Pulse

by John Lutz

  “That isn’t important?” she asked, pointing to the folder he’d put aside.

  “Sal’s report on his and Harold’s interview of Audrey Ackenheimer, neighbor of the victim.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “Yes. Sal’s being driven insane by Harold.”

  Pearl had to smile. “It’s been that way with them for over ten years, from when they were NYPD. But somehow they make a good team. Cops who partner for years sometimes get like old married couples.”

  “You’re talking about Sal and Harold because there’s something else on your mind,” Quinn said.

  He stopped swiveling and the chair stopped squeaking.

  “More a feeling than something I know for sure.”

  “Share it so we both won’t know it for sure,” Quinn suggested.

  She told him about the woman she thought was shadowing her. When she was about halfway through the account, Helen the profiler came into the office. Tall, redheaded, and sweaty, smelling like estrogen. She was wearing a running outfit with baggy shorts, a sleeveless red Fordham T-shirt, and New Balance shoes like Pearl’s, only more expensive. She paused the way people do when they realize they’ve intruded in a private conversation.

  Only there was no reason for this to be private. Pearl knew it was part of the investigation.

  Quinn nodded to Pearl, reading her mind, and she started over.

  When she was finished, Helen said, “You’re certain it wasn’t your imagination?”

  “I’m certain. And the woman was too small to be Daniel. What I’m not certain about are my speculations as to why. It doesn’t make much sense, a woman shadowing a potential victim for the killer.”

  “It makes a lot of sense,” Helen said. “Especially if the woman being followed is already slated to be a future victim. We all know how charming and manipulative some serial killers are. We also know you’re the killer’s type. It’s not unlikely that this woman’s scouting you, learning all about you, and will turn the information over to him.”

  Pearl looked mad enough to spit. “I’m no teenage girl ready to be swept off my feet because some good-looking guy’s done research and knows my sign.”

  Quinn was nudging his swivel chair this way and that again, making a rhythmic, almost inaudible squeaking. These two women were making him nervous. “None of it seems to fit.”

  “Interesting,” Helen said, “that your gut feeling is different from Pearl’s.”

  “I didn’t say I had a gut feeling about who was following me or why,” Pearl said, “only that I was being followed.”

  “By a woman,” Helen added.

  Quinn said, “Our killer’s familiar enough with us to know that whoever he sent to shadow Pearl, Pearl would most likely spot her. Or him.”

  Helen crossed her arms and got more comfortable where she was leaning back against a desk—because of her height, almost sitting on it. “Oh, he wouldn’t care if the tail was spotted. That might have been the idea.”

  “To let Pearl know she’s being stalked?”

  “To let you know.”

  “Playing a game.”

  “Very much a game.”

  “If he kills me,” Pearl said, “the game’s over.”

  “Maybe not for the killer,” Helen said. “Taking you as a victim might be his way of focusing his opponent’s concentration, making the game more interesting.”

  “Still doesn’t feel right,” Quinn said.

  “Maybe at a certain point he lets all his victims know they’re being stalked,” Helen said. “He might derive pleasure from that. It isn’t uncommon.”

  “This is an uncommon killer,” Quinn said.

  Helen nodded. She stood up straight, unwinding, surprising Quinn as she almost always did with her six-foot-plus height. “There is that.”

  “There’s the other thing,” Pearl said.

  They both looked at her.

  “I’m an uncommon victim.”

  25

  Jody Jason had no idea why Professor Pratt wanted to meet her here, though it must pertain to their earlier conversation about some profound change in Jody’s life. In a way, it didn’t surprise Jody that Elaine Pratt had chosen this place. She probably knew it was one of Jody’s favorite spots on campus, an oasis conducive to study and quiet. And private conversations. It was like Professor Pratt to know such things.

  From where she sat on a concrete bench in the shade of a fifty-year-old post oak, Jody had a wide and impressive view of the Waycliffe campus. The green, manicured quadrangle, with its concrete paths and uniformly trimmed trees; its occasional lounging student; its encompassing ivy trellised brick buildings. It all looked like a painting by a master impressionist.

