by John Lutz
Not sure.
“We can both still practice our craft,” Jubal said. “We have to.”
Claire wasn’t positive she still had to, hormones having reshuffled her priorities at least for now, but maybe he’d meant they had to continue acting for financial reasons. She smiled. There was always that, even though right now they had quite a pad and it was growing. But there were expenses, medical bills, decorating the baby’s room; it all added up. At least they had some insurance to cover medical expenses. Not much, but some.
“Too bad we don’t have decorator’s insurance,” she said.
“Huh?”
She smiled. “Just thinking out loud. Not making much sense. It’s a preggy prerogative.”
“Point taken.” He poured more wine. “This bother you? Me drinking in front of you?”
She shook her head no. “I don’t miss it. And it’s not forever.”
“I’ll have to leave for Chicago tomorrow evening. They want to get into rehearsal right away.”
“You’ve only just read the script.”
“I can read it again on the plane. There’s a red-eye to Chicago. I can read instead of sleep.”
“Yeah, then you can be so tired, you’ll fuck up during rehearsal.”
“Not to worry, I have a contract.”
You have phone conversations. “Signed?”
“Well, no, not yet.”
“Thinking with your actor’s hormones,” Claire said.
“Okay, you’ve topped me—I can take it.” He raised his glass. “To the future.”
She lifted her water goblet and they clinked glasses. “Our future.”
Jubal peered around his raised glass at his wife seated across the table from him. Actor’s hormones. She has no idea how grateful I am for this role.
He knew Claire had always underestimated his acting abilities. Of course she wasn’t alone in that.
They drank to the rest of their lives.
Pearl having sex.
Her tiny bedroom hot and humid with the scent of sex.
She’d personally checked with Dr. Liran and knew it was okay; men with hearts like Quinn’s seldom suffered an attack during the sexual act. Better for him than a drink and a cigar, the doctor had said. Pearl sure as hell hoped so.
She’d already been satisfied. Quinn had learned about her fast and knew how to bring out a tenderness in her that even Pearl hadn’t suspected she possessed. He could make the uneasiness and loneliness dissipate, at least for a while. With Quinn she was herself. With Quinn she was reborn.
Pearl was no stranger to multiple orgasms, but she doubted it would be possible this time, though she wasn’t sure why.
Quinn’s weight was heavy on her, even though he was propped on his elbows and knees. The bedsprings were squealing, the headboard banging against the wall. His labored breathing was harsh in her right ear. She adjusted her legs, trying to get more comfortable.
Jesus! What am I doing?
She couldn’t help it. Something about the ceiling fixture directly above held her attention. The fixture was old, metal of some sort, with a stamped floral design that had been painted over so many times it was almost indiscernible. It held two lightbulbs, and if their glare needed softening, it was up to the tenant to buy some sort of shades to fit over the bulbs.
Quinn gasped and his body became rigid. She thought he’d climaxed, but he hadn’t. He began thrusting into her again. And again. It wasn’t that Pearl wasn’t still enjoying it on a certain level (what the hell, it was sex), it was just that by now she was out of the mood.
That fixture has to go. Has to be replaced. Maybe by something on a chain that throws more light. Or a paddle fan with a light kit. There’s an idea.
My God, I’m like that unfeeling woman in the joke who’s trying to figure out during sex what color to paint the ceiling.
Well, maybe not quite that bad.
This isn’t like me!
Then she realized why staring at the light fixture so intrigued her. It had sparked something related in her mind. Something about the Night Prowler investigation. It was so strange, how the mind worked. She couldn’t quite get a grip on what was nibbling at the edges of her consciousness.
Something on the other side of the wall that the headboard was banging against crashed to the floor. Probably something in the closet that held the painting supplies Pearl seldom used or even looked at.
Decorators!
Yes, decorators!
Additional suspects. Stones unturned.
She lowered her legs. “Quinn!”
Startled, he straightened his arms and reared back, withdrawing from her. “Wha’s wrong…I hurt you?”
“Decorators, Quinn.”
“Huh?” He glanced around as if he’d been warned. His unruly hair was damp and mussed and a bead of perspiration dripped from his forehead onto her pillow. She heard it plop onto the taut linen. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, then peered down at her quizzically. “You did say decorators?”
She squirmed out from beneath him, which wasn’t difficult, the way they were both sweating. “Everyone who might have been given a key to enter the victims’ apartments in the times leading up to their deaths—supers, trusted neighbors, tradesmen like plumbers and electricians—have all been questioned by the police.”
“Including interior decorators.”
“Exactly. When people can afford a professional decorator, they often turn over the apartment to him and trust his judgment on everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes. And they don’t want to be home while the work’s being done.”
“You know this?”
“Sure. Every woman knows this. Who wants to live with sawdust in their hair? And if the owner or tenant wants to give the decorator free rein, he usually gets a key to keep the entire time the job’s in progress.” Pearl was staring at Quinn, a bit surprised that he seemed dubious. “Something, no?”
“Something, maybe,” he said. “The murder apartments had been redecorated within the past few years—like a lot of apartments in Manhattan—and the decorators were given keys by their clients, like you said, but they’ve been cleared. They all had alibis that checked out.”
