by John Lutz
There were a couple of Robert B. Parker books on the bottom shelf of a bedside table, along with a book of photographs of Frank Lloyd Wright homes. Wright was on the cover in an old black-and-white photo, looking grim. As if he knew what had happened to Ann Spellman.
Pearl, standing by the dresser with its drawers still open, said, “She wore lots of thong underwear.”
“Do a lot of women wear that stuff?” Quinn asked. “It looks uncomfortable as hell.”
“That’s never stopped us,” Pearl said. “But I can’t answer your question. I’ve never seen a poll. I do know stores sell the hell out of thong underpants. Men go for women who like that kind of thing.”
“You’ve seen a poll?”
“They conduct them hourly in hook-up bars all over the city.”
“Hmm.”
“The thing is,” Pearl said, “Ann Spellman’s panties were a size too large for her.”
Quinn stood still and looked at Pearl, knowing where she was going.
“Right,” Pearl said. “They were the right size for Macy Collins. The size of all her other panties.”
Quinn should have realized it himself-Daniel Danielle usually left the corpses of his victims wearing the panties of his previous victim. For continuity, the Florida police profiler had said, which suggested the killer might be obsessive-compulsive.
Aren’t they all?
“Judging by the panty count I just made,” Pearl said, “the chances are better than fifty-fifty that the next victim will be wearing thong underwear the same size as what’s in this drawer.”
“I’d put it at sixty-forty,” Quinn said. “She must have gotten some kind of kick out of it, wearing her conservative business clothes over a thong.”
“Like half the working women in New York,” Pearl said.
“You really think so?”
“That’s what the polls say.”
“Who do they ask?”
“Men.”
“Ah.”
Quinn cupped his chin in his hand and glanced around the room. Ann Spellman seemed to fall within the amorphous definition of normal. Quinn had found no drug paraphernalia, serious S and M equipment, or extreme pornography. Nothing in her life suggesting danger.
Except, maybe, her recent firing from her job, and her breakup with Louis Gainer.
Quinn wondered which had come first.
Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!
The killer always enjoyed sipping an espresso at a sidewalk table at one of the city’s restaurants featuring outside dining. This Upper West Side restaurant, Spirit, had a wide, mustard-colored awning to ensure shade, and two large box fans providing something like a breeze. People were frequently walking past on the sidewalk beyond the black iron railing, a narrow passageway between the seating area and the traffic.
It was pleasant here, watching the hurrying pedestrians and the traffic on Amsterdam. The dinner crowd hadn’t yet arrived. There weren’t many other customers. A man and woman sat three tables away, leaning toward each other and engaged in intense conversation. The woman, with a small, shaggy dog resting at her feet, had her blond hair pinned up, and an oversized nose that made her unattractive. The man with her was also blond. He had a sparse ponytail, and was wearing jeans and a blue denim vest over a white T-shirt. They were both drinking beer from green bottles. Not far from them was a balding man who had a blue backpack resting beside his chair, and two men with heavy gray beards. The bearded ones were playing chess.
At a table near them sat a tall, thin man sipping what looked like iced tea and munching nuts from a small ceramic bowl.
The killer looked around his open netbook at the expanse of his glass-topped table and saw no nuts. Saw none on any of the other tables. He guessed you had to ask for them. He worked the computer’s touch pad, clicking the netbook’s cursor on the various pages of, one of the many websites that promised men the opportunity to meet whatever type of lonely woman they preferred. It was like browsing through a catalog. The killer found the website immensely entertaining. Tech was wonderful. Other people struggled with each new device or application that made its way to the market. Not the killer. He seemed to have been born to be a tech head.
“May I have some nuts?”
A waiter nodded and disappeared inside the restaurant.
The killer turned his attention to the two bearded men playing chess. They appeared to be in their sixties. Each was bent over the board, giving the game his rapt attention. One of them had several more pieces than the other. Traffic hummed and fumed past only a few feet from them, but they were oblivious to what was happening out in the street, beyond the shade of the awning. Right here, right now, the game was everything to them. Winning was paramount.
The killer had to smile. The chess players were completely unaware of him. They had no idea that going on very near them was a much more serious game of move and countermove. A game where lives were involved.
And deaths.
After another slow sip of espresso, the killer smiled even wider, at least on the inside.
He was contemplating how women, if you chose them carefully, became terrified and evasive when they knew they were being stalked, when they understood what was intended. They became truly desperate.
Then, at a certain point, they became played out and tired of watching and taking alternate routes, of double-checking locks, of constantly being cautious, of being afraid. They wanted it to happen, to be over. They welcomed it, whatever it was. They welcomed him.
Women. The perfect prey animal, surely made that way by God for the predators.
Of course, when they learned what it was really like, they changed their minds. Always. But too late.
They were like the prey animals on television nature channels that stood gasping and heaving after the chase, waiting for the inevitable because finally, on a primal level, they understood what and why they were. They would run no more. They accepted their predetermined end.
But when fang and claw were applied, when their last seconds arrived, they always struggled meagerly and futilely. A final and feeble burst of life force, not enough.
