In for the Kill

by John Lutz

  There was a slice of buttered toast and a glass of milk where Sherman always sat at the table. His mother was being nice to him this morning; usually he prepared his own breakfast.

  She'd cooked up some eggs for herself. Now she used the rubber spatula to slide them onto a plate. Next to them she plopped down the second slice of toast from the old toaster.

  Without speaking to or looking at Sherman, she sat down across from him at the table and began to eat.

  "Sleep okay?" she asked, through a bite of egg she'd forked into her mouth.

  "Always do." Sherman took a big bite of toast.

  "You're young and you got no troubles," she said, smiling.

  "Got some."

  "Yeah, I guess ever'body does."

  They continued to eat, not looking at each other.

  Then Sherman became aware that he was the only one eating.

  His mother slowly raised her fork with a bite of egg halfway to her mouth, then set it back down on her plate. The expression on her face changed, like she was aging right in front of Sherman. She slid her chair back with a loud scraping sound, stood up from the table, and hurried into the bathroom.

  She hadn't even taken time to shut the door. Sherman could hear her retching in there.

  Absently carrying what was left of his toast, he got up and walked to where he could see into the bathroom.

  His mother was kneeling on the tile floor, her head hung over the yellowed porcelain toilet bowl so that some of her long brown hair dangled down into the water. Her face was as pale as Sherman had ever seen it.

  She made a horrible grunting sound like the one Sherman had heard last night from the swamp, then retched and vomited into the toilet bowl. Sherman saw that a lot of what she was bringing up was blood. There was a smear of blood on the floor near her broken toenail.

  So last night had been real, not a nightmare. There'd been a fight for sure. At least it had sounded like a fight.

  Sherman moved closer to the open door, still staring into the bathroom.

  "Mom...?"

  "G'way!"

  "You want me to wake up Sam?"

  "Let him sleep," said Sherman's mother into the yellowed bowl.

  She stayed the way she was, kneeling and staring into the toilet, for a long time. Sherman didn't move, either.

  Finally his mother reached up and worked the lever to flush the bowl. She scooted back away from it, lowered the wooden seat, and swiped the arm of her robe across her mouth.

  "You okay, Mom?"

  "Gonna be. Gotta be."

  She twisted her body to the side, then reached up and used the washbasin for support to haul herself back to her feet. Her breathing was deep and loud. Leaning with both arms on the basin, she looked into the medicine cabinet mirror, then quickly looked away.

  The faucet handles squealed.

  For a long time Myrna stood hunched over and holding her wrists beneath cool running water. This wasn't like her because, as she often reminded Sherman, there was a limited amount, mostly rainwater, in the holding tank, and the pump water smelled bad and was unfit for washing or drinking.

  Finally she turned off the water and looked over at Sherman. It gave him a chill, the way her eyes were, so sad and at the same time...something else. Something that frightened him.

  "You and Sam were goin' fishin', as I recall."

  "Yes'm." He couldn't look away from her eyes.

  "You go ahead, and he'll meet you when he's been up and had some breakfast."

  Her eyes.

  Sherman didn't move.

  "Sam know how to find you?"

  "Yes'm. We been goin' to the same place."

  "Then you go on, Sherman. Sam'll be along. You take your toast with you."

  Sherman took one hesitant step. Two. Her stare was like heat on his bare back.

  "Sam'll be along," his mother said again.

  Sherman could feel her eyes following him as he went out onto the porch, munching the last of his toast. He brushed his hands together to get rid of the crumbs and wiped his buttery fingers on his jeans.

  He reached for the fly rod Sam had been letting him use, but on second thought took his old bamboo pole from where it was leaning against the house. It was already rigged with a line, bobber, and hook, and he could find some worms or bug bait where he'd be fishing. Let Sam use the rod and reel and colorful fly bait this morning.

  Sherman went to where they'd been having luck lately, near the gnarled and twined roots of an ancient banyan tree, and sure enough he had no trouble finding worms in the moist soil.

  But his luck didn't hold. The fish weren't biting this morning.

  Sherman listened to the muted sounds of the swamp, thinking he could almost hear things growing. A mosquito buzzed very near. Hundreds of gnats glittered in the light and lent motion to a slanted sunbeam. There was no breeze, and yet foliage rustled. He watched water spiders adroitly traverse the dark surface near the shore, saw a brown-and-gray moth the size of his hand flutter into the dappled shadows beneath the trees.

  He stayed there a long time, standing in the shade and staring into the water at his cork that never bobbed in any way meaningful, looking into the dark ripples, thinking about his mother's eyes, waiting for Sam, hoping Sam would show up grinning with his rod and reel balanced and resting easy in his right hand, knowing he probably wouldn't.

  Thinking about his mother's eyes.

  24

  New York, the present

  Startled by how close the man was standing when she opened the door to leave Marilyn Nelson's apartment, Pearl automatically backed up a step.

  Quickly regaining her composure, she assessed the man in a cop's glance.

  His right hand had been raised shoulder high; he'd been about to knock. He was medium height, dark-haired, good looking. Even features, amiable brown eyes, a nice smile. His clothes told her little--khaki pants, short-sleeved blue shirt with the top button undone, brown loafers. There were no rings on his fingers. His wristwatch looked more expensive than the rest of his clothes. Not unusual these days. People were into watches.

  "I was expecting Marilyn," he said, obviously puzzled.

  Pearl didn't say anything immediately. Let him stew. She wanted the advantage.

