Pulse

by John Lutz

  A little short, but still okay. She’d have to be moving for the skirt to show.

  She’d walked only a block from the law firm’s building when a drop of rain landed on her eyelash. The clouds hadn’t been bluffing. She felt similar cool pinpoints on her bare forearms. Great! Though she’d brought her raincoat, she had no umbrella and wasn’t wearing the kind of shoes suitable for jogging to her subway stop.

  She squinted and glanced skyward, though she had no idea what she expected to see. Yeah, more clouds. Based on the increasing number of drops, this didn’t seem like the kind of summer shower she could escape by ducking into a doorway and waiting it out.

  It began to rain harder.

  Jody knew how it was in Manhattan when it rained. Occupied cabs were the only yellow vehicles you saw.

  She didn’t like spending the money, but the temptation of getting into a dry cab and being transported to the brownstone was irresistible even if it was a strain on her limited budget.

  And there was a cab. Occupied. Followed by two more. Both occupied. Jody felt like she was being messed with. It was as if every damned cab in the city had cardboard pop-up figures in their rear seats that sprang bolt upright with the first drop of rain.

  Something cool touched Jody’s ankle. A spray of water from a puddle. Close to her on the left, a cab had pulled to the curb. One of its rear doors swung open like an invitation, as a voice said, “Miss?”

  Jody leaned down and peered into the back of the cab, and there was a middle-aged, attractive woman smiling out at her.

  Immediately Jody wondered if the woman was a cop or security guard and had been following her. Maybe because she still felt somewhat like a criminal for having examined Enders and Coil’s files.

  “I noticed you plowing through the puddles,” the woman said. “That’s not necessary. Come in out of the rain.”

  Jody hesitated.

  “Besides, you might want this.” The woman was holding something up for Jody to see.

  Jody’s purse!

  My, God! She must have left it sitting in the chair in the law firm building’s lobby. She recalled walking past the chair on her way out, but had no recollection of pausing and picking up her purse. As if it hadn’t been there to see.

  The woman’s smile grew more benevolent. “Come on. We’re obviously going the same direction. Lucky for you I looked out the window and recognized you as the person who forgot this, and who I’d tried to catch up with on foot. I wasn’t sure at first.”

  Jody pushed aside whatever reservations she had and climbed into the cab’s backseat next to the woman. She accepted the purse. “It’s mine, all right. Thanks so much!” She reached into the purse. “Can I give you—”

  “Nothing, really,” the woman said.

  “We’ll split the fare,” Jody said.

  “Not on your life. We’re going to the same place, anyway.”

  Jody looked at her curiously.

  “A restaurant,” the woman said, “where I’m going to buy you dinner. I’ve been a young girl alone in the rain in New York myself.”

  “No ... really,” Jody said, thinking she was suddenly hungry. Maybe the woman’s suggestion had worked on her in some Pavlovian way.

  “I’m Sarah Benham,” the woman said. “With an ‘h’ and an ‘h.’ This is where you tell me your name and say you’re glad to meet me.”

  “Jody Jason. And I am glad.”

  Sarah showed her benevolent smile. “It looks like fate meant for us to be friends.”

  But Jody wondered if it might not have been coincidence, this charitable cab ride and then dinner. On the other hand, what was the harm? This woman, who seemed perfectly nice, who’d returned her purse, wasn’t about to attack her. And even if she did, Jody could handle herself. It was a miserable evening, Jody was starving, and the truth was, she loved an adventure.

  “No argument, please,” Sarah said. “I want to impress upon you that New York isn’t such a callous city. And it looks to me as if you worked hard and late this evening. Such industriousness should be rewarded. You need a good meal, and I’d like to introduce you to apple martinis.”

  “But I wasn’t working for you,” Jody pointed out, thinking that apple martinis sounded interesting.

  “You were if you were working for truth, justice, and the American way,” Sarah said, grinning.

