by John Lutz
The vehicles that were actually owned by teenagers were usually customized. Cars were chopped to create lower roof-lines or raked forward on jacked-up suspensions. Pickup trucks sported oversized knobby tires that looked as if they belonged on a tractor. The family cars borrowed for the night were generally less interesting, the newer ones looking as if they’d just been driven home from the dealers.
Jerry Grantland sat parked in his mother’s eight-year-old green Chevy Impala, definitely not cruiser material. It was scraped and dented along one side from when it had been sideswiped two years ago. Jerry’s mother, Miriam, had chosen to keep the insurance payment and leave the car unrepaired. It ran just as well with its exterior damage, and she needed the money.
Idly chewing on a cheeseburger and sipping a large fountain Coke from a soggy waxed cup, Jerry watched the slow and proud parade of vehicles. As a vintage red Mustang went past, its driver, a fat kid with a military buzz cut, glanced over and gave Jerry the finger. The gesture of disdain was for no reason Jerry could figure out. Most of the other drivers stared straight ahead, imperious in their art projects on wheels.
A jacked-up Ford pickup cruised past, deep maroon and gleaming in the sodium lights rimming Holi-Burger’s lot. Adam Clement was behind the steering wheel. He was a year older than Jerry, tall and painfully skinny, with scruffy blond hair and thick glasses with oversized frames.
Jerry paused in his chewing and sat forward. Someone was in the truck’s high cab with Adam. As it rolled past, Jerry caught a glimpse of the passenger. A girl. He could tell that much by her size and hair. And she looked like Chrissie Keller.
Chrissie had been hanging out with Adam and his group lately, so maybe the two of them were going together.
Jerry didn’t see what Chrissie saw in an awkward beanpole like Adam. And it wasn’t as if he was a genius. Adam was always getting special help, and he spent more than his share of time in detention. So what was the appeal? Jerry didn’t think it was Adam’s truck that Chrissie liked. But then with girls, women, who could tell?
Jerry waited patiently for the maroon truck to come around again. The Chevy’s windows were down, and he could hear revving engines, voices, a cacophony of music from radios. Someone had the Indians’ ballgame on the radio, the announcer’s voice somehow finding its way through the muted riot of sound. A huge summer moth lit on Jerry’s left elbow. He flicked it away and drew in the arm he’d had propped out the window.
He got a better look at the maroon truck this time around and was pretty sure Chrissie was in there with Adam.
In fact, absolutely sure.
But he was wrong, and he found out immediately.
A gray Voyager minivan bounced over the concrete lip of the driveway and rolled to an open parking space about fifty feet from Jerry’s. Chrissie got out, waited for a break in cruise traffic, and strode quickly and purposefully toward the restaurant. She was wearing a white tank top, cut-off jeans, and what looked like floppy rubber thongs, the kind with the little strip of rubber that went between the toes. Her brown hair bounced as she walked. The way the jeans were cut so short, it made her tanned legs look incredibly long.
Jerry was one of the few people who could tell the twins apart within seconds rather than minutes. He’d spent plenty of time observing-studying-them. Chrissie walked gracefully but with a slight forward lean and her elbows tucked in farther than Tiffany’s.
Jerry had been so sure, even though he hadn’t gotten a clear look. But he had no doubt now that it was Tiffany in the truck with Adam.
He watched Chrissie enter the restaurant and join the line at the counter where orders were placed.
Jerry took a deep breath, climbed out of the Chevy, and jogged across the lot toward the restaurant.
He was able to be next in line, right behind Chrissie, standing so close he could smell her perfume or shampoo. Better than that was the faint heat and scent of her perspiration.
She pretended she hadn’t seen him, but when it was impossible to ignore him any longer she glanced at him, nodded, and turned away again.
He didn’t know what to say, so said simply, “Chrissie.”
She turned back to look at him. “Hi, Jerry.”
His throat was tight, and he had nothing to say. “Got the minivan, I see,” was all that squeaked out.
