Slaughter

by John Lutz

  Quinn gave her the kind of smile that should itself be declared illegal. Said, “More or less.”

  Great! “I am in the NYPD.”

  “So are we all, temporarily.” He regarded her as if she might be growing another head. “You want out, Helen?”

  “Depends on what this resource is and what you want to do with it.”

  “The news media,” he said. “Specifically, Minnie Miner.”

  “Marvelous!” Sal growled. “Why her?”

  “She’s got moxie,” Pearl said.

  “The Marvelous Minnie Miner Media Moxie plan,” Harold said.

  Sal glared at him with disgust.

  “Putting planning in progress,” Harold said, still in the grip of alliteration.

  “There’s someone else involved,” Quinn said. “Somebody we’ve trusted before.”

  “How did those times turn out?” Fedderman asked.

  Quinn said, “She seems always to wind up in hospitals.”

  Helen looked at him sharply. “Likes sex, heals fast?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “Nancy Weaver?”

  “Jackpot.”

  “Every time she heals up and gets out of the hospital, she goes back to the Vice Squad,” Helen said. “She belongs in the Vice Squad. Maybe on the other side.”

  “She enjoys getting the snot beat out of her,” Fedderman said.

  No one disagreed. When it came to Weaver, they simply didn’t know what to think.

  Helen looked around. Said to Quinn, “Everybody you’re involving in this is the sort of person who would skydive without a parachute.”

  “That’s how I got here,” Nancy Weaver said.

  No one had heard the street door open, but there she was, in four-inch heels and a businesslike pants suit that was a size too small for her and looked completely unbusinesslike.

  She displayed no injuries.

  Helen, in the complete silence, watched Weaver move all her parts as she crossed the room and sat down in one of the desk chairs. Her pose and posture were calculatingly prim. The effect looked nasty.

  Helen crossed her arms and glanced around. All the maniacs were present.

  All of us.

  Except for the police commissioner.

  Quinn smiled at her, reading her thoughts while she was reading his. “Renz doesn’t want to know.”

  Helen knew he was right. Not that anything would prevent Renz from throwing them all under the train if it was to his advantage. As long as he held that strategic position he was fine with whatever they did.

  “Okay,” Quinn said. “I’ll clue in Minnie Miner later.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to play?” Helen asked. Knowing how foolish the question was even as she spoke.

  “She’ll play,” Quinn said. “Here’s the plan.”

  He felt the familiar thrill as he realized that at that moment no one in the room wanted to be anywhere else. Feel anything else.

  Be anyone else.

  Two hours later, after her show, Quinn made his pitch to Minnie Miner. As he spoke, he saw in her face what he’d seen in the faces of the others. In their eyes and in the slight forward lean of their bodies.

  An acknowledgment and a readiness.

  Wolves and gray wolves.

  She said, “I’m in.”

  When Quinn got home he found a message on his answering machine.

  It was Renz, informing him that the pieces of the broken coffeemaker were clean of fingerprints.

  What they’d both expected.

  The coffee-bean press was only a coffee-bean press.

  65

  St. Louis, 2000

  They were by the river, just north of downtown St. Louis, in the commercial part of the city. The doors of the empty shipping container opened out and were cracked just enough to let a breeze in. Jordan wished it had been luck instead of a breeze.

  Things had gone wrong for Jordan and Jasmine. Jordan had been turned down for half a dozen jobs. Most places simply weren’t hiring, or at least told him that. The last place he’d applied, unloading cargo from one of the many barges that moved up and down the river, had resulted in a fight with the man who would have been Jordan’s boss.

  He was a large man whose face was like a map of madness. Yet he succumbed early and turned away from Jordan after a brief exchange of punches. There was something about the boy’s eyes. The man had seen eyes like that in a winded fox that had been cornered by half a dozen hounds and knew it was going to die. It had fought even harder, and almost survived. It wasn’t going to give up—ever. That in itself could be a force.

  “You’re the only man I know,” Jasmine told Jordan, “who can lose a job and a tooth in the same day.”

  “Least it’s a molar,” he said, flashing his handsome smile.