“But what about the tradesmen they hired? We talked to tradesmen hired by the building owners or supers, usually to make repairs. Interior decorators often subcontract out the painting, carpeting, whatever. They want things done right, so they like to use people they usually work with and can trust. Their people.”
Quinn sat up cross-legged on the bed. “I follow. Who might the decorators have given keys to without the clients even knowing about it?”
“Right. So, we might have more suspects. We talk to the decorators again and see if they gave apartment keys to any of the tradesmen they hired. If so, whoever they lent the keys to might have secretly had them duplicated.”
“So they could come and go as they pleased from then on,” Quinn said, “and learn all sorts of things about the occupants by looking through their desk and dresser drawers.”
“And searching their computer hard drives, especially if they figured out how to get online. Most people have their passwords written down someplace handy to the computer, in case they forget. Like they do with safe combinations.”
It made sense. Enough sense, anyway. Quinn stood up from the bed and used the heel of his hand to wipe perspiration from his eyes.
“Where you going?” Pearl asked.
“To take a shower. You and I are gonna get dressed and make some phone calls, set up appointments to talk to decorators.”
“You’re gonna leave me like this? Unfinished and unfulfilled?”
“You were the one thinking about work.”
She grinned. “This isn’t the NYPD way. This is ‘copus interruptus.’”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get back to it. Wanna take a shower with me?”
“You bet.”
She scooted down to the foot of the bed
and stood up, wondering if they’d slip and fall and break something in the old claw-footed tub. “What do you think of that ceiling fixture?”
He glanced up. “Looks more like a glob of paint with a couple of dirty bulbs screwed into it.”
“So you’d replace it?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“With what?”
“I dunno. Maybe I’d ask someone, or hire a…” He gave her a suspicious look, obviously wondering at what point she’d been thinking about light fixtures and decorators during the past half hour.
Pearl was afraid she might have hurt his feelings. Men were so vain when it came to that sort of thing. And she really, truly did not want to hurt Quinn.
If she had bruised his ego, she made it up to him under the shower.
52
Claire borrowed Maddy’s old Volvo and drove Jubal to LaGuardia for his flight to Chicago.
“Don’t think too much about me or the baby,” she told him as they walked toward the security area leading to the concourses. “Concentrate on the play.”
“That won’t be easy.” He was holding a black carry-on, which contained his laptop and a copy of the As Thy Love Thyself script. He sneaked a peek at his wristwatch, the way people do when they’re in a hurry.
“Good luck!” Claire said. Don’t go! Don’t leave!
Damn hormones!
He slung the carry-on’s thick strap over his shoulder and smiled at her, then kissed her, letting his lips linger. “Be careful driving home. Take the tunnel.”
“I always do. You be careful yourself. Love you.”
“Me, too.”
They kissed again, and then he was gone from her, striding toward the metal detector with the shortest line. He swerved to avoid a couple carrying an infant and trailing wheeled suitcases and a portable stroller laden with wadded blankets and a stuffed animal.
Us in less than a year.
Within a few minutes he was through security. He turned and waved to her, giving her another smile. Handsome actor. Colleague, lover, husband. She loved him so fiercely at that moment she was afraid she might break into sobs.
Goddamn hormones!
It’s worth it. It’s worth it.
The drive back to the apartment alone seemed to take forever. Then she spent another twenty minutes finding a parking space within two blocks of her building. Why Maddy even owned a car in Manhattan was beyond Claire.
To lend to needy friends—like me.
She wished she were thinking more clearly these days.
When she walked into the apartment, she immediately felt better. Balanced on the sofa back, where it would be clearly visible, was a large shrink-wrapped blueberry muffin from the nearby deli, the food that had become her vice during pregnancy. This one was particularly large, perhaps six inches across the top.
Jubal must have bought it earlier and stashed it, then sneaked it onto the sofa just before they left for LaGuardia. Yes, she’d walked out of the apartment first, and he’d followed with his luggage, then keyed the dead bolt.
Or had he stepped out into the hall first?
Claire couldn’t remember and soon gave up trying to reconstruct in her mind the sequence of their departure.
It didn’t matter. There was the muffin, his gift, his thoughtfulness.
There was his love for her.
The direct flight to Chicago had taken a little less than three hours. The carry-on strap was digging into Jubal’s shoulder with every step as he strode toward the point beyond security where people waited to greet incoming passengers. It hadn’t been an easy flight. An infant two seats in front of his had begun wailing during takeoff and only stopped occasionally to catch its breath so it could maintain volume. Concentrating on As Thy Love Thyself was impossible, so Jubal had put the script back in his carry-on and, despite the din, had dozed on the plane and was still slightly groggy.
He became more alert when he saw a slight, shapely woman leaning casually against a post with her arms crossed. Her posture was one of easy grace, one leg slightly bent at the knee so her pointed toe retained balance, her body elegantly curved. A dancer’s line. She was wearing tight blue slacks and an untucked white T-shirt snug over small, pointed breasts. Her blond hair was styled close to her head in a boy cut to emphasize her gamine features.
