They took their tai chi seriously. Took everything yuppie and healthy seriously. They might have lived to a hundred and ten.”

  A CSU unit was on the way, along with an ME and transport for the bodies. The uniform who’d caught the call was standing outside in the hall, to greet and guide the oncoming rush of specialists that sometimes reached murder crime scenes faster than flies.

  Not this time, though, Quinn noticed. He leaned over and waved his hand to shoo a fly from the open eye of the woman. It returned to light on her forehead, and he gave up.

  “I checked his wallet on the dresser, and her purse,” Renz said. “He’s Ben Swift. She’s his wife, Beth.”

  Quinn moved closer to the two dead bodies on the bed. The man’s throat had been neatly sliced, both carotid arteries. There was a lot of blood around the bodies, but a towel had been laid over the man’s throat to keep blood from spurting. The expression on his face was puzzled but peaceful.

  Next to Ben Swift, Mrs. Swift looked horrified. There were minor cuts and cigarette burns all over her body. Her wrists were fastened with thick silver duct tape to her bare thighs. Quinn could see a residue of adhesive where tape had been over her mouth. She had screamed into the tape but wasn’t heard except faintly by the killer.

  Both victims had the letters D.O.A. neatly carved into their foreheads. Post mortem, so the carving didn’t leave much of a mess.

  Renz pointed to a head wound near Ben Swift’s temple. “Looks like the killer took them both by surprise when they were asleep. Bashed the husband unconscious with a hard, blunt object, then gagged and taped the wife.”

  “Then he sliced the husband’s throat, to get him out of the way, and turned all his attention to the wife,” Quinn said.

  “It was the woman he wanted,” Renz said.

  “Probably.” Quinn agreed with Renz but didn’t like jumping to conclusions at this point in the investigation.

  He walked into the bathroom. There was blood on the plastic shower curtain and two of the white towels.

  “It’ll be his blood,” Renz said.

  Quinn nodded. “He did the murders nude and then cleaned up in here. All we’ll find are smudged rubber glove prints. He always washes most of the blood from the gloves, then peels them off so they’re inside out and puts them in a pocket.”

  “Sounds right,” Renz said. “Fits the pattern, anyway. I wonder if he watches too much television, thinks we might be able to get his fingerprints off the insides of the gloves.”

  “You never know about the lab guys,” Quinn said, thinking about the killer years ago who always cut out his victims’ eyes so his image wouldn’t be fixed like a photo on their retinas. “And when we’re dealing with somebody who’d do something like this, he might believe anything.”

  There was shuffling around and voices coming from out in the hall. Quinn and Renz returned to the living room.

  The first one in was the nasty little ME, Nift. He was followed by gloved up CSU techs and a detective Quinn knew slightly, who used to be on vice. Young guy on the make, Quinn figured, who might have something on Renz. He and Quinn exchanged nods.

  “Where’s Pearl?” Nift asked, making a show of looking around.

  “Not here,” Quinn said. “She knew you were coming.”

  “Tell her I missed her.”

  “You been shooting at her?”

  “Pearl and I just joke,” Nift said, seeming to realize suddenly that he didn’t want to get Quinn mad. He motioned with his head toward the hall. “The bedroom?”

  “The bedroom,” Renz said. “Make sure you don’t touch anything but the bodies.”

  “I always work that way,” Nift said. He brooded as if his feelings were hurt, but Quinn knew better. Any emotion showing on Nift’s face was part of his act.

  Nift hefted his big black leather bag and made his way with short, rapid steps toward the bedroom.

  When he was gone, Renz said, “Necrophiliac little prick.”

  “Probably,” Quinn said.

  61

  Minnie Miner tried from time to time to entice that horrible little ME Dr. Nift to come on her program. There was something about that guy that made people’s skin crawl, but they could no more look away from him than they could ignore a train wreck. Nift always declined, feigning professionalism. Minnie figured he was probably wanted somewhere and didn’t care to have his picture flashed around.

  She put Nift out of her mind and continued idly watching a DVD of the B-roll for tomo
rrow’s piece on the D.O.A. murders. She was in her apartment near the studio, reclining on the sofa and sipping a vodka martini. The sun was at the windows on the wall near where the big TV sat, and from time to time, in synchronization with puffy cumulus clouds blowing past, she had to squint to see the screen clearly.