  “But you can’t chew your steak,” Jasmine said.

  Jordan spat off to the side. “I don’t anticipate that’s gonna be a problem.”

  “We can go to that diner up on South Broadway.” For the first time, she noticed that the knuckles on his right hand were reddened and cut. The hand was slightly swollen.

  “We get done eating,” he said, “and we’re gonna experience an issue.”

  “Issue?”

  “They’re gonna be unreasonable at the diner and want money from us after we eat. You know how they are. They’ll see it as some kinda trade.”

  “They’ll just have to learn to share,” Jasmine said.

  “Share?”

  She smiled. “Somebody say something about sharing?”

  Jordan felt something shift in the core of him. Where his heart maybe should be. The thought amused him.

  Jordan remembered telling Jasmine that if two people knew a secret, it was no longer a secret. That had seemed wise then. It seemed wise now.

  Even if they trusted each other totally now, and felt they would share that trust forever, they both knew a day might come—would surely come—when things would change. If they delayed long enough, the secret that was murder would become again a real secret.

  Jordan knew it, and was sure that when the time came, he would act in his own best interest.

  Jasmine also knew this, and had contemplated killing Jordan first. Then she’d become resigned.

  She decided that if Jordan didn’t want her enough to let her live, she wanted to die.

  Love? she wondered.

  Actually, she thought, there was no titanic struggle raging in her breast. It was really kind of obvious and simple. She and Jordan were like two shipwrecked people in the middle of an ocean, starving in a lifeboat. Neither spoke what each knew the other was thinking. Eventually, one could only survive by eating the other.

  66

  St. Louis, the present

  Jordan had this persistent notion that the police were gaining on him. He had plenty of net worth, and stolen credit and debit cards that were too hot to use. He knew the police could quickly trace that kind of plastic, so he stayed with the rapidly diminishing cash that he kept hidden in a money belt.

  Only now the ready cash had about run out, and the dangerous cards beckoned more and more to him. There seemed to be only one thing to do—or rather several things. They all had to result in the acquisition of money.

  Jordan noticed what seemed to be a young college guy walking toward him. He changed course slightly and approached the boy, making note of his expensive-looking sweater tied by the arms around his neck. Mr. Preppy. A closer look took in deliberately worn-out jeans, and expensive-looking leather boots that had built-up heels that made the kid appear taller.

  They were pretty much alone, in a place not far from where the Eads Bridge crossed into Illinois. Across the Mississippi the grim outline of East St. Louis was sharp against the cloudless sky. Down here on the levee the sun seemed to burn with an extra brightness, casting sharper shadows. River traffic seemed not to move until you looked away and then back at it and realized the scene changed slightly. It made Jordan wish, in some part of him
, that he was a French impressionist painter, wise to the ways of light and shadow.

  A man and woman walked close together and stopped now and then to kiss. They were the only other people in sight. Jordan waited until they disappeared into what looked like some kind of parking structure.

  A car emerged five minutes later. It was a dented convertible with the top up, and was in no way a rental. The woman was driving and was alone. She was in a hurry and didn’t look anywhere except straight ahead. She didn’t apply the brakes as she pulled out onto the road.

  Almost immediately, the preppy-looking guy reappeared and walked along the levee, seemingly enjoying the lingering morning and the nearby rush of muddy water.

  Jordan approached Mr. Preppy, keeping his hands in his pockets so he’d seem more casual than dangerous. Noting that the boy appeared scared, he smiled with false assurance and said, “You look like a fella who’d give a desperate man a small loan.”

  Now the kid did look afraid. His eyes darted around, seeking company or some sort of help.

  But there was no one.

  He tried a smile and a head shake. “Sorry, I don’t have a cent on me.” He stepped to the side and walked around Jordan.

  Jordan moved to block him and took his hands out of his pockets.

  At first he thought the kid was going to turn and run. Jordan didn’t want that. In fact, he decided that if the boy did break and run, he, Jordan, would run the opposite direction.

