Pulse fq-7

by John Lutz

  She pressed down on the manuscript in her lap, making sure none of the pages would be caught by the breeze, and looked up at the sky. Stars were becoming visible, and a pale moon was almost full. There were only a few wispy clouds, so the breeze was a bluff; it didn’t figure to rain.

  Unhurried, she gathered up her things, sliding the thick manuscript into her computer case, along with pencil, eraser, sharpener, and a paperback Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary that she needed a magnifying glass to read.

  She was about to stand up when a figure suddenly sat down beside her, and something was clamped over her mouth and nose.

  Startled, she gasped and inhaled something that made her dizzy, and then relaxed, and then very, very sleepy.

  Neeve opened her eyes.

  Terrific! I’m in Central Park after dark.

  None of that wondering where she was, or what had happened to her. Neeve almost instantly remembered exactly what had happened. Only it was much darker now, with shadows moving slightly on the grass of her near and low horizon. She had no idea how much time had passed.

  Jesus! I’m twisted like a pretzel.

  She was lying on her stomach, her wrists bound behind her, and apparently tied to her ankles that were drawn up close to her wrists and also tightly bound. Hog-tied. The awkward position put a terrible strain on her back, and her movements were restricted to none.

  Neeve was breathing through her nose because something-it felt and tasted like tape-was fixed firmly over her mouth. Her lips were mashed open by the suddenness of what had happened. And there was the faint smell she’d experienced moments before passing out. Chloroform was her guess, though she’d never before smelled chloroform.

  The way her body parts that touched each other felt, the subtle movement of air over her body, made her sure she was nude. No, she felt something. Her assailant hadn’t removed her panties.

  A voice said, “Ups-a-daisy,” and warm hands were placed beneath her shoulders. She had no illusions that this was a rescuer. She was tilted back onto her knees, her spine still bowed, so that she was staring straight up at a full yellow moon visible between overhead branches.

  The warm hands cupped her breasts, hefted them, and then released them. There was a darker dark above her that blotted out the stars. Movement. And then a hand held a knife before her eyes so she couldn’t help but stare at it. The hand rotated the blade deftly so it glinted silver in the moonlight.

  “You know who I am?” a voice asked.

  Neeve made a soft whimpering sound. She read the papers, watched the news. She understood who had her.

  Her feet, her painfully bent legs, her brain, her soul, wanted to leap up and run. She heard herself grunting with effort that resulted in no movement other than a shuddering that ran through her body.

  The hand without the knife patted her cheek fondly.

  The pain began.

  Quinn lay next to Pearl in the dim bedroom, aware of the subtle movement of her body as she breathed evenly in deep sleep. She was facing away from him, still nude after their lovemaking, covered lightly with the sheet as if in modesty. It was cool in the room, and the air conditioner had cycled off. The varied sounds of the sleeping city haunted the night, as well as nearer noises of the old brownstone.

  Quinn often thought that if houses could indeed be haunted, New York’s brownstones of the 1800s would be among them. During the day he sometimes felt lonely in the looming old building, but at night he seemed somehow not to be alone even when Pearl wasn’t with him. Jody, upstairs, almost didn’t seem to count, so insulated was she by the thick walls and floors of the old brownstone.

  Well, if there were ghosts about, there should be no reason to fear them. He might even thank them for the company.

  Oddly comforted by that thought, he fell asleep.

  A huge wasp was chasing him down a long dirt road, sometimes buzzing past him and circling again behind. The damned thing was as big as a bird, and its buzz sounded like a model airplane engine. Quinn lengthened his stride and ran faster than he thought possible. His heart was pounding.

  Then he tripped and fell on the gravelly dirt road, skinning bare arms and elbows. And the harsh buzz of the wasp grew louder.

  He scrambled to get up, knowing the wasp meant business now. Its droning didn’t vary; it was no longer circling. It was coming right at him. He forced himself to turn and look at it.