  “I suppose I was doing exactly that,” Jody said, playing along, getting hungrier. It was odd how Sarah Benham could take on an almost motherly manner, even though she wasn’t that much older than Jody. Then it struck Jody that yes, Sarah might actually be old enough to be her mother. It was difficult to tell for sure these days, what with all the cosmetic surgery and beauty aids. Possibly Sarah was even older than Pearl.

  Wow! That was one Jody had to think about to grasp. Here she was sitting next to her new friend—acquaintance, anyway—who was more or less her mother’s age. Manhattan was a special place, all right.

  “Besides,” Sarah said, “it won’t hurt me to make points with Enders and Coil.”

  “Are you an attorney, too?”

  Sarah laughed. “Heavens no. I’m in insurance. An adjuster.”

  “An Enders and Coil client?”

  “Not at present, but I might need a good lawyer someday. And I believe in thinking ahead. Italian okay?”

  “Sounds wonderful!”

  “We’ll enjoy a nice comfort-food meal and a chat, and then share a cab again, if it’s still raining.”

  A motherly touch again. Or maybe that was all in Jody’s mind. Maybe her new friend Sarah wasn’t at all as she imagined.

  49

  “I received a phone call this morning,” Professor Elaine Pratt said to Chancellor Schueller.

  The sun was shining brightly outside the chancellor’s office window, making the Waycliffe campus look pristine and green as a souvenir postcard. A student couple strolled past out on the quadrangle, hand in hand, assuring Elaine that the scene was real and not painted or Photoshopped.

  “Subject?” the chancellor asked. He didn’t ask who’d called.

  “Juditha Jason,” Elaine said. “Jody.”

  “I assume her internship at Enders and Coil is still not going well.”

  “She often works late,” Elaine said, giving him a look as if she were peering over her glasses, though she was not wearing glasses.

  “I see.”

  “She still seems to have a special interest in Meeding Properties’ efforts to evict a pesky client.”

  “Youth,” the chancellor said, peering out the window now that Professor Pratt was staring at him. “All those windmills to tilt at.”

  “Don Quixote wasn’t young,” she said. “On the other hand, Joan of Arc was.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Jody’s curiosity and efforts might be broadening beyond the eminent domain case, and in a way that might become serious.”

  “Oh. I thought it was going to be something about windmills. You think she ... suspects?”

  “Not at this point, or we’d know about it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Definitely. Nevertheless, Enders and Coil are getting uneasy about Jody’s presence at the firm.”

  “And Meeding Properties?”

  “They’re unaware of any discord within the triumvirate.”

  Schueller shrugged and turned back toward the professor. “Well? Enders and Coil know what they can do if they’re uneasy.”

  “They’d be even more uneasy if they ended Jody’s internship. It would seem to confirm her suspicions.”

  “Think she’s smart enough to know that?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Then cutting her loose would make her even more active,” the chancellor said. “And in a more effective way.” He picked up a sharpened pencil, as he often did when ruminating, and drummed out a tiny staccato riff on the wooden desktop. Elaine was sometimes tempted to tell him what he should do with that pencil. “At this juncture,” he said at last, “I
think we should let the matter ride.”

  “I agree,” Elaine Pratt said. “As long as we remind ourselves from time to time.”

  “Remind ourselves?”

  “That Jody Jason might be even smarter than we thought.”

  “So what is this?” Quinn asked, when he and Pearl were at their desks in the office and Fedderman came in with the mail that had been in the box since yesterday.

  “What it looks like, I guess,” Fedderman said. He appeared not to have had much sleep. His brown suit was more wrinkled than usual, and what hair he had left needed a trim. “A package addressed to you personally. Brown paper wrapping, neatly sealed with brown packaging tape.” Fedderman hoisted the small rectangular package with one hand. “Doesn’t weigh much.” He held it to his ear. “Not ticking.”

  “Give it here,” Quinn said, holding out his hand.

  Fedderman tossed the package to him. He was right. It wasn’t very heavy.

  Quinn examined the label. Unadorned black felt tip printing on a plain white label.

  “There’s no postage marking,” Fedderman said.