  Instead of running, the boy sighed and said, “All I’ve got on me is ten dollars.” He pulled his brown leather wallet out of a hip pocket and flipped it open, showing Jordan that it was empty except for a single ten-dollar bill. Jordan held out a hand and was given the bill. It seemed so easy, he thought he should do more of this. “Give me the entire wallet,” he said. “I’ll give it back. I just want to make sure there are no secret pockets.”

  Decision time. The kid looked as if he might bolt, but instead complied.

  Thumbing through the wallet, Jordan found no more money.

  He discovered nothing more of value. The usual junk. A driver’s license revealed that the kid was Samuel Pace, and he was nineteen years old. The clothes . . . the cheap wallet . . . Sam didn’t figure to be the scion of a wealthy family.

  On the other hand, the trendy clothes suggested the family probably wasn’t poor.

  A plastic charge card didn’t interest Jordan; he knew that once reported stolen it would be a trap. There was another card in the wallet. Two cards, actually, in a little envelope that had the name of a hotel and a room number on it. Inside the envelope were two key cards for the nearby Adam Park hotel, room 333. There was a photo in the wallet, too, pressed in plastic—an attractive young blond girl seated in a wooden swing and smiling. “This your girlfriend?” Jordan asked. Pocketing one of the hotel key cards. Probably the kid would think he misplaced it, or that he was given only one key card when he checked in.

  “She is my girlfriend.”

  “She here with you?”

  “No. Yes. Coming in tomorrow.”

  An obvious lie.

  “I bet her name is Cherry,” Jordan said.

  Samuel Pace looked slightly confused, not knowing if Jordan had just insulted his girlfriend. “Her name is Eleanor,” he said.

  A tugboat chugged upriver, its air horn blasting a low, mournful note. Samuel Pace glanced at it with brief hope in his eyes. No one was on the boat’s deck. No one to look back at him.

  Jordan said, “What size shoe do you wear?

  Samuel blinked at him. “’Bout an eleven.”

  Jordan shook his head in disappointment. The boots were too large for his feet, even if he stuffed something in the toes.

  “I ain’t got any money in my boots,” Samuel said, getting the wrong idea.

  Jordan smiled. “I’m gonna believe you.” He knew that he could, or Samuel wouldn’t have brought up the subject.

  He handed the wallet back to the boy, keeping only the ten-dollar bill and the photograph, which he slid into his shirt pocket. He didn’t count the hotel key card as loot; plucking it out of its tiny envelope when the kid’s head was turned had been almost automatic. It was one of Jordan’s cardinal rules, not passing up a chance to use somebody else’s charge or key card.

  “I know where you live,” Jordan said. “And I can find out about Eleanor. Neither of you know where I live.”

  He took a careful up-and-down look at Samuel. He was skinny, but also tall. Probably close to six feet. Nothing he was wearing would fit Jordan. Everything would drape on him, making him look even smaller than he was. Lost in his clothes, as his mother used to tell him. His late mother. His father hadn’t minded his diminutive stature. It made Jordan easier to control.

  “You seem not to believe I think of that ten dollars as a loan,” Jordan said.

  Samuel stared at him, still afraid, but curious.

  “You be here this time tomorrow and I’ll pay you back, with interest,” Jordan lied. “You believe me?”

  “If you want me to.”

  Jordan smiled. “I’m not sure I know exactly what that means, but yeah, I want you to. I told you it was a loan. I don’t lie.”

  Samuel was in no position to contradict Jordan. He simply stood with a stupid half grin on his face.

  Jordan stuck out his right hand. “I’ll bring the photograph, too. The one of Eleanor.”

  Samuel thanked him because he couldn’t think to say or do anything else.

  “See you tomorrow,” Jordan said. He shook Samuel’s sweaty, trembling hand with its slender fingers.

  As an afterthought he added, “I know a famous glamour photographer who’d love to shoot Eleanor. Maybe I’ll bring her, too. He might wanna shoot both of you.”

  Thinking, always leave them confused.

  Jordan had noted on the Missouri driver’s license that Samuel’s address was here in the city, though he was staying at a hotel. He was most likely here for an assignation with Eleanor. One that he didn’t want anyone else to know about.