  There was an establishment shot of the Far Castle across the street, the colorful umbrellas over the round white metal tables, the castle-like stone and tile building itself, then the low fence and the garden next to it, the precisely trimmed hedge maze. The sunlight seemed to cleanse while it brightened the place; everything looked picturesque and colorful, like a damned souvenir postcard. Fox hunters in red livery might stream across the scene any second, accompanied by frisky yapping hounds. Stonehenge might be nearby, instead of Bank of America.

  Manhattan traffic rather than hounds running to the hunt streamed past, and lunchtime customers lounged and ate at the sidewalk tables.

  The camera brought the long shot in, so it seemed the viewer was crossing the street, then it moved into the restaurant.

  Minnie was idly wondering if the place served mead, when something on the screen made her sit straighter and lean toward the TV. Servers were circulating among the tables, clearing them or delivering food. Some were men wearing medieval-looking white shirts with overly bloused sleeves. Others were nubile young (reasonably young) serving wenches, with tight skirts and blouses that matched those of the male servers only cut lower in front to allow for glimpses of cleavage.

  At first Minnie didn’t realize what had jogged her memory, and she had to stare hard at the TV. She had to run the DVD forward and back twice before she was sure.

  One of the serving wenches was familiar. Minnie wasn’t one to forget a face, or all that cleavage. This wench looked particularly ready for a roll in the hay. Minnie smiled. It was the dyed blond hair that had fooled her for a while, the carefully mussed Olde World hairdo.

  There was no doubt, though, after running the scene back a few times, then freezing it as the wench leaned farther forward to serve some frosted mugs to two businessman types. More than any of the others, this serving wench seemed to enjoy her work.

  Minnie smiled, certain now. She had even, some time back, interviewed the now-blond woman for an ASAP segment on socially transmitted diseases.

  Though the name tag pinned to her blouse said her name was Eileen, yon wench was Officer Nancy Weaver.

  Minnie sat back and thought about that. No doubt Weaver was working undercover and wouldn’t be in a mood to talk about it.

  On the other hand, a word going back beyond the Middle Ages came to mind: Bait.

  Surely that word had crossed Weaver’s mind. With her hair dyed blond and the sexy serving-wench outfit, Weaver had to realize that she might be dangling as a potential conquest of the D.O.A. killer. Good cop that she was, Weaver might not be inclined to discuss this matter with Minnie, until Minnie worked on her a bit. Or leaned on her politically ambitious and vulnerable boss.

  Blowing Weaver’s cover might put Weaver in danger, Minnie thought, or it might save her life.

  Of course, that should be, at least to some extent, Weaver’s decision. Or Renz’s. Or Quinn’s.

  But really, it all depended on Minnie, and that B-roll that would be best placed topping the news.

  “So here’s how it is,” Renz said. They were in his precinct house office with the door shut. Sounds from the squad room beyond the door filtered in: a man rapidly explaining how he’d gotten to the wrong place at the wrong time; a woman who wailed as if in agony every few minutes; the calm voices of the detectives dealing with incoming calls. Now and then, laughter, some of it cruel.

  “Place needs thicker walls,” Renz said.

  Quinn sat down on the other side of the desk, facing Renz. The desk was not so much cluttered as carefully arranged so that it seemed cluttered. “You were saying . . .”

  “How it is,” Renz said. “The unfortunate Beth and Ben Swift were sleeping after sex.”

  “How do you know about the sex?”

  “Lab people know. They ran a rape kit on Beth Swift even though she was dead. No semen, though. And no sign of a condom, though they can’t be sure about that. It isn’t like on TV.”

  “Sometimes I wonder. Birth control pills?”

  “We’ll find out about that,” Renz said. “As of now, it doesn’t appear that the killer raped her. Except in his own special way with the knife and cigarette.” He propped his elbows on the desk and tented his fingers. His hands looked pink and extremely clean, nails professionally manicured. “The hypothesis is that they were both asleep. The killer got in with a lock pick or key. Made his way to their bedroom, where they were sleeping deeply.”

  “After sex,” Quinn said.

