by John Lutz
“They always do, after they’re dead,” Pearl said.
“Yeah. She was an associate editor, working her way up. Her boss said she had potential. Nobody there noticed her acting scared lately, or different in any way. She’d dated a guy in sales a few times, but it didn’t go anywhere and they stopped seeing each other. He’s at some book convention in Frankfurt now.”
“Ah, the Frankfurt alibi.”
“I talked by phone to people who were with him at the time of Anna Bragg’s death,” Quinn said. “No possibility he flew here, killed her, then flew back.”
Fedderman had walked over and was sitting behind his desk. He had coffee in one hand, a plastic cup of juice in the other. “You get anywhere with him?” he asked Pearl.
“Huh?”
“With that guy who dated Marilyn Nelson a few times.”
“Oh. No, I didn’t. And he’s alibied up for the time Anna Bragg was killed.”
“That pretty much clears him across the board,” Quinn said. “Just like the other guys we connected with the dead women. They dated them, some of them had sex with them, but they’ve got alibis for one or more of the murders.”
“Sex and the City,” Fedderman said.
Pearl looked at him.
“I rent the videos and watch them,” he explained. “That way I know what I’m missing.”
“What we’re all missing,” Pearl said.
Quinn removed his goofy half-glasses and gave her a look she knew too well. Had he picked up something in her voice? Did he somehow know she was covering up exactly the kind of furtive sex she was lamenting not having?
Don’t be a fool. He isn’t a mind reader.
But she knew Quinn.
He could see through people and beyond. Sometimes, only for brief moments, she found herself feeling sorry for the people Quinn hunted.
She turned and walked toward the coffee brewer so he wouldn’t be looking right at her, studying her. Damn him!
“I think I’ll have some coffee after all.” She needed to get everything out of her mind except the Job.
“You should have some of the orange juice instead,” Quinn said. “It might cool you down.”
Damn him!
The fax machine began humming and gurgling.
Though he was sitting down, Fedderman was closest. He stood up and wandered over to the machine, then loomed gazing down at it as if it were some puzzle he couldn’t quite work out.
When it beeped and was silent, he picked up the two pages that had been faxed and carried them over to Quinn.
“Copies of Marilyn Nelson’s charge account receipts,” he said.
Quinn scanned them, and then put his glasses back on and looked at them more closely. The receipts were mostly for meals and clothes. Only one of them was for two meals, at the Pepper Tree restaurant. Quinn remembered seeing the Pepper Tree just a few blocks from Marilyn Nelson’s apartment. The date on the receipt was less than two weeks before her murder. Had she been dining with her killer? Unlikely.
But maybe with someone who might be able to tell them more about Marilyn Nelson’s last days.
With his huge blunt finger he pointed out the charge to Pearl. “Pay a visit to this restaurant. See if anyone recalls who the victim dined with on this date. Marilyn picked up the check, and she was a regular who usually ate alone, so somebody might remember.”
Pearl thought it was a long shot, but it was something. If they were lucky, Marilyn Nelson had dined with a date that evening even though she’d picked up the check. Marilyn going Dutch out of desperation, maybe even with someone who knew her intimately. Pearl could picture it.
Death and the City.
Then she looked more closely at the name of the restaurant. The Pepper Tree. Jeb had told her he and Marilyn Nelson once dined there.
Pearl and Jeb had a date to go there.
It seemed to Pearl that nothing in her life was simple.
35
Harrison County, Florida, 1980
It was a moonless night and dark, or Sherman might have seen the danger. His time in the swamp had made him alert to such things. He’d learned hard lessons, such as how to shelter himself from the storms that blasted through the trees and raised the black water, how to find and eat things alive and dead that wouldn’t make him sick, how to sleep fitfully and watchfully for what had become his natural and very real enemies.
How to survive.