  Or tell anyone else about.

  Samuel was smart to be so suspicious, Jordan thought.

  He walked off in the direction of Jasmine.

  Later that day

  Lying in the cool air-conditioning with his eyes closed, Jordan thought about his master plan. The plan that would play out as tragedy so vast it would be pondered and admired for generations.

  The witnessing of what the famous architect and engineer Ethan Ellis had done to a ten-year-old boy ensured Ellis’s cooperation and his silence. He had understood immediately what Jordan wanted.

  And why, like Jordan, he had long ago made his choice of evils, and it had enveloped him like a shroud.

  PART FOUR

  A righteous man regardeth the life of

  his beast;

  but the tender mercies of the wicked

  are cruel.

  —PROVERBS 12:10

  67

  New York, the present

  Minnie Miner was not so much amenable as eager to be part of the plan. Quinn decided Helen the profiler would be best for the opening gambit, the softening up. Helen was skilled at turning unease into fear, fear into horror, horror into mindless panic.

  “My vote for someone to explain these gruesome murders goes to a woman who knows all about the people who might perpetrate them,” Minnie said with all sincerity to camera 2’s red light. “I give you police profiler, psychologist, and author Helen Iman.”

  Helen, all six feet plus of her, strolled out onto the set. Despite Helen’s towering height advantage, Minnie matched her presence with pure energy. Fireball meets lackadaisical.

  Applause was enthusiastic. Minnie made a welcoming motion with her right arm, and Helen sat down in one of the wing chairs angled at forty-five degrees so they both faced the low coffee table. She was wearing a red dress with a low neckline, and a high hemline that showed off her almost impossibly long legs.

  Minnie sat in the other chair, on the very edge
of the seat cushion, and smiled while the audience applauded. She waited, waited . . .

  When the applause began to flag, she heaped more praise on Helen: “This woman has a sixth sense when it comes to getting inside the heads of the bad guys.” Minnie laughed. “And she knows a lot more than anyone else I know about weaponry, villains, law enforcement, and serial killers.” She turned her attention away from the audience and faced Helen. “And one interesting thing I’ve heard you say in the past, Helen, is that such killers are like ticking time bombs. At a certain point they very much want to get caught and stopped. That happens when their murders make it begin to seem like they’re the ones dying a little at a time with each death they cause, each life they stop. Killing does that to the murderer, male or female.”

  Helen looked beyond Minnie and spoke to the studio audience.

  “Have you ever eaten something you thought was delicious, knowing it wasn’t good for you?”

  She pretended to count members of the audience, observing the various heads nodding yes, yes, they knew the satisfaction of stuffing food into their mouths to the point of gluttony. And Helen knew it. They had that in common, being human beings. But Minnie wasn’t any kind of criminal. So how could she know the cost of disregarding the lengthening shadows? The ticking bomb? Her background surely precluded that.

  “Helen?”

  Minnie was looking at her expectantly.

  “Sorry,” Helen said. “We push the food away. We’ve had enough. We can eat no more. Finally, it is time to stop.”

  The audience applauded at the pause, without a cue. They liked this woman. Minnie decided to let it roll.

  “Usually one person can understand another only up to a certain point,” Helen said. “Going beyond that point is what I do. That is what I’ve done. It’s my job, and it’s my calling.

  “The Gremlin,” she continued, “is not a good person. Not in any way heroic or iconic. He has a curious mind. That we know. And he is sick. He might be clever. He might be deadly. He might be three moves ahead of his pursuers. But he is also sick. He can’t stop his increasing use of the knife. He can’t stop torturing before killing. He can’t help reverse engineering every interesting device he comes upon. He can’t help this; he can’t resist that; he can’t reverse this; he can’t change that. He is not the skilled genius who always must know more. He is simply a simple man with a simple problem. The solution is also simple. He wants to be caught now. Finally. Even more than he wants to kill. He wants to be locked up for life or die by needle. But not just that. He wants to chose the time and place of his death. He wants to be an observer as well as a participant. He needs to stop. On the other hand, he needs to continue.