She didn’t bother answering his inane question.
“There’s a, uh, dance next Saturday,” Jerry managed to say.
Golden legs moved at the bottom of his vision as she shifted her body to look at him. “No, Jerry.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Really, why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Why won’t you go out with me?”
“I don’t want to.”
“But-”
“Drop it, Jerry.”
“I mean, really?”
Jerry’s face was warm. God! What a conversation! His throat always constricted and made it difficult to talk to Chrissie.
“You two wanna order?” the middle-aged guy behind the counter asked. He had a puffy face and obviously dyed black hair combed forward in bangs to conceal a receding hairline.
“We’re not together,” Chrissie said.
She ordered a double hamburger, fries, and a diet Coke, then laid out the bills and exact change on the stainless-steel counter.
“You’re number one-ten,” the counterman said. He scooped the money from the counter and placed it where it belonged in the cash register.
Chrissie got her receipt and moved well to the side. Jerry followed. They were near a window and far enough away from the order line and tables that they wouldn’t be overheard if they kept their voices low.
“I mean, really,” Jerry said again.
“We both know you’re a sicko, Jerry. A voyeur. That’s somebody who watches people while they do it.”
A hot coal of embarrassment began to burn in his stomach.
He felt like turning and walking away, but he didn’t.
He glared at Chrissie. “You watch what happens to Tiffany and don’t do anything to stop it. Then you get your bare ass whipped and like it, and you call me a sicko?”
Oh, he could talk to her now. His anger made it possible.
And it felt good.
Chrissie looked astounded. “Like it? You actually think I like it? And you obviously like to watch it. That just shows what a sicko you are.”
“But you know I’m watching.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? We always leave the window raised a little so there’s air circulation. It’d look funny if we closed it all the way.”
“Chrissie-”
“One ten!” proclaimed a voice behind the counter.
Chrissie moved away from Jerry, picked up a white paper sack and plastic-lidded cup from the counter, and stalked from the restaurant.
Jerry stood fuming. The guy behind the counter grinned at him and shrugged, as if to say, “Women.”
Jerry burst from the restaurant.
Women!
Women! Women!
By the time he reached his mother’s car, Chrissie was already driving the gray minivan from the lot. Its tires squealed as she made a right turn on the county road.
Jerry stood and watched the boxy vehicle speed away.
Fine! Does she think I might follow her?
He lowered himself into the Chevy and started the engine. As he looked up he saw the maroon pickup truck cruise past again. The girl in the cab with Adam was plainly visible this time, and didn’t look anything like either Tiffany or Chrissie.
Jerry wondered if he’d been expecting to see one of the twins in the truck with Adam, expecting it to be Chrissie. Was his mind playing tricks? Was he nuts? A sicko, like Chrissie said?
The glowing coal in his gut burst into flame. He almost bent the ignition key starting the car’s engine. Women! He slammed the shift lever into drive and floored the accelerator, burning rubber as the big car squealed from its parking space. Jerry barely missed hitt
ing a blue and cream Chrysler, gleaming like an Easter egg. Horns blared at him as he turned left on the street bordering the parking lot.
He ran a stop sign, his foot still mashing down on the accelerator. Wind swirled in the car, ruffling his hair and cooling his perspiring face, promising freedom. Speed was an intoxicant. If he could drive fast enough, far enough, he might outrun his troubles.
A lineup of low buildings, then Munger’s Hardware and the gas station, flashed past, and he was out of the business area.
The road leveled out before his headlight beams, inviting speed. Jerry accepted the invitation, feeling the car sway as he steered it through a series of gentle curves.
There was a jolt as the right front wheel jumped the pavement and sank into the soft shoulder, causing the steering wheel to spin and almost break Jerry’s thumb. He tried to stamp on the brake pedal, but he was bouncing around so much in his seat that he missed it and the car picked up speed.
