Twist

by John Lutz

  It was what’s sometimes called a European kitchen, all white sink and appliances, with a pale granite countertop. The refrigerator and dishwasher had dark front surfaces, which didn’t match the rest of the décor. Poor taste, Brad noted. He knew about taste. He’d learned about it as he’d moved higher and higher in the world of rare antiques, learned to act and talk like the people who knew good taste, because they had grown up with it. He had come to recognize it himself, and had put that knowledge to good use.

  Sure that he hadn’t absently touched something in the kitchen, he removed a pair of skintight Latex gloves from a pocket and slipped them on his hands, snapping them like a surgeon who’d prepared for countless operations. He removed the bottle of wine from the bag, a Chardonnay that Dora had mentioned she liked. He’d brought a cork remover, but he wasn’t surprised to find a superior one in a kitchen drawer that also held silver-plated flatware. The silver design was supposed to make it look turn-of-the-century, but it didn’t fool Brad. The stuff was available at Bloomingdale’s.

  There were no wineglasses, so he got down two water tumblers of the sort used in lots of diners and mid-priced restaurants. From his shirt pocket, he withdrew a small plastic bag containing white powder made from crushed pills. He poured half an inch of wine into one of the glasses, sprinkled the powder into it, then added more wine. In the other glass, he poured only wine. He got a spoon from the drawer where he’d found the cork remover and gently stirred the powder into the wine.

  He removed his gloves and put them back in a pocket. Before he put the gloves back on, the bottle and two glasses would be the only objects he’d touch, and not take with him, that would bear fingerprints if not wiped.

  Something ripped. Dora heard it quite distinctly.

  My dress?

  No. Impossible.

  Was she having a dream?

  Another, identical ripping sound brought her all the way out of sleep. Though she didn’t open her eyes, she realized where she was. And how she’d gotten there.

  Dora remembered she’d been drinking right after they’d come to the apartment, but still it was strange. That first glass of wine she’d had just minutes after they’d arrived had struck her like a hammer.

  She became aware of a sound now, like someone working a bellows over and over, the way her father used to do when trying to get a flame to grow in the fireplace.

  He never could get a fire started without using more and more crumpled newspaper. Dora had often wondered why he didn’t simply begin the process that way.

  She realized something odd. It was herself that she heard, breathing heavily through her nose.

  Dora attempted to move, and immediately got a painful cramp in her right thigh.

  Oh, God that hurt!

  What the hell?

  Where’s Brad?

  She tried to verbalize the question and discovered that her mouth was taped, which was why she was breathing through her nose. She worked her lips, pushed with her tongue. The tape stayed firm.

  Finished with the tape, she realized that she was nude. And what an awkward position she was in. Something—she assumed some of the tape that she guessed now had made the ripping sound being torn from its spool—was holding her wrists fastened tightly to her ankles, her arms within the confines of her thighs. It left her in a three-point position, knees and head against the living room carpet. Face, rather her right cheek, was pressed flat into the carpet fiber. She must present an undignified and vulnerable position this way, her back exposed, her thighs spread wide, and her rump raised.

  She felt herself becoming angry. Very angry. And it didn’t take her long to find a focus for her rage. Brad had done this to her. He must have.

  Where the hell was he? What kind of kinky nonsense was this?

  She tried again to scream, but what small amount of noise she made was muffled by the tape and carpet.

  There was Brad!

  He was naked. Surprisingly muscular. He had an erection. When she looked away from that, she saw he was wearing tight latex gloves—the kind surgeons wore. He was smiling down at her.

  For a few seconds, he disappeared from sight. When he returned he was carrying his fake leather saxophone case.

  He placed the case on the floor, where she could see it. And where he could see her as he removed whatever he had inside the case in addition to his saxophone.

  The smile never left his face as he opened the case and placed back into it the roll of duct tape he’d used to secure her. Then he took things out of the case. A knife with a long, serrated blade. Like a bread knife but with a sharp point. While Dora was still staring wide-eyed at the knife, he laid it on the floor and removed from the case a coiled leather whip. Dora saw flecks of silver glinting among the braids of the whip. Bits of sharp metal. Brad stood up and let the whip uncoil to the floor.

  Dora could feel her heart hammering. She tried to scream again into the carpet. She kept up on the news. She understood now what was happening. What she had picked up in the subway and brought here, where no one would disturb them.

  My own, stupid fault!

  I deserve this!

  I caused it!

  If only there were someone she could apologize to. Say how sorry she was. How she despised herself for what she’d done.

  For everything I’ve done. Ever!

  The killer was staring down at her. The look on his face terrified her. She knew he was getting what he wanted, feeding off her fear. There was nothing she could do about it. Nothing.

  He said, “You belong to me now.”

  For everything I’ve ever done . . .

  She felt her bladder release as, dragging the whip like Satan’s tail, he casually walked behind her and out of sight.

  A minute passed. It must have been a full minute. Would he ever—

  She heard the whip sing through the air.

  It began.

  Much later, on the way out, he picked up the apple pie.