  There it was on the bedside table, beyond it morning light piercing the edges of the blinds. He realized he was awake, but the damned wasp…

  His cell phone, set to vibrate, was buzzing and droning as it danced over the hard wood surface of the table, not falling to the floor only because it kept coming into contact with the lamp base.

  The fright of Quinn’s dream dissipated. The clock radio’s glowing red numbers said it was a little past 6:00 AM.

  Christ…!

  He was alone in the bed. Pearl must be up already, maybe in the kitchen. Quinn tried to wake up all the way, shook the numbness of sleep from his right arm, and reached for the buzzing, vibrating phone.

  He grasped it, flipped the lid up, and silenced the damned thing.

  His sleep-fogged eyes were too unfocused to make out who was calling, but he immediately recognized Renz’s voice.

  “Time to get up, sleepyhead. Time for a walk in the park.”

  53

  T he sun was barely up, shining through a low, glowing haze that lurked between tall buildings. Half a dozen steps outside the brownstone, and already Quinn’s shirt was sticking to him. When he got into the car, the leather upholstery felt comfortably cool on his back. For about five seconds.

  Pearl got into the passenger seat and fanned herself with an old playbill from Catch Me If You Can. The humidity was going to be a bitch. Maybe Pearl was, too. The heat.

  “It smells suspiciously like cigar smoke in here,” she said.

  “Don’t start.”

  “You talking to me, or the car?”

  “Depends on which one of you gives me a lot of shit.”

  They were both quiet the rest of the way. Neither of them liked where they were going.

  Quinn and Pearl left Quinn’s big Lincoln parked on Central Park West and entered the park on foot. Renz’s directions were easy to follow. Yellow crime tape was visible ahead and to the left, along with one of several uniformed cops posted to keep people away from the scene. It was something they’d realize in an instant that they’d rather not have seen.

  Nift was already there, along with a police photographer and the crime scene unit. Renz stood back about twenty feet from all the activity, wearing an expensive blue suit that made his corpulent body look almost svelte. He was standing away because he was calmly smoking a cigar and didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene. The scent of the cigar immediately made Quinn want to smoke one. That sure as hell wasn’t going to happen. Not with Pearl within half a mile. He absently touched his shirt pocket, seeking a cigar, and found only a ballpoint pen.

  “Sorry to rouse you two so early,” Renz said, winking at Pearl.

  “We were already up and back from our morning jog,” Pearl lied.

  Renz didn’t know if she was kidding. He looked confused for a moment and puffed on his cigar. Blew some smoke.

  “Is it still legal to smoke in the park?” Quinn asked.

  Renz shrugged. “Who the hell cares?” He motioned with his head toward whatever was on the ground and the center of attention just beyond the small rise of dew-damp grass.

  Quinn squinted in that direction. “Who found her?”

  “Pair of young lovers,” Renz said. “Or so they say. They might have been young muggers. One of them was carrying a sock full of marbles.”

  “The girl have a weapon?”

  “They were both girls. The one without the marbles let out a scream that attracted attention, so they slipped into the mode of good citizens.” Renz flicked his cigar, holding it well away so ashes wouldn’t drift onto his suit. “They’re at
the precinct house making a statement. You can talk to them if you want, but they’re just who they say. I called there and neither one has a sheet. One’s an artist and one isn’t, and they both get money from mom or dad.”

  “What kind of artist?” Pearl asked.

  “The kind you won’t find in a gallery.” Renz ground out his cigar on the sole of his shoe and flipped away the still-glowing butt. “You two had breakfast?”

  “Earlier,” Pearl said. Whatever happened, she didn’t want to wind up having breakfast with Renz.

  “Good luck,” Renz said, and led the way to the body.

  The victim was hog-tied, like the others, staring up at what would have been a night sky when she was killed. Though obviously beautiful when she was alive, her pale body, nude but for a pair of twisted pink panties, had the waxy sheen of death where it wasn’t smeared with blood. Her well-structured face with its once strong features now wore an expression of fear and distraction, her dark eyes focused on something far above where she lay contorted on planet earth. Her breasts had been neatly removed, leaving only a few jagged rags of flesh.