The right fender scraped a tree with a harsh metallic sound, slowing the car not at all. Jerry’s foot found the brake pedal, and he mashed down on it so hard that he pushed himself back into the upholstery. There was a series of hard jolts, and a tire must have gone flat. Jerry could hear rubber beating and flapping around like crazy in the wheel well. The car fishtailed and nosed down sharply as it lost speed. The steering wheel was like a trapped thing trying to slip from his grasp, fighting him as he tried to control it.
Then it stopped fighting.
Everything stopped.
Remained still.
The car’s right front was lodged in the ditch running parallel to the street. The engine was dead. Jerry could hear crickets ratcheting nearby.
He got the door open even though it stuck for a few seconds and made a loud metallic ponk! Pushing hard on the door, he climbed out into the suddenly motionless world. His thoughts were still speeding, still a jumble. He stood dizzily and was afraid he might fall, so he extended his left arm and his hand found the car’s smooth metal roof. He leaned on it, not hard, just enough to steady himself.
Jerry looked back and saw that the tree he’d thought he scraped was actually a metal mailbox on a wooden post. Post and mailbox lay on the grass.
Someone’s lawn���
It was beginning to sink in to Jerry that he was in real trouble.
The porch light came on at the nearest house. A dog, off in the distance, began a high, insistent barking.
A man with a flashlight came out of the house with the porch light and walked toward Jerry.
In the opposite direction, down the street, a car rounded the corner and came toward the accident scene. Red and blue lights on its roof began to flash.
Jerry felt his heart rise to his throat and expand.
The man with the flashlight was close now. He walked gingerly, as if his feet hurt, and was wearing wrinkled pants, a baby blue pajama top buttoned crookedly, and blue corduroy slippers. He was old and had a gray buzz cut.
He looked at Jerry and didn’t seem mad. In fact, he seemed to sympathize with Jerry.
“You got somebody you can call?” he asked.
“I guess my mother.”
“A boy’s best friend,” the man said.
“Goddamn you, Jerry!”
The leather belt cut through the air and bit into his bare buttocks. His mother grunted like an animal with the effort of swinging her arm. She was so furious she was almost sobbing.
“Goddamn you! You know I need that car for work! Goddamn you!”
The belt whirred through the air again and raised a welt on the back of his right thigh. He looked back and saw tears tracking down his mother’s face. “What did you think you were doing? Goddamn you!” Another half grunt, half sob. He could smell the gin sweet on her breath.
He heard the swish of the belt again.
Jerry gritted his teeth and endured the pain. He tried to move away from it inside his mind, letting it happen to someone else. He wished he could be a different Jerry standing way off to the side and observing. It wasn’t that his mother didn’t love him. She was angry and had every right to be, and she’d been drinking.
This was his fault. Whatever punishment he got, he deserved.
He’d read someplace how somebody who’d been in a POW camp had learned to survive the beatings administered by his captors by being able to accept the pain. Almost to welcome it. Then to like it.
“Goddamn you, Jerry!”
46
New York, the present
The office door opened and closed, admitting a surge of warm air that mixed with the only slightly cooler air provided by the valiantly struggling air conditioner.
“You’re late,” Quinn said.
Pearl glanced at her watch: 9:22. She didn’t bother answering Quinn, but instead walked to her desk and sat down. There was an erectness of posture and a quickness in her step that meant something.
Anger?
Fedderman and Addie Price were at Fedderman’s desk, Addie standing and peering over Fedderman’s shoulder at his computer screen.
Quinn, seated at his own desk, had already dispatched Vitali and Mishkin to step up their search for both Chrissie Kellers, and they had left in their unmarked car.
Pearl began shuffling through papers on her desk and rearranging items on its surface. She was in one of her moods and obviously wasn’t going to say anything. It appeared that something profound had happened.
The office was warm and smelled faintly of cigar smoke (Quinn falling victim to his secret vice). The air conditioner had cycled and was down to a barely audible hum. There was even a lull in the background sound of traffic outside. The silence was becoming so thick it threatened to solidify like concrete.
Fedderman cleared his throat. “Rough night, Pearl?”