  “Meaning it was placed rather than delivered,” Pearl said, standing up from behind her desk. She looked worried. “Where exactly was it, Feds?”

  “On the floor just beneath our brass mail slot, where the postman usually leaves packages.”

  “What’s the return address?”

  “No return address,” Quinn said.

  “Don’t open it,” Pearl said.

  Quinn looked at Fedderman, who shrugged.

  “We can’t call the bomb squad to open all our mail,” Quinn said.

  “Don’t be stubborn,” Pearl said. She picked up her desk phone and began pecking out a number.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Harley Renz.”

  “For God’s sake, Pearl. Don’t stir him up.”

  But it was too late. She had called Renz’s direct line.

  It took her only a few minutes to tell Renz about the package. Then she listened for about ten seconds and hung up.

  “What’d he say?” Fedderman asked.

  “He’s sending somebody over from bomb disposal.”

  “What?” Quinn said. “One of those robots to open our mail?”

  “That robot,” Pearl said, “would be the second smartest person in the room.”

  The street door swished open, then the door to the office.

  “Fast work,” Fedderman said.

  But it wasn’t the bomb disposal guy; it was Lido, come either to report or to work on the high-tech NYPD computer Renz had loaned Q&A. He was wearing dark slacks almost as wrinkled as Fedderman’s. His white shirt was untucked and buttoned crookedly.

  “You already been at the sauce?” Quinn asked him.

  “It’s how I do my best work,” Lido said.

  Quinn looked him up and down. They weren’t talking about hot sauce. “Jesus, Jerry! It’s ten in the morning.”

  Lido made a dismissive motion with his right hand, as if shaking liquid from his fingers. And maybe there really was liquid on his fingers. “I just pretend I’m someplace where it’s some other time,” he said.

  “Does that work?” Pearl asked.

  “In some other place it does.” Lido’s bleary eyes fixed on the package Quinn held. “What’s that?”

  “We think it might be a bomb,” Pearl said.

  Lido stared at all three of them, and then turned around and left.

  When they heard the street door again five minutes later they thought Lido was returning. Instead it was the bomb disposal guy, who turned out to be a woman. She was about forty, sweetly pretty, and slightly overweight. Or maybe it was the uniform and all the gear dangling from her belt that made her just look overweight. At her side, held lightly by a short leather leash, was a large German shepherd.

  “You the explosives expert?” Quinn asked.

  “He is,” she said, nodding down at the dog. The dog looked at Quinn as if daring him to question his expertise.

  “What’s his name?” Pearl asked.

  “Boomer.”

  “Of course,” Fedderman said.

  “Can I pet him?” Pearl asked.

  “If he’ll let you.”

  That was a vague enough answer to keep Pearl where she was in her desk chair.

  “I’m Darlene,” the bomb disposal cop said. She fixed her blue gaze on the package on Quinn’s desk corner. “That the suspicious package?”

  “If you want to be suspicious,” Quinn said.

  “I do,” Darlene said. “It’s how Boomer and I stay alive.”

  No one spoke for a few seconds.

  “That was sobering,” Fedderman said.

  Darlene and Boomer had crossed the room and were standing in front of Quinn’s desk. Darlene brought her forefinger close to but not touching the brown package, and the dog looked up at her and then began sniffing the package.

  Quietly, calmly, it sniffed for several seconds, and then backed away.

  “It doesn’t contain explosives,” Darlene said. “But just in case, why don’t the three of you leave while I open it.” She didn’t pose it as a question.

  “I thought you said it didn’t contain explosives,” Fedderman said.

  “There’s only one way to be absolutely sure,” Darlene said. She had opened a case made of black plastic-like material with gray lining. There were various tools fitted inside. There appeared to be more tools than were needed to do the job. “Boomer and I won’t be long,” Darlene said. “Don’t let anyone inside.” She stood motionless, waiting for them to leave.

  They went outside and stood on the sidewalk, about twenty feet away from the door. Darlene was right: there was only one way to be sure.