  “God, almighty!” Pearl said, as they stood staring down at the corpse. “You’d think we’d get used to looking at this.”

  “They’re individual people,” Nift said. “That’s what makes each one interesting.”

  Pearl didn’t know quite how to take that. Had Nift said something compassionate?

  “She had a great rack, like the others,” the nasty little M.E. added.

  There was the familiar disgusting Nift.

  Pearl refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

  “The panties look like they fit her,” Renz said. “Maybe they’re actually hers.”

  Quinn didn’t see how Renz could hazard a guess at that, considering the way the nylon panties were twisted.

  “I don’t think they were put on postmortem,” Nift said. “Looks like he either put them on her himself, or made her put them on before she was tied up.”

  “Looks like the same kind of rope he used on the others,” Quinn said.

  “It is,” Nift confirmed. “The ends cut with a sharp knife, like with the other rope. And she was tied up using simple but effective square knots, same as with the other victims.”

  “Same asshole,” Pearl said.

  “Without a doubt,” Nift said. “Almost surely the same knife.” He grinned at Pearl. “And of course there’s that other thing.”

  Pearl glared at him. “What would that be?”

  “She’s a dead ringer for you, Pearl.”

  Quinn rested a hand on her shoulder. “He’s pretty much right about that, Pearl.”

  “I can’t say I see her that way,” Pearl said. “But then maybe I wouldn’t, being me.”

  “Daniel Danielle liked them with dark hair and eyes and big boobs,” Nift said, leering at Pearl.

  Quinn gave him a warning look that made him concentrate again on the victim.

  Renz had been over talking to the CSU people and a uniformed patrolman. He came back now carrying a black computer case and a purse.

  “She has a name,” he said. “Neeve Cooper. And a West Side address within easy walking distance or a short subway ride from here. Purse had some of her business cards in it. They say she was a freelance editor.”

  “Worked at home?”

  “Or in the park,” Renz said. “There’s a bunch of paper in this case looks like it could be turned into a book. Red and blue pencil writing on some of the pages. Here and there, what might be somebody’s name.” He handed the purse and computer case to Quinn. “See if she knows anybody name of Stet.”

  “Could be Steve,” Quinn said.

  “Naw. It’s in there half a dozen times.”

  Quinn assumed the crime scene unit was finished with the purse, so he put his right hand into it, felt around among wadded tissue, a comb, a Metrocard with an angled corner, and a wallet, and found some keys on a ring. One of them felt like a door key.

  When he looked up he saw that Nancy Weaver had joined them and was standing alongside Renz. She and Quinn exchanged nods. Weaver, known among the NYPD as the woman who put the “cop” in “copulate,” had slept her way up the bureaucratic ladder. There were even rumors about her and Quinn, but Pearl had never believed them.

  Weaver had been out of town, recovering from serious injuries she’d received during her last case with Q amp;A. She’d been back for several weeks.

  Now Weaver acted as the sometimes liaison between Renz and Q amp;A. Another way of saying rat.

  “I’ve been filled in,” Weaver said.

  Numerous times in numerous ways, Pearl thought.

  “We’ll go have a look at Neeve’s apartment, talk to her neighbors,” Quinn said to Renz.

  “I already sent a crime scene unit over there,” Renz said.

  “We’ll stay out of their way.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Weaver said.

  “Good idea,” Renz said.

  Nobody said anything for a while.

  “Couldn’t hurt,” Pearl said.

  Her gracious contribution to diplomacy.

  “I need to know her panty size,” Quinn said.

  “I wrote it down,” Weaver said. “Figured it couldn’t hurt.”

  Pearl gnashed her teeth.

  54

  Leighton, Wisconsin, 1986

  “D aryl Smith told me they found Duffy,” Sherri’s voice said on the phone.

  It was Saturday morning and Rory had slept late. He sat up in bed and wiped his eyes. His mother had answered the phone downstairs on the eighth or ninth ring and yelled up the stairs that it was for him and it was past time he got up and what was he going to do, sleep all day? Rory woke up all the way, trying to comprehend what Sherri had just said.