Every sound in the swamp meant something to him now, as did the subtle scents on the breeze, or the irregular ripple of previously still water. He studied and learned to read these signs as he’d studied and learned from Sam’s books and his long, lazy conversations with Sam. That knowledge was Sam’s legacy. The swamp was Sherman’s home now, dangerous, but less so than the home he had left.
The leaving had been complete. No longer did he even think of his name as Sherman, for there was no one to call him that or anything else. And there wasn’t much time to contemplate the past; he had no choice but to live in and for the present. He knew that to get lost in the past was to surrender the future. He was in and of the swamp now and considered and obeyed only the laws of nature, and really there was only one law—survive.
He violated that law when he stepped on the rough, ridged surface that moved beneath his bare foot in the inky water. In an instant he knew—gator! And he knew he might die and would do anything if only he might live.
A long, thick tail rose into darkness and slapped down on the shallow water, breaking its surface with a sound like a rifle shot and splashing it coldly on Sherman’s face. He instinctively tried to take a giant leap away from the gator, but his foot slipped and he almost fell. Teetering desperately, he went splashing sideways away from another slap of the huge tail.
Then the gator was up high on its legs, its pale belly clear of the surface. It was gigantic, at least ten feet long, and Sherman knew it could outrun him, especially in the shallow water.
The sight of the beast paralyzed him with terror. The gator was accustomed to this temporary lack of motion in its prey. It was the time to strike.
Black water foamed and roiled violently as the gator lunged. Sherman felt something hard brush his bare heel and heard the eerie clack of primal teeth. He yelped and flung himself frantically away, landing on hands and knees. Fueled by fear, he was up almost immediately, running through the knee-deep water, lifting his legs high and stretching out his strides to minimize splashing and maximize speed. Survive.
He knew the gator was coming. He could hear it between the frenetic dissonance of his own splashing. He could sense and see it in his mind, swift and graceless in its bent-legged strides, gliding smoothly at times through the dark water, then finding firm footing again and picking up speed, gaining.
Gaining!
Sherman bumped his shoulder on a thick tree trunk. Chanced a glance behind him.
Gaining!
Climb!
Though they were fast, big, strong, and armed with tooth and tail, the one thing gators couldn’t do was climb. Sherman leaped, wrapped his arms and legs around the tree, and attempted to shinny higher. Up was safety. Up away from the guttural grunts and the slashing tail, the tearing teeth. Up was life!
But the tree trunk was coated with moss and slippery. He slid lower instead of gaining height and was back in the muddy water.
The lowest branch might be within his reach. He bent his knees and leaped, groping in the night air for the branch.
His fingertips brushed it.
He landed splashing awkwardly and leaped again, and this time was well short of even touching the branch.
The gator had stopped now and was angled in the water, crouched low again, watching him with a gaze thousands of years old, detached, observant, and merciless.
Sherman understood gators. He knew why this one had stopped. It sensed in its prey the knowledge that the chase was over. It had won.
Slowly, smoothly, it began moving toward Sherman, leaving the slightest V wake in the shallow water. Sherman
could only stare paralyzed with fear. He knew what would happen next. The gator’s jaws would close on him, then it would drag him toward deeper water where it would do its death spin until Sherman bled lifeless or drowned. The gator would carry what had become its meal to its lair in the deep mud near the waterline and store it there where it would rot and become tenderer. Those nights with his mother at swamp’s edge came crashing into Sherman’s memory. He remembered the doomed boarders, and Sam, dragged away in pieces into the night. He remembered the gnashing and grinding and grunting of pure gluttony and its appeasement.
He wouldn’t give up—not yet. Not ever. He had to run! Had to get away!
Run, damn you!
He made himself abandon his fruitless attempts to climb the tree and began splashing away into the swamp, roiling black water with each stride, praying the gator would give up.
He slipped and fell. Splashed helplessly trying to stand up. Gained his feet. Ran, ran. Part of the swamp. Part of the struggle. One of the hunted.
Survive! Survive! That was his one and every instinct in mind and muscle. Run fast enough, far enough. Survive!
