by John Lutz
“If,” Fedderman said.
The door swung open again, letting out more cool air to be devoured by the hot morning. Letting in Vitali and Mishkin. Both of them looked awake enough after their hard night. Mishkin nodded. His brown suit was pressed. His white shirt looked fresh and was neatly tucked into beltless pants held up by suspenders over his surprisingly flat stomach. Even his brushy mustache looked trimmer than usual.
Sal appeared rumpled but presentable. He winked at Fedderman. “Who’d have guessed you could outrun a gazelle?”
“State runner-up as a high school miler,” Fedderman said.
“Long time ago, high school,” Mishkin said.
“It comes back now and then,” Fedderman said. “I even get the occasional pimple and want to do Mary Lou Minowski in the backseat.”
“You knew Mary Lou too?” Sal said.
“Enough of this testosterone talk,” Pearl said. “It’s wearing.”
Vitali walked over to where Quinn was seated and laid something that looked like a flattened lipstick on Quinn’s desk.
“This is what?” Quinn asked.
“A flash drive, or memory stick,” Vitali said. “The killer took Branston’s notebook computer with him, but he overlooked this. It was down behind the cushion on the victim’s desk chair.”
“You plug it into a USB port on a computer,” Pearl said, “and you can copy files to it. It’s like a disk drive only smaller and without moving parts. Some of them have tons of memory.”
Quinn brightened. “You mean Lilly Branston might have been backing up her computer with this thing?”
“Probably not automatically,” Pearl said. “Flash drives are used more for storage than for systematic backup.”
“An actual clue,” Quinn said.
“The killer’s first mistake,” Fedderman said.
“Maybe,” Addie said.
“Gimme,” Pearl said.
Pearl worked at her desk with the flash drive until almost three o’clock, not even taking time for a proper lunch. She’d used a plastic fork to eat a takeout salad while exploring the world of Lilly Branston’s deceptively tiny memory stick.
At first she’d been disappointed. Much of the little device’s capacity was unused. What was there were mostly condo and co-op units listed with the Willman Group, sometimes entire residential buildings. The Willman Group’s website was set up so a prospective buyer could take a virtual tour of the property, showing even the views out the windows. Pearl thought that if she was in the market for a million-dollar-plus apartment, she’d be in heaven—if she had a million dollars plus.
This wasn’t heaven. She was a detective and would probably never see a million dollars that wasn’t stolen.
Her spirits lifted when she opened a file titled “C and C.” She soon learned the letters stood for Coffee and Conversation, and it was a matchmaking site for professionals and people with arcane interests, seeking companionship with people of the same ilk.
Not unusual in New York, where minutes moved faster than sixty seconds, and people didn’t have time for the usual rituals of cultivating friends and lovers. The city had figured a faster way that suited its occupants.
C and C had a feature that distressed Pearl but must have had great appeal to its clients. Joiners posted their personal profile (photo optional) and ways to contact them—usually their e-mail addresses. There was no way for anyone else, including C and C itself, to track who had contacted whom. Clients made person-to-person contact without involving the company, which apparently made its money from advertising. Privacy was assured.
Pearl knew that the odds were good that Lilly had met her killer through C and C, but how to find him was a different matter.
She must have used screen grabs to transfer profiles to the flash drive. Lilly’s e-mail history had disappeared with her computer. Her online service might have a record of it, but obtaining that was legally tricky. And there was always the possibility that she’d contacted another C and C client by phone. Maybe a public phone. Or maybe, as some of the C and C profiles suggested, anyone interested in the client could meet him or her at a certain place and time. And there was always the possibility that computers in Internet cafés were used to make initial contact. Those computers used the café’s online service, ensuring anonymity in case extramarital lovers or pornographic sites were visited.
Pearl scrolled through the hundreds of “Male Seeking Female” C and C profiles. Who of these hopefuls might have interested Lilly Branston? Several were in sales, as she was. There were quite a few in real estate. There were CEOs, entrepreneurs, lobbyists, artists, scientists, inheritors of wealth, educators, Broadway producers, sports figures, government bureaucrats. No cops or private investigators.