  “Whaddya think?” Fedderman said.

  “Candy from an admirer,” Pearl said. “In which case, I want to see the card.”

  “Cigars from an admirer,” Quinn said, just to get under Pearl’s skin.

  “Maybe something to do with the case,” Fedderman said. “Like a clue.”

  The door opened and Darlene motioned that they could come back inside.

  Fedderman’s guess was closest to the truth. The brown paper and tape lay folded neatly on the desk corner. Near it, on a plain white sheet of paper, lay something Quinn didn’t immediately recognize.

  “That was inside,” Darlene said. She pointed to a smaller slip of paper that was creased from being tightly folded. Beneath it was something beneath white tissue that Quinn would get to after dealing with the folded paper. One thing at a time. Darlene would approve.

  Barely touching the paper with the tip of his retracted ball point pen, Quinn examined both sides.

  There was nothing on the paper other than a small black printed question mark. Admirer or not, the sender was secret.

  Quinn used the pen to move the tissue out of the way so they could see what was beneath it.

  Again, no one spoke for a few seconds.

  “It looks like a pouch,” Fedderman said, “made of soft leather with a leather drawstring on top.”

  “I think it’s a tobacco pouch,” Darlene said. “But it would do for jewelry.” She reached out with an exploring fingertip. “That leather’s like butter. It’s pretty high-quality goods. Boomer sure wouldn’t mind chewing on it.” She pointed with her pink-enameled nail to the bottom of the pouch. “What’s that gnarly looking thing on the bottom?”

  “That’s a nipple,” Quinn said.

  Darlene and Boomer stood staring at the pouch. Darlene’s expression began to change.

  Pearl pointed toward the half-bath over by the coffee machine.

  Darlene and Boomer crossed the room so fast that Boomer stepped with a heavy paw on Pearl’s toe.

  Quinn picked up the folded paper by its edges to look again at the question mark.

  50

  Quinn was back behind his desk. Darlene and Boomer had gone and taken the pouch with them. The lab would doubtless be able to match the DNA with one of
the victims.

  Unless the pouch had been fashioned from the breast of one of Daniel’s earlier victims. Was that what the monster was doing with his victims’ body parts? Using them for some kind of grotesque hobby?

  It seemed too horrible to be possible, but Quinn knew that human beings were capable of any nightmare they could conjure.

  Helen the profiler had come in to the office. Quinn wanted her to be in on this. Her short, carrot-colored hair was ruffled and looked soft, as if she’d just washed it and sat under a dryer. Probably, Quinn figured, she’d rubbed it dry with a towel and forgotten about it. Her denim shorts made her long legs look even longer. She had on blue jogging shoes and a sleeveless Fordham sweatshirt. Quinn didn’t think she’d attended Fordham, more likely some college in the Midwest where they played basketball. He’d asked her once if she’d played basketball and she told him no, but she was a fan. Just because a woman was over six feet tall didn’t mean she’d played basketball.

  Quinn had wondered why not.

  “He’s trying to taunt us,” he said.

  “More to it than that,” Helen said. She was wearing either no makeup or scant makeup skillfully applied.

  Pearl returned from the coffee machine carrying two steaming mugs. “It’s goddamned gruesome,” she said, handing one of the mugs to Helen.

  Helen accepted the mug and moved away a few feet to sit on a different desk. She’d been perched on Pearl’s. Now Pearl sat down at her desk and placed her coffee mug on a cork coaster.

  “If the killer’s trying to send someone a message, it’s probably Quinn,” Fedderman said.

  “And it’s probably more than a simple taunt,” Helen said.

  “I don’t know if it’s complicated,” Quinn said. “He wants to get me mad so I screw up. He’s playing chess.”

  “The chess analogy goes only so far,” Helen said.

  “Maybe the idea is to make you feel vulnerable,” Fedderman said, thinking back on his recent conversations with Penny.

  “That’s closer,” Helen said. “But it’s also possible that he wants to demonstrate how vulnerable Pearl is.”