A branch scratched his face, breaking his stride, slowing him only momentarily.
Three awkward steps and he had his balance again, steadier now. Full speed!
Something grabbed his lower left leg and became a painful vise as he slammed down hard on his stomach and inhaled swamp water. Flailing with his arms and free leg, he fought to keep his head above the surface.
The vise tightened and became needles of incredible pain. Choking, spitting, unable even to scream, Sherman felt himself being pulled backward through the water.
He glanced back at what had him and almost died from terror. He was caught firm in the jaws of the beast. Two prehistoric, uncaring eyes met his. They were very close, darker than the night, and they were death.
Then came sudden brilliance and a roar.
Sherman felt himself sinking.
36
New York, the present
The Pepper Tree was decorated mostly in grays and blues, with one wall a wide mural of green fields beneath a blue sky. The fields were dotted with trees Pearl assumed to be pepper trees, but then, she wasn’t even sure if there were types of peppers that grew on trees.
Culinary license, she thought, as a smiling African American man approached. He was handsome if a bit paunchy, wearing a navy jacket with brass buttons, white shirt open at the collar, a red ascot. A guy who had lost his yacht.
“We’re not open for breakfast,” he said.
Pearl looked out over the rows of white tablecloths without flatware, china, or napkins. “I can see that. You should have locked your door.”
He seemed amused. “We’re trusting sorts.”
“I wish I were,” Pearl said, and showed him her shield.
The man’s smile disappeared, which was a shame. He had a great smile but without it looked rather ordinary.
“This is about Marilyn Nelson?” he asked, surprising her, and for the first time sounding as if he had a slight Jamaican accent.
“You’re clairvoyant,” Pearl said.
“Oh, not hardly. Marilyn ate here often. She was a pretty woman. We notice pretty women, especially if they’re also as nice as Marilyn.”
Pearl glanced about. She and the man seemed to be the only ones in the restaurant.
“My employee Harmon is in the kitchen cleaning up,” the man said, guessing her thoughts. “I am Virgil Mantrell.”
“The manager?”
“And owner. Which means I’m here virtually all the time.”
Useful, Pearl thought. The prospects of her visit to the Pepper Tree brightened. Surely Jeb wasn’t the only man who’d dined with Marilyn in the restaurant. “I understand Marilyn usually ate alone.”
“Usually, yes. She hadn’t been in the city long and hadn’t had time to explore. Though she wasn’t always alone. I remember her coming here for dinner with men a few times, on dates, it looked like. And another time, later, she had lunch with a woman.”
“What do you remember about them?”
“The men were different. Except for one she was here with at least a couple of times.”
“What did that one look like?”
“I don’t remember much about him. He seemed to be in his thirties, had dark hair. I suppose you’d call him handsome, but at the same time he was very ordinary looking. I’d have trouble recognizing him if he came in here again, and I have a memory for faces.”
“And the woman who dined with Marilyn?”
“Her I would recognize.”
“Pretty, I’ll bet.”
“Not as pretty as Marilyn.” The smile was back. “We don’t like to quantify our customers in terms of beauty or handsomeness.”
“Wise policy,” Pearl said.
He nodded. “It is only polite, and politeness goes far in the restaurant business. When I made it a point to visit Marilyn’s table and make sure everything was all right, she introduced me to the woman, who she said was an old college friend.”
“Did she refer to her by name?”
“Yes, she did.” He raised his dark eyebrows in a way that made him appear to be in pain. “I’m sorry, but while I remember faces, I don’t remember names.”
Pearl showed him a copy of the fax with the charge receipts and pointed to the one from the Pepper Tree. “Do you have a copy of this?”
“We do. We keep careful records. That would be from the meal Marilyn had with her lady friend.”
“How do you know?”
“The price. And I remember. They were here for lunch. The time will be marked on our receipt.”
“I don’t see anything on the list from when she dined with the men.”