  Found Duffy?

  “How could they have?” he asked. “And how would Daryl know?”

  “He’s working for that construction company that’s widening the county road, and the bulldozer scoop turned over some earth, and there was Duffy. That’s what he said, anyway.”

  “So how’d you-”

  “Daryl just called me on his car phone. I’ve got no way to get out there, Rory. I need for you to drive us.”

  Us. I gotta wake up all the way, learn more about this. Duffy… still making trouble.

  “I think my mom’s gonna use the car to go shopping,” he said. “She wants to go to Antoine’s.”

  “Can’t you talk her out of it?”

  “Talk my mom out of shopping? Are you kidding?”

  “For God’s sake, Rory, this is Duffy!”

  “Okay. I can try to talk her into staying home,” Rory said.

  “You will talk her into it, sweetheart. You can talk anyone into anything. I oughta know.”

  “It’s not like I have an actual driver’s license, Sher.”

  “There’s no car here, Rory. If you can’t get your mom’s, I’m gonna start walking.”

  “That’s miles, Sherri.”

  “It’s for Duffy, Rory.”

  Goddamnit!

  At that moment Rory wished that he could run over Duffy again.

  “I’ll go downstairs and talk to her,” he said.

  “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  Rory wasn’t used to being called sweetheart-by anyone. He thought it might be nice to get used to it.

  “You sound kinda foggy,” Sherri said. “Are you still in bed?”

  “I was about to get up.”

  “My God, Rory, it’s almost ten-thirty.”

  “I’m on my way.” He stood up as he talked and took a few stumbling steps.

  “Hurry, please!” he heard Sherri say, just before he hung up.

  “So how’d you deal with your mom?” Sherri asked Rory, as she slid into the Impala front seat beside him.

  “Told her this was super important, and it involved you. She likes you. Then I said I was just going two blocks to pick up Teddy Boylston first. He’s a eighteen and has a license, so I
’d be okay with him with my learner’s permit.”

  “Will Teddy lie for you?”

  “I know where he keeps his stash, so he’ll cooperate.”

  “You oughtn’t use that shit,” Sherri said.

  “It’s not heroin.”

  Rory and Sherri had argued about this before, and both knew where it would end. She wasn’t going to use drugs, and Rory was into moderate use of marijuana and coke. She couldn’t talk him out of it. He couldn’t talk her into it. They lapsed into silence as Rory drove toward the county road.

  They’d turned and driven about three miles when they saw the red cones on the road, and a W ORK Z ONE sign. A small Bobcat earthmover was jolting and jerking back and forth while two darkly tanned guys without shirts stood leaning on shovels watching. One of them was Daryl Smith.

  When Rory steered the Chevy to the shoulder and parked, Daryl nodded to Sherri and pointed precisely toward the spot where Rory had buried the dog.

  Sherri clambered out of the car and ran to it. Rory followed. He looked over at Daryl, who shrugged and walked toward the Bobcat to shovel and smooth a mound of dirt it had left.

  Rory stood beside Sherri, and there at her feet was what was left of Duffy. The remains were rotted and unidentifiable as a dog except for the once fluffy black coat, now lackluster and coated with dirt.

  “You sure it’s him?” Rory asked.

  Sherri sobbed, did a half turn, and dug her forehead into his chest. She began to sob, then quickly gathered herself, straightened up, and swiped her arm across her nose. She nodded. “It’s Duffy. But he had a collar.”

  “This dog doesn’t have one. Maybe it’s not-”

  “It’s Duffy,” Sherri said firmly. She began to look around. “They’ve moved so much with that little bulldozer.”

  But Rory knew they hadn’t moved enough. The Bobcat had gone nowhere near where he’d thrown Duffy’s collar into the brush. If the collar was still there, Sherri was sure to find it. She was moving slowly, head down, playing her lead foot back and forth through the weeds with each step as she advanced toward where the collar must be. Rory knew that if the collar was still there, it would look better if he found it.