Nothing here for Pearl. Too much here for Lilly. Quite probably Pearl had just seen the real or assumed name of the Carver. Perhaps even seen his photograph. But there was no way to single him out.
Or maybe there was. Maybe in the hands of a real expert belonging to the right generation, a computer might be able to narrow the search and hit pay dirt. The NYPD had such tech-nerd wizards.
Pearl decided to check with Quinn first. If he agreed, they could turn the matter over to Renz and his NYPD. Renz could make himself useful. Take credit for the idea. And at some point return the favor.
Pearl smiled. Thinking like Addie now. Men as stepping-stones.
Addie. Pearl thought it might behoove her, and maybe Quinn, to dig deeper into Addie’s past.
The information after the attempt on Addie’s life in Detroit was easy enough to find, and to verify. If her attacker hadn’t broken off the assault, she surely would have been killed. Then, in truly heroic fashion, she’d come back from the brutality of the attack and earned her doctorate and become a criminologist.
There was plenty of press on her, and much of it generated by Addie. She’d become a relentless self-promoter and made herself into a local talking head on TV whenever crime was the subject.
Once Addie had almost lost her life and become truly focused, there’d been no stopping her.
It was Addie Price before the attempt on her life that interested Pearl.
There was no information on her before that date.
Nothing.
Pearl had a pretty good idea why.
58
Pearl showed Quinn the C and C documents on Lilly Branston’s flash drive. After Pearl copied them onto her computer, Quinn took the flash drive with him and left to deliver it to Renz for expert analysis in narrowing the considerable list of suspects.
Alone again, Pearl called Addie on her cell and suggested they have dinner at a small Afghani restaurant on Amsterdam, not far from the office.
Eastern Starr was the name of the place. It was long and narrow, and there was a vaguely astrological feel to the décor. One long wall was all dark blue tapestries with quarter moons and backlit constellations. The scent of spices wafting from the kitchen was dominated by something unfamiliar and pungent that made eyes water at the same time it stimulated appetites.
“Meat and yogurt,” Addie said, when their entries had arrived and she’d taken a taste. “I never dreamed they could be so good together.”
“Just about everything here is good,” Pearl told her. “Yancy introduced me to this place. He’s a regular here.”
“Ah, Yancy.”
Pearl forked in a bite of her samboosak, watching how Addie obviously appreciated her food, which was made up of seasoned beef and noodles tossed in yogurt. She took a sip of Afghani wine, also surprisingly good, judging by the look on Addie’s face.
“We here for another sisterly talk?” Addie asked, putting down her wine glass but not releasing its stem.
“Sort of,” Pearl said. “I did some deeper research on you.”
Addie seemed only remotely interested. “And?”
“Until you signed up for classes six years ago at the Metcalf Valley College of Criminology, there was no you.”
Pearl
had to give Addie credit. She saw the surprise in her eyes, then the quick calculation. There was no point in denials.
“I did find an Adelaide Price,” Pearl said, “but she died thirty years ago of rheumatic fever. She was only five years old.”
Addie pushed her food away and took a long sip of wine. “There’s something you need to understand, and I don’t know if that’s possible unless you’re me. After I was almost killed, I was afraid every minute I was awake, and I was afraid in my sleep—what sleep I managed to get.”
“You mean Geraldine Knott was afraid,” Pearl said.
“That’s true,” Addie said. “I am—was—Geraldine Knott. When I became something of a celebrity as well as a victim, the fear suddenly became worse. It wasn’t idle fear. I even received threatening letters.”
“I can understand your fear,” Pearl said. “But the odds of being attacked by a serial killer twice are pretty slim.”
“Oh, it can happen, though in my case it didn’t. In order to be safe and anonymous again, I began using the name Addie Price. I did a search through death records and found someone who was born around the same time I was and died young. I appropriated her identity, even her early childhood. I became Addie Price.”