“That would be because they paid cash,” Virgil said. The smile flashed again. “It still happens.” He looked thoughtful. “Or it’s possible that there was an oversight and we haven’t yet submitted a charge receipt to the bank. If so, it would still be here and wouldn’t show up on your list.”
“Shall we look?” Pearl asked.
“You won’t need a warrant,” he said, using the smile to make it a joke.
He led her through the kitchen, where a pimply teenager who had to be Harmon was cleaning or waxing the floor with some kind of sponge mop, then on to a surprisingly large office with a gleaming hardwood floor and a loosely woven carpet containing muted shades of myriad colors. Virgil Mantrell’s desk was large, made of a lightly grained wood that could have been teak. There were oils of sailboats on the walls. Pearl was no judge, but she thought they were good.
Maybe her impression had been right and the man did own a yacht.
“Do you sail?” she asked, as Virgil rummaged through a black metal file cabinet behind the desk.
“Never,” he said, not glancing back at her, “but I paint.”
“And very well.”
Virgil did look back at her and smiled at the compliment, then bent again to his task.
He found the sheaf of charge receipts he was looking for, and swiveled in his chair so he was facing Pearl across his desk. He began adroitly riffling through the receipts.
Pearl, knowing when to hold her silence, stood patiently waiting. Her gaze went to the paintings of graceful sailboats. She wondered if the one on the wall behind the desk was a sloop. She wondered what a sloop was.
Suddenly Virgil’s dancing fingers stopped. “Ah!” he said, with seeming great delight.
“You found it?”
“No. The men and Marilyn must have paid cash for their meals.”
“Then why the orgasm?”
Virgil looked sharply at her and seemed genuinely shocked by her language. Pearl almost apologized.
“I mean,” she said, “you gave the impression you’d found what we were looking for.”
“Something else,” Virgil said. “When Marilyn lunched with her lady friend, she paid the check by charge. But there’s another receipt for that date, time, and table. Her
friend used her own charge card to pay the bar bill.” He slid the thin receipt across the wide desk so Pearl could reach it.
The name on the receipt was Ella Oaklie. Pearl read it aloud. “Ring a bell?”
“I don’t think so,” Virgil said. “But she must be the woman I saw with Marilyn. The receipt proves it.”
“Can you please give me a copy of this?”
“I’ll make a copy,” Virgil said, “and I’ll let you have the original.”
“Because I’m polite,” Pearl said.
“And have an eye for art.” Virgil smiled. “And are quite pretty.”
And could subpoena it anyway, Pearl thought, but politely kept silent.
Pearl found Ella Oaklie’s address easily enough. She was in the phone directory. Sometimes detective work was a snap.
The woman behind the counter of a small flower shop on First Avenue had let Pearl used the shop’s directory. Pearl made a note of the address and phone number. Not wanting to be overheard, she thanked the woman and stepped outside into the heat to use her cell phone to call Oaklie.
She got an answering machine informing her in stilted language that there was no one available to take her call right now, but if she would please leave a message…
Pearl waited patiently for the drivel to end, then left her name and number for Ella Oaklie and cut the connection.
Since it was almost lunchtime, she drove over to Third Avenue and Fifty-fourth, where she knew a street vendor sold tasty and reliable food. Pearl generally lightened up for lunch, so she bought a knish and bottled water from the vendor, then wandered over to sit on a warm stone wall and people-watch while she ate.
After her second bite, her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Setting knish and bottled water aside, Pearl picked up.
Ella Oaklie had called home and checked her messages and wanted to get in touch with Pearl as soon as possible, since it was so horrible what had happened to Marilyn Nelson. When Pearl offered to meet Ella at her office, Ella was reluctant, but might they meet for lunch? Pearl said sure, and suggested the Pepper Tree near Marilyn Nelson’s apartment. She’d found that putting the witness as close as possible to the scene of the crime sometimes did wonders for the memory.