  26

  “He’s making them live longer,” Nift the ME said, with something like admiration. He saw Quinn and Fedderman looking at him. “They suffer more for a longer period of time. He displays a very refined technique.”

  “Hooray for him,” Fedderman said.

  Standing over Dora’s bloody remains, Nift smiled. “He’s a craftsman. Gotta admire that. Even if we don’t like what he’s doing, we have to acknowledge he’s good at it. That’s his goal, to make them suffer while they’re barely holding on.”

  “We know that,” Fedderman said. “We still think he’s a sick fu—”

  “Something on the bathroom mirror,” one of the techs interrupted.

  Quinn and Fedderman followed him into the tiled bath, where the killer apparently had cleaned up after the murder.

  Scrawled in blood on the bathroom mirror over the basin was a simple but infuriating phrase: FREEDOM TO KILL.

  “Not enough there that we have a handwriting example,” Fedderman said.

  Quinn led the way out of the bathroom. The crime scene unit wasn’t finished in there.

  They took a quick look into the bedroom before leaving. There were a few techs in there. Nift was still probing at the ruined body with one of his gleaming stainless steel instruments. It was almost as if she were being tortured twice.

  Quinn and Fedderman started moving carefully toward the apartment’s hall door, leaving the place to the techs until they were finished searching it for clues that probably weren’t there. They would come back later and root through drawers and closets.

  Fedderman glanced back in the direction of the dead woman.

  “I wish I was wearing a hat,” he said, “so I could remove it.”

  Quinn thought at first he was joking, then saw that he wasn’t.

  Carlie slid into the booth in the Red Line Diner so she was facing Jody across the table. She had to admit that Jody was attractive in her unique way, with the springy red hair that she probably couldn’t tame even if she tried. She also had a face tha
t featured good bones, so that a more serious bearing neutralized the red tangle that resisted ribbon or barrette. There was also a sharp intelligence in her blue eyes, coupled with a good-natured challenge. This was a woman who would do something just for the hell of it.

  Which might be why she’d invited Carlie to meet for breakfast.

  “I took the liberty of ordering you a coffee,” Jody said.

  As if on command, one of the countermen came over with a hot mug. Jody already had coffee. Cream and sweetener were on the table, along with a fresh napkin and spoon. The attorney taking care of details.

  “I’m not sure this meeting is such a good idea,” Carlie said, adding cream to her coffee and stirring.

  Jody glanced around the diner. It contained the usual New York mix—an elderly couple who looked like tourists; a guy with an orange Mohawk; four teenage girls in a booth, fortunately out of earshot; a blind woman with a service dog; two somber guys in business suits; a bearded man who might be homeless; a frenetic woman surrounded by shopping bags; a man playing chess by himself.

  “Seems normal enough,” Jody said. She looked out the grease-stained window, where morning traffic was a slowly moving parking lot. “Maybe it seems wrong to you because it’s possible that you’re being stalked?”

  “I was thinking about you. Why endanger yourself ?”

  “I’m not the killer’s type,” Jody said.

  “Maybe he likes variety.”

  “Killers don’t.”

  Carlie smiled. “Quinn tell you that?”

  “More or less.”

  “Did you get his permission for this breakfast meeting?”

  Jody looked at her as if she must be insane. “I don’t need permission, Carlie. I passed the bar.”

  Carlie knew some lawyer jokes that could flow from that statement, but held her silence. It was a subject that should be changed. “We gonna order food?”

  “I’m on a diet.”

  “Me, too.”

  They regarded each other over the steaming coffee mugs.

  “I wanted to clear the air,” Jody said. “First of all, I admire what you’re doing. You aren’t satisfied to sit on your ass and wait for somebody to save you. You’re taking an active part in a counter strategy.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a strategy,” Carlie said.

  “Then you don’t know Quinn.”

  Careful not to burn her tongue, Carlie sipped her coffee. “You mean I’m being used as bait?”

  “It comes to that. It isn’t Quinn’s idea, though. It’s something that’s been forced on him by circumstances. He wants to protect you more than he wants to use you.”

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. More importantly, I respect him.”

  “You’re jealous of me,” Carlie said.

  “I’m not.”

  “Is he like a father to you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You don’t have to be jealous.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  “I am.”

  They grinned at each other.

  “We’re not blood sisters, but we’re sisters nonetheless,” Jody said. “I wanted to meet with you and let you know I’m with you in this, or anything else. I’ve done some work for Q&A, and you need to understand how dangerous and ugly things can get.”

  “I think I understand.”

  Jody knew she didn’t, but why push it?

  “Whatever questions you might have,” she said, “you can come to me.”

  “Are you my lawyer?”

  “If you pay for breakfast, that will be my retainer, and everything we say will be privileged information.”

  “Are you sure you passed the bar?”

  “Passed it going away.”

  Carlie decided she’d play. “All right. We’ve got a deal.”

  Jody raised her almost nonexistent eyebrows. “Questions?”

  “Quinn and your mother—”

  “Except questions about Quinn and my mom.”