“But why the fictitious second attack?”
“I realized that in becoming Addie Price, I’d also given up the advantages of celebrity. So when it suited my purpose, I reclaimed them. I concocted a different, fictitious attack so I could draw on my experience as Geraldine Knott for professional purposes. Some of the details were the same. The man who tried to kill me was never caught. He wore a mask, so even if I came face-to-face with him again, I wouldn’t know it.”
“And this new identity helped you professionally?”
“Immensely. But I also created it for personal reasons. It sounds crazy, but being Addie Price empowered me so I could look at Geraldine’s experience objectively, so I could deal with it. The new name, the new me, helped. You can’t imagine how much it helped. I remain Addie Price.”
Pearl continued to eat, but slower and with less enthusiasm. “So the story of Addie Price being attacked is just that—a story to help establish your bona fides as an expert with special, personal knowledge.”
“Exactly,” Addie said. “Based on the genuine Geraldine Knott attack for authenticity.”
Pearl sipped her wine. She seemed to have had this all figured out before sitting down at the table with Addie.
“What are you going to do with your information?” Addie asked.
“Tell Quinn. Let him tell Fedderman. It doesn’t have to go any further.”
Addie let out a long breath and took another sip of wine. “I can live with that. And I mean it literally.”
“Do you think it’s possible that the man who tried to kill you was the Carver?” Pearl asked.
“It’s possible but hard to say. He broke off the attack before he had a chance to…well, you know.”
“That’s why you’re here in New York,” Pearl said. “Why you politicked so hard for the job. That part of it’s personal, too.”
Addie toyed with her wineglass, using the crystal stem to rotate it in short but smooth intervals that did nothing to disturb the wine. “Yes, it’s intensely personal, even though I’m not totally sure whoever attacked me was the Carver. I’m not his usual type, not part of his psycho scenario.” She met Pearl’s gaze and held it. “In fact, you are, Pearl, and that’s something to consider.”
“I’ve considered it,” Pearl said.
There was a hitch in Addie’s voice when she said, “There’s enough of a chance it was the Carver who tried to kill me that I can’t leave it alone.”
Pearl smiled and shrugged. “Obsessive pursuit fits right in with our organization.”
Addie cautiously tried another bite of her beef and yogurt dish. “I noticed.”
“You mean Quinn,” Pearl said.
“No,” Addie said, “not just Quinn.”
“So Addie’s really Geraldine Knott,” Quinn said to Pearl, the next morning in the office. He was gazing off to his right, the way he did when he was distracted and thinking. He’d been sitting that way almost from the moment Pearl had begun telling him what she’d learned about Addie Price.
The air conditioner was still making its hammering noise, but not nearly as loudly as yesterday. The day hadn’t heated up yet. Pearl had made coffee. Its fresh-roasted scent permeated the office.
“We shouldn’t be surprised,” Quinn said. “She’s a sort of show-business figure in Detroit. Celebrities more often than not change their names.”
“You’re a kind of celebrity in New York,” Pearl said, “and you haven’t changed yours.”
“I’ve thought about it, though,” Quinn said. “I’m trying to choose between Mike Sledge and Sherlock Spade.”
“After the last couple of nights,” Pearl said, “I might settle on Nancy Droop.”
Quinn winked at her. “Not hardly, Pearl. Hey, what about Feds?”
“Oh, he’s definitely Inspector Clu—”
“So,” Fedderman said, standing just inside the door. “Caught you talking about moi.”
“We were talking about Addie Price,” Quinn said in a businesslike tone. “It’s information that doesn’t go past you.”
“I’m a deep well of secrets,” Fedderman said, sitting down behind his desk and fitting his fingers together tightly, as if preparing to show some kid the church and all the people.
“Aren’t we all,” Pearl said, not smiling.