Dalia Hart.
She spotted Jubal and came alive with a glow. Grinning widely, she pushed away from the post she’d been leaning on and ran to greet him.
He let the carry-on drop to the floor and gathered her close in his arms.
She nuzzled the base of his neck, flicking with her tongue. “Glad to see me?”
“Understatement,” he said.
“I know,” she said through her smile. “I can feel it.”
He kissed her hello as fervently as he’d kissed Claire good-bye only hours ago in New York.
53
Rain had begun to fall, or rather hang in the air, a heavy mist that made umbrellas useless and found its way beneath exposed cuffs and down the backs of collars. At least the heat had broken, Quinn thought as he struggled out of a cab and stepped into a puddle, which made his right sock wet.
A woman wearing rubber boots sloshed through the water and claimed his place in the back of the cab even before he had a chance to shut the door. He barely got out of the way and avoided being splashed as the vehicle rejoined start-and-stop traffic on Park Avenue.
While Pearl and Fedderman were continuing their interviews with interior decorators who’d been employed by Night Prowler victims, Quinn had cabbed here to meet Harley Renz at a psychiatrist’s office. Renz had requested the meeting but hadn’t told Quinn the reason for it. As he crossed the wide street toward the sedate, prewar building, Quinn thought it was way past time for Renz to find his way to a psychiatrist’s office.
The lobby was gold-veined gray marble and soft oak paneling, understated and elegant. It was unattended. Quinn paused on a large rubber mat and stamped water from his shoes, noticing a security camera mounted in a corner and aimed his way. He found a directory near the elevators and quickly located his destination.
The office, on the ninth floor, was at the end of a wide hall. Its door was open about six inches in coy and silent invitation.
He pushed the door open all the way and stepped inside. Something about the subtle, chemical scent of the place alerted him. Then he noticed smudges on various objects, like someone had gone through with a greasy feather duster, from when prints had been lifted. Now he recognized the scent; more obscure prints had been made visible with the Super Glue method.
Crime scene.
Quinn was in a receptionist’s outer office and waiting room. There was a desk with a computer on it, a bank of tan file cabinets, softly painted earth-tone walls, restful prints of water lilies. Current magazines were spread out on a coffee table before a long beige sofa, a Forbes, a New Yorker, an Architectural Digest. A Mr. Coffee sat on a small table in a corner, a stack of white Styrofoam cups next to it along with packaged cream and sugar. Mr. Coffee’s burner light wasn’t glowing, but the glass pot was half filled.
Quinn saw that a closet door on his left was hanging open. A man’s worn blue windbreaker on a wire hanger was the only garment. There was an X of masking tape on the floor, no doubt to indicate where a body had been stuffed into the narrow closet. The tape was smeared with blood and curled where it lay over a dark stain on the carpeted floor. Quinn noted that the carpet had absorbed a lot of blood, so when the door was closed, it wouldn’t be visible to anyone coming in from the hall. A killer thinking ahead?
He went to another half-opened door alongside the reception desk and used the back of a knuckle, so as not to disturb or leave a print, to push it open all the way. Not necessary, since the scene had obviously been gone over by the crime scene unit and the body removed, but habits formed in the presence of death died harder than some homicide victims.
There was Harley Renz, lying on his back on a brown leather sofa, his legs cros
sed at the ankles, his fingers laced behind his head. He looked over and smiled when Quinn entered the room. “Welcome to the confessional.”
“Sorry I missed it. I bet you had some doozies.”
“I was too late myself.” Renz motioned lazily to where an outline of a human body had been marked out crudely with tape on the carpet near the desk.
“Was that the Dr. Rita Maxwell whose name was on the building directory,” Quinn asked, “or was she the one in the closet?”
“This one was Dr. Maxwell.” Renz sat up but remained slumped and relaxed on a corner of the comfortable-looking sofa. “The vic in the outer-office closet was her receptionist, one Hannah Best. This Dr. Maxwell”—he pointed to a wall displaying photographs and framed diplomas and certificates—“was some impressive babe.”
“I read about the case in the papers,” Quinn said. “The doctor and her assistant were stabbed to death. The pattern didn’t fit the Night Prowler, so I didn’t pay too much attention.”
“I don’t think it fits, either,” Renz said, “but I thought you might wanna take a look at the scene. You never know what might trigger an errant thought, wandered somehow into an infertile brain.”
“True enough. Any leads?”
“One. Like I said, there’s probably no connection, but sometimes New York can be a small town. Both these women were stabbed only a few times each, as if more to send them on their way without a lot of time, trouble, or passion than for any sadistic enjoyment. Not like what your guy does to them. Still, we got women stabbed to death here. The media’s taken note. And a Park Avenue analyst murdered in her office—lots of people will be disturbed by that.”
“You mean people who were disturbed to begin with and had motive and opportunity to kill Dr. Maxwell.”
“Among others. Just think of all the secrets passed in confidence in this quiet, restful room.” Renz grinned. “But we know there’s really no such thing as secrets in confidence.”