It interested him, that inevitable summoning of dying effort. Why did they cling so to every last tick of life? What did they know, or see, that frightened them so? A glimpse behind the curtain? Perhaps something looking back at them.
Or perhaps, nothing at all
He thought of Ann Spellman. Of how she’d fought so for her last few seconds of life. Of how her fingers had fluttered like a poignant good-bye at the end.
Of Frank Quinn and his dangerous band of misfit detectives.
Of Pearl.
God, he loved the game they were playing! A part of him worried that maybe he was beginning to love it too much and it cautioned him with inner voices. But for now he’d ignore those voices. He hated to use the word fun, because it seemed so inadequate to describe what he was capable of feeling. But the fact was-The waiter reappeared, and the killer beckoned him with a languid wave of his hand.
“Some nuts, please.”
22
T he Times had the heat wave above the news about Ann Spellman being murdered. An odd order of importance, but Quinn guessed it made sense, depending on who you were.
While Pearl held down things at the office, and Fedderman, Sal, and Harold were in Ann Spellman’s neighborhood talking to neighbors, merchants, and friends of the deceased, Quinn went to Clinton Industrial Designs to question Louis Gainer. He left the Lincoln parked outside the office, in a loading zone he knew was seldom used, and took a subway downtown to Third and Lex. Then he returned to the surface world and walked to East Fifty-fourth Street.
Clinton Industrial Designs occupied the top floor of a ten-story office building. A financial adviser and a dry-cleaner occupied the first floor. Quinn entered the building through a door located between them. He stepped into an ancient, creaky elevator, pushed the 10 button, and up he went with surprising smoothness.
A small, bustling woman
scurrying about in a reception area informed Quinn that Louis Gainer didn’t see people without an appointment. Quinn flashed her his ID and told her again he wanted to speak with Gainer.
The woman didn’t seem impressed. But she thought things through for a moment, then hurried over to a desk and said something into a blue phone. She replaced the receiver, staring at Quinn and obviously wondering about the nature of his visit.
Then the blue phone jangled, and she picked up the receiver and talked and listened. Mostly listened.
When she hung up, she smiled and came over to Quinn at almost a dead run.
“Mr. Gainer will see you. I’ll take you back.”
Quinn had to walk fast to keep up with the woman. They went through a door in the back wall of the reception area, down a narrow hall, and then through another door that led to a large loft area with skylights illuminating desks and drafting boards. Three men and two women were at the boards, working away like kids taking a final exam. Another man, sitting at a desk, stood up when they approached.
He was average height, lean, and muscular, wearing a white shirt, and a tie with a loosened knot. His brown slacks were made voluminous by pleats. He had dark wavy hair, open Irish features, and an engaging white smile.
The kind of guy people would describe as a lady-killer.
Quinn wondered how close that description was to the truth.
He introduced himself and, when the woman who’d escorted him was gone, Quinn told Louis Gainer he wanted to talk to him about Ann Spellman.
At the mention of her name, Gainer seemed about to start sobbing.
But he didn’t. Instead he simply nodded, his eyes moist, and led Quinn to a room containing a long table and ten identical wooden chairs down each side. There were matching black leather upholstered chairs at each end of the table. In one corner were a fax machine and phone. A computer with a large flat-screen monitor mounted above it was in another. The walls were adorned with framed color photographs of what looked like building lobbies. There were no people in any of the lobbies, only ferns.
Gainer sat down in a large leather chair at the head of the table, and motioned for Quinn to sit in the first wooden chair on his left. Some kind of power play?
Quinn lowered himself into the chair and was surprised by how comfortable it was.
“What exactly does your company do?” he asked.
Gainer seemed relieved that they weren’t getting right to the topic of the late Ann Spellman. “We design and install both public and private common spaces, taking into account ambience as well as functionality.”
“Ah,” Quinn said. He leaned slightly toward Gainer. “And Ann Spellman was one of your designers?”
At the mention of the victim’s name, Gainer winced. A normal enough response. They’d been close. “She was one of our best designers, and was in charge of one of our industrial units.”
“Yet you fired her.”
“No, no. The board fired her. We-they had no choice.”
“Something about her work or attitude?”
“Something that became inevitable,” Gainer said.
“Her reaction to being dropped by you?”
Gainer obviously didn’t like where the conversation was going. “You mean on a personal level?”
“The most personal.”
Gainer seemed to give that some thought, shifting position in his high-backed chair. “Well, yes. It was partly my fault for letting our relationship go as far as it had. She and I were good with each other, but in a temporary way. I knew that, and I thought she did. When I had to end it, I knew how she’d take it. Especially since I didn’t give her the kind of explanation I owed her.”
Quinn thought there were a lot of I’s in that answer. “And what was that explanation?”
“I’m in love with another woman. We’re going to be married.” Gainer sighed and looked at a blank wall as if there were a window in it and he was gazing outside. There was a lot of light, but it was artificial. There were no windows in what had to be the conference room. “You can see the company’s position. At least I could.”