Pearl stopped what she was doing and looked over at him as if he’d spoken a foreign language.
“Those look like tea bags under your eyes,” Fedderman said, by way of explanation.
Pearl shrugged and ignored Fedderman, returning to her work.
Quinn grew more curious. He stood and walked over to the coffee brewer set up on the corner table. Casually, he poured two mugs of coffee, one for himself and one for Pearl in her initialed mug. He added powdered cream to hers, the way he knew she liked it, and carried both mugs over to her desk. He set hers on a cork Kiss Me Kate coaster near her computer keyboard.
He took a sip of his own coffee. It was too damned hot and burned his tongue.
“Something wrong?” he asked Pearl.
She looked up at him and smiled, surprising him.
“Something right.” She held out her left hand.
He saw the diamond on her ring finger, but at first didn’t comprehend its meaning.
He did know he’d misinterpreted Pearl’s silence, and her mood.
Addie Price had walked over from Fedderman’s desk and was examining the ring from about five feet away. She was smiling, too.
“You’re engaged!” she said.
Pearl beamed and bobbed her head in a yes.
Quinn thought, Uh-oh!
Fedderman had stood up and wandered over. “Congratulations, Pearl,” he said sincerely.
Pearl thanked him.
Quinn and Addie joined in with their congratulations.
“So that’s why you were late this morning,” Fedderman said.
Here was a remark that could be taken in different ways, but Pearl let it slide.
“And the lucky man is?” Addie asked, as if she were hosting a quiz show. Everyone there could guess even though they had a hard time believing.
“Yancy Taggart,” Pearl said.
There! It was true. Out in the open and everyone would just have to get used to it
Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Quinn said, “Congratulations to Yancy, too.”
“When’s the wedding?” Addie asked.
Pearl noticed that Addie had changed positions with Fedderman and was now standing near Quinn. “We haven’t d
ecided on a date yet. It’ll probably be in Las Vegas.”
“A gamble,” Quinn muttered.
“What?” Pearl asked sharply.
“Nothing,” Quinn said. “Talking to myself.”
He looked again at her left ring finger and figured the diamond for at least a full carat-if it was real. Who could tell, with a fiance like Yancy Taggart?
“Very nice ring,” he said.
“I think so,” Pearl said.
Fedderman offered his hand for Pearl to shake.
Addie moved closer and kissed her on the cheek. “Well, I think it’s wonderful!”
“I do, too!” Pearl said.
Quinn sent forth a smile and nodded, but Pearl caught the hurt expression in his eyes and felt a stab of���something. Guilt? Sympathy?
Regret?
No, damn it! Not regret!
“While our happy world spins on,” Quinn said, “so does Chrissie Keller’s and the Carver’s.”
“Anything I need to know?” asked the latecomer Pearl.
Quinn thought there was plenty, but said, “Sal and Harold are working the Chrissie disappearance. We were going to coordinate witness statements on the Joyce House murder and follow up on anything that doesn’t coincide.”
“Think Renz would want it done that way?” Pearl asked. She knew the wily commissioner would prefer to have his NYPD minions, Vitali and Mishkin, working the actual murder cases rather than searching for the Chrissie Kellers.
“He’s not running the investigation in the field,” Quinn said. “I am.”
Pearl understood Quinn’s thinking. For more than the obvious reasons, he was determined to stay in charge of the investigation. The closer he was to the Carver murders, the more control he’d have over what knowledge flowed to Renz. Knowledge was leverage, and who knew when that might be needed?
“It’s all the same case,” Quinn said. “Or Renz wouldn’t have assigned us Sal and Harold. And Addie.”
Pearl decided that Addie, now seated on the corner of Fedderman’s desk, was definitely looking at Quinn in a contemplative manner. Putting on quite a leg show, too.
With Pearl engaged, Quinn had become fair game, and he might welcome solace. Addie knew Quinn was hopelessly stuck on Pearl, and he’d feel injured and rejected. She, seemed ready to play the rebound.