Five minutes later, when Fedderman had heard about the Geraldine Knott–Addie Price identity switch, he shook his head. “Poor woman. She musta gone around scared shitless all the time. Maybe she still does, even with her new identity.”
“That’s why we keep her secret limited to us,” Quinn said.
“And maybe the Carver,” Pearl said.
Fedderman stared at his laced fingers and thought about it. “Addie’s not his type.” He looked up at Pearl in a way she didn’t like.
“I know,” she said, “I’ve looked in the mirror and seen photos of all the Carver’s victims. I’m the sicko’s type.”
“You and a million other New York women,” Quinn said.
“More than a million,” Fedderman said.
“Those are comforting odds,” Pearl said, but she didn’t mean it.
59
Ohio, 1997
Miriam Grantland wished the wipers sweeping the windshield of her Ford Taurus would swipe away her tears along with the rain.
When she’d gotten the phone call, she left immediately. She was halfway to Cleveland and had sobbed through most of her journey.
Her thoughts nagged her like restless demons.
Why had Jerry been born? What had gone wrong? What had she done wrong?
Maybe nothing, considering the circumstances.
Maybe everything.
Damned trucks! An eighteen-wheeler swished past the Taurus doing over eighty miles per hour, trailing a deluge of rainwater that temporarily blinded Miriam so that she was driving sightless through the night and into the glare of oncoming headlights.
The truck became an object of her fury. She leaned forward to peer out the windshield, honked the horn, flashed her highlights. The Taurus’s engine strained, and the steering wheel began to shimmy in Miriam’s sweating palms. Inch by inch, she recaptured the highway lost to the truck, and on a gentle curve she passed it.
Her rage was unabated.
She glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-five. She held her speed, watching the headlights of the semi fall farther and farther back. There were only a few cars ahead of her on the dark, rain-swept highway.
On the straightaway now, she eased up slightly on the accelerator until the shuddering in the steering wheel and the car’s front end went away. The sheet metal on the hood stopped vibrating. Eighty-two miles per hour. That was as fast as she dared to go without risking mechanical trouble. Any sort of delay was out of the question. Mir
iam set the cruise control. She needed to get to Cleveland, do what she had to do, and then get back home.
She thought about Jerry and all the problems he’d caused. It had to be him. Something was very wrong with him. His behavior wasn’t normal. That was a fact she had to face.
He’d been born almost a month prematurely and weighed only slightly more than four pounds. Had that caused the problem? Maybe. Had it been her fault? Hardly.
Jerry’s father? The bastard hadn’t been around long enough to have much of an effect one way or the other. But then, who knew for sure about such things? And at a certain point, what did it matter? So maybe it had been Jerry’s father. The past was impossible to change. Like it or not, we all lived in the present.
Miriam had nothing against gay people; that was obvious. It was an old friend in Cleveland who’d phoned her, a woman named Grace who’d for years lived with her lesbian partner she’d met in college. No big deal. Other people’s sex lives were none of Miriam’s business. It was nobody’s concern what people did behind closed doors, in the privacy of their homes or in businesses that catered to such clientele. Miriam didn’t doubt that eventually, even in Ohio, people of the same sex would be able to legally marry. That was fine with her. Times were changing, and Miriam could change with them.
But Jerry! Her own son.
She’d suspected something was wrong, known how he used to sneak out of the house at night and spy on the twins next door. Miriam never talked to Jerry about that. It was heterosexual and possibly not so unusual behavior for a boy his age. So he peeked, probably mostly out of curiosity. If the little teases didn’t lower their shades that was their problem. Besides, Miriam had her own problems, and they were crushing and repetitious. Work, drink, sleepless nights, loneliness. Now and then a relationship that meant nothing other than sex and went nowhere beyond the bed. Work, drink, sleepless nights, loneliness. Over and over. Like a damned treadmill that would wear her down and someday leave her useless and hopeless. That was her life. It was difficult enough without Jerry coming up with ways to make it worse.