  Though the afternoon was warm, there was a persistent soft breeze. It was pleasantly cool in the shade of the tree’s clustered leaves, which rattled in the wind.

  Jody often sat on this particular bench to read, and it always amazed her that there were never any bird droppings on it. Or, so it seemed, on any of the benches. Maybe maintenance had some special chemical that repelled birds. Or maybe the birds simply knew better, at a prestigious college like Waycliffe.

  “You beat me here,” a woman’s voice said.

  Jody looked over and saw that Professor Pratt had approached her unseen, at an angle.

  “It was so pleasant,” Jody said, “I thought I’d come early and sit here a while.”

  Elaine (as Jody informally and privately thought of the professor) glanced around and smiled. “It is beautiful. And useful. As beauty often is.”

  Jody scooted over to allow Elaine room to sit down, but the professor chose to remain standing.

  “I hope I haven’t screwed up,” Jody said.

  Elaine seemed amused. “Why would you think that?”

  “This is ... such a private and distant place, I thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought.”

  “That I chose a place where no one would observe us or overhear us shouting at each other?” “Not that,” Jody said with a smile. Might this be about something else altogether? A disciplinary measure? Did Elaine know about those times Jody had sneaked off campus to explore the town after dark? About that over-amorous associate professor she’d kneed in the groin at the annual Waycliffe anniversary party?

  What the hell’s going on here? I can think of a few possibilities, and I don’t like them.

  “Chancellor Schueller and I have ruminated upon you further,” Elaine said. She seemed to be enjoying this, stringing it out and keeping Jody in the agony of curiosity.

  Uh-oh. This didn’t feel like a positive discussion.

  Elaine waited. For maximum effect, Jody was sure. Was Jody going to be reprimanded? Cautioned about future behavior?

  There should be suspenseful music here.

  Jody felt momentarily pissed off. She knew the game now and put on an eager expression. Let Elaine think she was squirming inside. Actually, she was getting bored and at this point didn’t much care where the game would end. Waycliffe wasn’t the only college in the world.

  “You’ve been approved for an internship at Enders and Coil,” Elaine said.

  Jody didn’t have to fake her surprise. Two months ago she had, almost as a matter of routine, filled out brief applications for summer internships at some of the major law firms in the area. Not really holding out much hope. It wasn’t easy to obtain internships. Usually, somebody had to know somebody for it to happen. Or ...

  “I’d be replacing Macy Collins,” Jody said.

  “Someone must,” Elaine Pratt said.

  The summer had started without any of the internships coming through. Jody had pushed the possibility from her mind. It had been a long shot anyway. But now, this late in the season, one of them had accepted her because of murder.

  “Often in life, someone’s misfortune is someone else’s opportunity. Pick up the sword and use it, Jody.”

  “That sounds so ... Roman.”

  “The Romans had a lot of things ri
ght.” Elaine Pratt said. “And whatever you do will make no difference to Macy Collins.”

  Jody wanted to learn the particulars of what Macy had done at the law firm, and how well she’d done it. Obvious questions to ask, and difficult ones to answer. Jody knew that and remained silent.

  Causing Elaine to smile. These two could understand each other.

  “I pressed for you to be the choice,” Elaine said. “The chancellor agreed and recommended you to the firm.”

  Jody could believe that. It seemed that the Elaine and Schueller had a special relationship. Not romantic or sexual. . . but something drew them together. Maybe something kinky, after all. But Jody didn’t want to even imagine that. Unless maybe the chancellor took Elaine up in his airplane and they ...

  Jody put on a big grin. Not all of it fake. “Thank you! Really! Thanks to both of you.”

  “You deserve it. Enders and Coil’s offices are in Manhattan, but you won’t have to commute. Though the internship doesn’t pay, of course, it does include a small apartment near the firm.”