“Hell hath no fury…?”
“Exactly.”
“You might have told her the truth,” Quinn said, “given her a chance to react. She might have surprised you and wished you well.”
Gainer smiled sadly. “That would have been a surprise, all right.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That the company was letting her go for economic reasons. That it was a board decision and had nothing to do with her competency.”
“How did she react?”
“By calling me a sack of shit.” He breathed in and out and looked ashamed. “Maybe she’s right.”
“And then you told her you and she were over?”
“No. She naturally assumed that. I mean, after I told her I was firing her. She thought I was cutting her loose from the company because I wanted to end our affair finally and forever. I don’t recall which of us, or either of us, came right out and said it was over. But believe me, it was understood.”
“And this conversation was when?”
“Three nights ago.”
“And that was the last time you saw her alive?”
“Or dead,” Gainer said.
“Where were you last night?”
“When Ann was killed? I was with the woman I’m going to marry. I have restaurant receipts. After we had dinner, we went with friends to the theater. I even happened to run into a man I went to school with. During intermission.”
“You seem to be covered for every minute.”
“Like it was planned?”
Quinn smiled. “Don’t get ahead of me, Mr. Gainer.”
“I mean, I could have paid somebody to kill Ann, and made sure I had an alibi. But I had no reason to harm her. She was gone from here, gone from my life.” He wiped away what might have been a tear. “To tell you the truth, I miss her. We were lovers. We were also good friends.”
“Friends or not, the company couldn’t take the chance.”
“No. We couldn’t even let her come back for her things. Had them delivered to her.” He looked beseechingly at Quinn. “You don’t know how fiercely competitive this business is. You have to be a hard-ass just to survive.”
“Like my business,” Quinn said.
“Yeah. From what I’ve heard.”
Quinn stood up. “Anything to add?”
“I don’t know what it would be.”
“Maybe a confession.”
Gainer sat back as if struck by a blow. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I’m trying to be cooperative. I didn’t do anything. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Gainer wiped at his eyes again. “Go ahead and check my alibi.”
“We will.” Quinn saw the fear in Gainer’s expression, along with the hope. This guy should never play poker. “I know what you think, Mr. Gainer, that maybe you should have lawyered up and gone mute. That you handled this meeting wrong. But you didn’t. Not if you told the truth.”
“Do you think I killed Ann? Or hired someone to kill her?”
“No,” Quinn said. “Right now, I don’t.”
“Thank you,” Gainer said.
Quinn went to the door. “But that’s right now.”
23
S ince it was the last door, they were together.
In Ann Spellman’s apartment building, Sal and Harold had knocked on all the doors but this one, 6-F. It didn’t promise to open on any new or pertinent knowledge of Spellman’s murder.
The slot in the mailbox down in the foyer had simply said A. Ackenheimer. The woman who opened the door said nothing. She simply stood and stared at them through rheumy, faded blue eyes. Her mousy brown hair was a mess, as was the baggy flannel nightgown or robe she wore even though it was four o’clock in the afternoon.
A close look at her suggested she was in her forties, but she was like a woman trying to appear older. An even closer l
ook revealed a certain glint in her eye. Harold thought that if she really got it together, with makeup and a hairdo, she might be attractive. No, probably not.
Sal leaned toward her slightly, sniffing for alcohol. Found something like smoked salmon. It could have been fish for lunch, but she looked as if she could be high on some other substance. He smelled nothing potentially incriminating.
“Miz Ackenheimer?” Harold said, as if attempting to wake her.
“Right on the first try,” she said in a throaty, fishy voice.
“A for Alice?” Harold said.
She smiled widely. “Amazing.”
Harold grinned beneath his bushy mustache and shrugged. “I’m kind of psychic sometimes, Audrey.”
She shook her head. “You, too? Amazing. Some people call me Amazing Ackenheimer. My given name is actually Audrey, but I’ve used the name Alice.”
“Are you in show business?” Harold asked.
Sal had had about enough of this. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Ann Spellman’s murder,” he told her in his rasp of a voice that was even deeper than hers.
“It sounds like you might juggle or something,” Harold said, “with a name like that.”
Sal glowered. Harold was being Harold here, with the last potential witness. It irked Sal.
“No,” Audrey Ackenheimer said. “I’m not in show business, though I can juggle. And I know nothing about Ann Spellman’s murder. She’s not-wasn’t-even on this floor. And wasn’t she killed someplace else altogether?”
“Not necessarily altogether,” Sal said. “Her apartment, her neighbors, might have something useful to tell us.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Audrey Ackenheimer said.
“Did you know her at all?”
“Only to nod to on the elevator about every two weeks.” Suddenly she paused and looked off to the side.
“Something?” Sal asked.
“I was just remembering… last week I accidentally pushed the wrong button in the elevator and the door opened on her floor. Ann Spellman’s. Well, there’s a straight look down the hall to her apartment, and I saw a woman standing in front of Spellman’s door. Then I looked again and she wasn’t there. I suppose Ann Spellman let the woman in.”