  “After sex. The killer sliced Ben’s throat. Poor guy didn’t even have a chance to wake up. Whatever fuss he made was mitigated by the killer, who was at this point nude. Probably slipped out of his clothes in the bedroom, keeping an eye on his soon-to-be victims, listening to their breathing to make sure they both stayed in REM sleep. When Ben was dead, D.O.A. stayed quiet but worked fast. Got out his duct tape and bound and gagged Beth, who probably went into paralyzing shock when she looked across her pillow and saw her husband’s tongue hanging out, but not from his mouth.”

  “Poor Beth,” Quinn said, and meant it. He could feel a smoldering rage starting to build in his gut. Or had it been there all along?

  “It was just beginning for her,” Renz said. “Looks like the killer straddled her, then went to work with the knife and cigarette. Taking his time now.”

  “Anyone find butts?”

  “No. He took the butts with him,” Renz said. “Filters, too, if that’s what he was smoking. A very meticulous asshole, this one.”

  “How’d he get past whatever security the building has?”

  “There’s one doorman or another there till midnight. After that, with a five-number code on a punch pad, anyone can let themselves into the lobby. Carpeted stairs instead of an elevator, so there’s no noise at all involved. Carpeted halls, too, which is where Beth and Ben kept their spare door key hidden—tucked neatly under the carpet near their door. That’s the second place every burglar looks, after under the welcome mat. Once the killer knew where the couple lived, it would only take a little observation to gain whatever knowledge he needed to get at them. This sicko knows his business.”

  “What else the techs have to say?”

  “Not much, but they’re still learning. Nift said it took the woman over an hour to die.”

  Quinn said nothing, thinking, feeling the anger grow.

  How disappointed he must have been when she escaped into death.

  “Everything points to the D.O.A. killer and not a copycat,” Renz said. “But the techs are still learning. There’ll be more info from them.”

  “Two victims,” Quinn said. “A family. Helen said this sicko would up the ante.”

  “He’s trying to pressure you,” Renz said.

  Not us. You. Renz covering his ass.

  “He’s feeling some pressure himself,” Quinn said.

  Renz’s desk phone jangled and he picked up. “I said hold my calls.” He stood for a moment with the receiver pressed to his ear. Then: “Go ahead and put her on.” He held his hand over the mouthpiece and said almost silently, “Minnie Miner. Something about Weaver.” He nodded toward the door, signifying that the call was private. Time for Quinn to leave.

  Quinn stayed.

  PART SIX

  Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood.

  —WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS, The Land

  of Heart’s Desire

  62

  The way Jerry Lido and Pearl saw it, too many people already knew about the search for Bellezza, and eventually knowledge—and rumor and irrational behavior—would begin spreading exponentially.

  It wouldn’t be that way for a short while. If someone really knew about Bellezza, they might well know about everything el
se. So it would be good to find them before they were supplanted by the crazies.

  Lido knew his was an important job, searching the Internet for the lost bust or related material. To save time, he used Pearl to explore promising but secondary leads, while he homed in on the ones most likely to bear fruit. Lido was the undisputed tech genius of Q&A, but Pearl was no slouch and kept learning.

  It was Pearl who came up with something. An ad in the classifieds of a local New Jersey weekly, the Teaneck Tattler. A woman had a marble bust for sale said to have been created by Michelangelo. It had been in her family for years, said the ad, and now she needed money and was forced to sell. There was a number to call.

  Pearl called it.

  A woman identifying herself as Jesse answered the phone. Pearl said she was trying to get in touch with the person who’d placed the ad.

  “She’s my aunt,” the woman said, “Lucille Denner. And I’ve been trying since yesterday to get in touch with her myself.”

  “Is the number in the ad her phone number?” Pearl asked.

  “It is. I tried it but got no answer. Left a message. No reply. I went by her house and it’s locked up tight.”

  “Don’t go inside,” Pearl said, getting a queasy feeling.

  “It’s not a crime or anything, is it? I mean, something might’ve happened to her. I just got here, in fact. I’ve been thinking about calling the police.” She gave a nervous little chirping laugh that Pearl didn’t like. “And now they’ve called me.”

  “Have you looked around?”

  “No, but I called Lucille’s name and got no answer. She isn’t here, I’m sure.”

  “Give me the address.”

  Jesse did. A house on Garritson in Teaneck.

  “Don’t touch anything else, and get away from the house,” Pearl said.