  Carlie smiled. “Fair enough. I’ll ask my questions as they come up. What do I need to know?”

  “When Quinn gets into a case, he becomes obsessed. These aren’t just words. He really won’t give up until the killer is stopped.”

  “Arrested, you mean?”

  “Stopped.”

  Carlie understood.

  “You can trust everyone at Q&A,” Jody said, “and you can trust Quinn all the way to the bank.”

  “And inside the bank?”

  “He is the bank. Trust him. Trust my mom. Trust the rest of them. Feds and Harold might make you wonder at times, but don’t underestimate them. They’ll die for you if it comes to that.”

  “They don’t even know me.”

  “They know Quinn.”

  Carlie knew what Jody meant. She smiled broadly as she reached across the table and squeezed Jody’s bony hand. “From now on, we behave like the sisters we are.”

  “Twice removed or something,” Jody said. “Maybe three times. Not that it matters.”

  “Sure you don’t want breakfast?”

  Jody said, “Let’s order French toast.”

  “I want in on the Lady Liberty case,” Jody told Quinn and Pearl.

  She had gone to Q&A immediately after leaving Carlie at the diner.

  Quinn looked at her from where he sat behind his desk. “What about your cross-genre animal suit?”

  “I’m not really worried about that anymore. The Supreme Court is on our side. They decided years ago that animals have constitutional rights. They’ve been litigating since then over what creatures are animals.”

  “I don’t guess insects would qualify,” Quinn said.

  Jody looked, for a moment, angry. “Some people think that if it experiences pain, it fits the legal definition of animal.”

  Quinn knew better than to get into this discussion with Jody. Insects aside, he did wonder how livestock could hire an attorney. Probably, though, they would if they had the means. The pigs for sure.

  “Why the Lady Liberty Killer case in particular?” Quinn asked.

  “I talked with Carlie, and I don’t like what some asshole is putting her through.”

  “You two . . . I mean, you aren’t actually sisters.”

  “Sisters enough,” Jody said.

  “So what would you suggest?” Quinn asked.

  “I could keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t get surprised by the sicko who’s killing, whipping, and eviscerating women in this wacko city.”

  “Not in that order,” Quinn said.

  Jody made a face as if she’d bitten into something unexpectedly bitter.

  “And who’d be keeping an eye on you?” Quinn asked.

  “One: I’m not the killer’s type. Two: I can take care of myself.”

  “Sal and Harold are her angels,” Quinn said.

  “Twenty-four hours a day?”

  “Almost. They take shifts.”

  “Then let’s make it twenty-four hours a day.”

  “What about your job at Prather and Pierce?”

  “I talked to them. They’ll give me a leave of absence. They think that eventually they’ll get some billable hours out of this. There’s already enough interest in those murders to get a book contract.”

  “And the proceeds would go . . . ?”

  “To various animal causes.”

  “Causes generally result in legal action.”

  “That’s what the courts are there for.” Jody smiled at Quinn, for a second looking like Pearl. “They need me even more than they think, but not every hour of every day.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She’s on board.”

  “What about your sort-of sister?”

  “I talked to her.”

  “Seems you saved me for last,”

  Jody grinned. “I knew you’d be hardest to convince.”

  “There’s one condition,” Quinn said. “Your mother has
to approve of you getting involved in this case. And I want to hear her say so.”

  “She will,” Jody said confidently. “I told you, I already talked to her about this.”

  Quinn was defeated. “I’ll work out a schedule where sometimes Carlie will have three guardian angels.”

  “Good enough for me,” Jody said. “For now.”

  Quinn pulled a murder file from a top drawer and laid it on the desk for Jody.

  “Homework,” he said.

  She opened the folder and glanced at its contents. Autopsy photos were on top. One photo Quinn had removed from the folder was the one he wanted to keep as tight a secret as possible, with Renz and a few others. It was a shot of the medicine cabinet mirror, taken at an angle, so the message FREEDOM TO KILL was visible, scrawled in blood. After a sample of the blood had been removed and photographs had been taken, the message had been rubbed out. Some of the pursuing detectives would know it, and of course the killer. But not the public. FREEDOM TO KILL would be the test to weed out the many people who for whatever strange reason confessed falsely to such crimes. If a confessor knew about the bloody message, he’d be taken much, much more seriously.

  “Those photographs supposed to make me puke?” Jody asked.

  “Works sometimes,” Quinn said.

  “Well, not this time. Remember, I’ve seen blood and death before.”

  She thumbed through the photos and laid the case file down, then walked toward the half bath at the rear of the office. Faster and faster. Quinn heard the door slam. Then he heard her choking and gagging. The exhaust fan started running.

  Jody was paler than usual when she returned to Quinn’s desk.

  “Not next time,” she amended.

  He smiled and handed the case file up to her.

  He believed her.

  “What do you think of your daughter giving up the legal world to play Spenser?” Quinn asked Pearl.

  They were in the brownstone’s living room, for once not using the air-conditioning, because the place had great cross ventilation and a cooling breeze was wafting through front to back.