  “In Manhattan?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s so great!” Jody said, and meant it. An apartment in Manhattan. Holy shit! This could all work. She had enough left of her student loan to be able to clothe and feed herself. She hoped.

  Elaine drew a deep breath, then exhaled loudly and clasped her hands. “So, we’re all set?”

  Time to throw shit in the game.

  “Professor Pratt, I hate to ask this, but would you mind if I thought about the offer?”

  Elaine almost laughed out loud in surprise, but she held a neutral expression. Just like that, dominance had shifted and she was now the one on pins and needles. How would it look if she’d pressed so hard for Jody, and then Jody brushed off the internship? What would Chancellor Schueller think? How would Enders and Coil react? How would this affect Professor Pratt’s career?

  “Can you let me know tomorrow?” she asked, careful not to sound anxious.

  Jody thought for a long few seconds—in control now and letting Elaine know it—and then nodded. “Sure. No problem there.”

  “Here, either,” Elaine said.

  When Jody got up, she gave her a big hug.

  Jody sat back down and watched the professor’s retreating figure change shapes as it passed through lengthening shadows across the quadrangle.

  She didn’t know quite what to think other than WTF?, as they said on the social networks.

  26

  Deena Vess was tired of skating. She was sore mostly in the knees and ankles. Roller Steak, the restaurant where she waited tables, featured all its servers on skates. It did make for fast service, and sometimes spectacular collisions.

  She liked her job, and the pay was good enough that she could rent a top-floor unit of a six-story walkup on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Her divorce from douche bag Danny in Chicago had been finalized last month. And on that very same day she got her job at Roller Steak.

  New York wasn’t so tough, if you started out with a little luck. She’d been cautioned about moving to the city, but Deena wanted to start over, and here. She stretched her finances a bit getting the apartment; then, just like that, she’d gained employment at the first place she applied.

  Deena didn’t kid herself. Maybe it wasn’t all luck. Her looks helped. She was narrow-waisted and had muscular, shapely legs, qualities that were obviously very important to Ramon, the restaurant manager. And her ample breasts didn’t hurt her chances. She might have to fight this guy off sometime in the near future, but if she was diplomatic enough it should pose no threat to her job. Ramon seemed to be a decent enough sort when he wasn’t playing hard-ass to keep the personnel in line.

  The third night she’d spent in the apartment, Empress arrived. The small tabby cat had squeezed in through a window Deena had left open a few inches for the breeze. The cat was friendly enough, and was darling and seemed to know it. Deena enjoyed watching it prance and preen.

  The animal appeared to be cared for and well fed, but had no collar or tags. Deena had asked around, and nobody in the building recognized it or knew who owned it. So she’d renamed the cat Empress and took it to the vet for its shots, and to have it spayed. Then she’d bought a new red collar at a pet shop on Eighth Avenue and fastened to it the shot tags and a metal tag bearing Empress’s name and new address. Empress, Deena thought, had gone from vagabond royalty to a feline citizen in good standing in a matter of days, and should be grateful.

  But of course the cat displayed no sign of gratitude. She was affectionate, but only on her terms. Whenever Deena came home, Empress didn’t appear at first, as if she couldn’t be bothered. After a few minutes the cat would come yawning and stretching, as if she’d been napping, and present herself for holding and petting.

  Empress became increasingly territorial and began sleeping with Deena, first making her rounds of the apartment and then curling into a fuzz ball near the foot of the bed.

  Tonight, when Deena came home from work and shut and locked the apartment door behind her, there was no sign of Empress.

  Deena called the cat’s name (fat chance of that working) as she walked through the small apartment, checking windows. There seemed no way Empress could have gotten out.

  “Empress!” Deena called again, knowing now it was useless. “Where the hell are you?”

  She suddenly became aware again of how sore her legs were from skating over the hard plank floor at Roller Steak. She plopped down on the sofa and removed her shoes, stretched her legs, and wriggled her toes. Running her fingers through her thick dark hair, she glanced around again for a sign of Empress. She was beginning to get anxious.

  Spend a fortune on a cat and this is what it does. Some investment.

  But Deena knew it was more than the money. She’d become extremely fond of the haughty yet affectionate animal.

  It was possible that someone had stolen the cat. Before Deena had moved in, the apartment had been vacant for a while as it was redecorated. People came and went during that process—painters, plumbers, carpenters, city inspectors. There must have been keys floating around. It would have been easy enough for one of the tradesmen, or even a prospective tenant, to come into possession of one. Deena decided she should have the locks changed. She would call about that tomorrow.

  It was hard to imagine someone letting himself in and stealing a cat. And there seemed no way for Empress to have left of her own accord without someone opening a door or window.

  Deena picked up the remote from the coffee table, and was about to switch on the TV, when she caught sight of tabby fur beneath the old wing chair across from her.

  Empress!

  Deena broke into a big grin and forgot her sore legs as she jumped up and crossed the room to scoop up the errant cat.

  Empress withdrew from her so she couldn’t be reached. Deena got down on her hands and knees, then lay on the carpet and reached back in the darkness beneath the wing chair and grasped the red leather collar. Empress yowled and scratched her.

  Shocked, Deena drew back her hand.

  This was odd. Imperious though she was, Empress wasn’t the sort of cat that would bite or scratch the hand that fed and petted her.

  Deena moved more carefully, getting down lower now so she could see and wouldn’t be working by feel. She clutched the cat by the loose flesh on the back of its neck and pulled it out.

  Empress seemed docile enough now, and made no further attempt to scratch or bite her.

  Deena petted the cat, then felt a quiet chill. She hefted Empress in one hand, and looked closely at the collar and tags. Same collar. Same tags. There was the cat’s name: Empress. With Deena’s address. Everything proper.

  But Deena knew this wasn’t Empress.

  Not the real Empress, anyway.

  Deena stared intently at the pattern of gray-striped fur flecked with brown. She saw now what she was sure were slight variations.

  Quickly, she put the cat down and wa
tched it hurry back to the wing chair and scoot beneath it.

  Not like the sociable if superior Empress.

  Deena swiveled her head, frightened now. Knowing she was alone, yet making sure anyway.

  Someone must have been in here. He or she had for some reason switched cats, substituting this one, who looked almost exactly like Empress, for Empress.

  But why?

  There had to be a reason. This was insane.

  It was that last thought that terrified her. Maybe it was insane. Either she was going insane, or some insane person had made this substitution.

  A practical joke? Deena didn’t think so. She barely knew anyone in New York, much less someone with this kind of sick sense of humor.

  Someone had been in here while she was at work. Doing what? Seeing what? Feeling what?

  She realized with a sense of dread that she was more afraid of what must have happened than she was sad about the loss of Empress.

  She would probably never again see the real Empress. But at least Empress was the kind of cat that could take care of herself, a survivor in the jungle of the city.

  Deena told herself to stay calm. There might be a reasonable explanation for all this. Even if there wasn’t one, she had to act as if there might be. Whatever was happening, she’d cope with it. Hadn’t she just made it through an ugly divorce in Chicago?

  Another jungle, that city.

  It was time to be practical. One thing Deena knew for sure was that, though it wasn’t Empress, she had a cat. She went into the kitchen and got a can of liver-flavored cat food from a cabinet. As she used the electric can opener, she automatically looked toward the kitchen door for Empress to come strutting in.

  No cat.

  She scooped out the entire can of food into the heavy ceramic bowl on the floor. Surely the pungent scent would draw the shy animal from its shelter beneath the chair.

  No cat.

  She ran a glass of tap water and poured it into the bowl next to the food bowl. Then she moved to the other side of the kitchen and waited.

  No cat.

  The wall phone in the kitchen jangled and she went to it and snatched the receiver from its cradle on the second ring.