  "You a friend?" he asked. Curious and still amiable, as if open to making new friends himself. The heart of a golden retriever.

  She flashed her shield and introduced herself as NYPD Homicide.

  "Are you a friend?" Pearl asked.

  He was the one who was slightly rattled now. "Yeah. Yes, I am. Name's Jeb Jones."

  Pearl didn't recall the name from Marilyn's address book.

  His brown eyes slid to the side, then back. "You said 'homicide.' This yellow tape really what I think it is?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Not a gag?" He seemed deeply upset now, and genuinely surprised. He didn't want to believe.

  "No gag. You look at the papers or check the news on TV, Mr. Jones?"

  "Not for a couple of days. Tell you the truth, I stay away from the news. It gets me depressed."

  "Marilyn Nelson was a victim of the Butcher," Pearl said.

  Judging by the stricken expression on his face, Jones had heard of the killer. "Holy Christ!" He raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and trying to adjust to the news that was even worse than he'd thought.

  "C'mon inside," Pearl said, stepping back. "Marilyn's...gone."

  He entered slowly, looking left and right as if expecting to see bloodstains or other signs of violence. If he noticed the odor of death he gave no sign. He walked unsteadily to the sofa and sat down on it with what Pearl took to be a kind of familiarity.

  She took the wing chair opposite and got out her notepad and stub of a pencil. "How good a friend of Marilyn's were you?"

  He pinched the bridge of his nose again, the way people do sometimes when they have a bad headache. Closed his eyes again, too, only they were lightly closed and not clenched shut like
before. "We dated twice. We got along well, I thought. Last time we parted, about a week ago, I told her I was going to drop by sometime." He lowered his hand, trained his blue gaze on Pearl, and shrugged. "Here I am."

  "Your name is really Jones?"

  "Of course."

  His indignation seemed genuine. "I had to ask," she said.

  "I guess you did."

  "Where did you and Marilyn meet?"

  "In a lounge, a couple of weeks ago."

  "Nuts and Bolts?"

  "Pardon?"

  "It's a lounge on the East Side."

  "No. A place called Richard's, near Lincoln Center."

  Pearl knew it. A respectable stop for the after-show and concert crowd. Not a pickup parlor like Nuts and Bolts. "Where'd you and Marilyn go on your two dates?"

  "We went out once to dinner, the other time to an old Woody Allen movie at the Renaissance Theater over in the next block."

  "Bananas," Pearl said. She happened to be a big Woody Allen fan and knew what was playing at the Renaissance.

  "Huh? Oh, yeah. South American dictators and all. I forgot the title."

  "On the other date, where'd you have dinner?"

  "The Pepper Tree, right down the street." He looked around. "We talked by phone, and we met where we decided to go. This is the first time I've ever been inside her apartment. And now she's...I mean, Jesus!"

  Pearl made a show of folding her notepad and putting it away with her pencil. She sat back and made herself look relaxed; it was time for a friendly off-the-record conversation. She'd seen Quinn use this tactic to lull someone he was interviewing, pretending the real interview was over. "I'm interested now not so much in facts as in your impressions. So tell me, what kind of woman was Marilyn?"

  Jones gave it some thought before answering. "She was always upbeat, optimistic. At least when I saw her. Also bright and ambitious. She thought she was going someplace in this world, and she probably was. She hadn't been in the city long and was doing some sort of consulting work for a chain of clothing stores."

  "Rough Country?"

  "I'm not sure. That coulda been it."

  Pearl smiled as if slightly embarrassed. "Now I'm sorry to have to ask you an intimate question, Mr. Jones."

  He understood. "She and I were never intimate." He looked at Pearl with direct honesty. "Like I said, this is the first time I've ever been in here. And she never came to my place." He glanced down at his shoes, back up. "I did have hopes."

  "Sure," Pearl said. "What else can you tell me about her? I'm just trying to get a feel for who she was." And who you are.

  "She laughed so easily," Jones said. "I liked that about her more than anything. She had the kind of sense of humor where she didn't say much that was funny, but she enjoyed what other people said." He actually seemed about to tear up. "The truth is, I guess we didn't know each other all that well, but I'm going to miss her, so I guess that's the kind of person she was." He glanced about. "This is such a waste. Such a goddamned shame!"

  "It is," Pearl agreed. Two dates and no sack time, and this guy was about to cry. Well, it was possible. Pearl wondered who'd cry over her if she were murdered. It was the kind of question her mother might ask.

  She really should call her mother.

  "I mean, a woman so wonderful and still young." Jones sniffed. "Well, I guess in your job you see it all the time."

  "Too often." She waited a beat, then: "What do you do for a living, Mr. Jones?" Abrupt change of subject. It might cheer him up even if it didn't throw him off balance. His grief did seem real.

  "I'm a freelance journalist."

  Great!

  Her alarm must have shown on her face.

  "Not a newshound," he assured her. "I'm in New York working on a book about the intersection of politics and economics and its influence on the functions of each."

  "Sounds fascinating."

  A faint smile passed across his features. "I try not to make it too dry. I'm still looking for a publisher."

  She got out her pad and pencil again. Official cop time. "And your address?"

  Pearl dutifully wrote it down, the Waverton, a residential hotel over on the West Side. It was a place that showed its age but was still respectable and had reasonable rates. Pearl thought it was exactly the kind of hotel where a freelance journalist with intermittent income might stay.

  She put pad and pencil away again and thanked Jeb Jones for his time; then she stood up, waiting to see how anxious he was to leave.

  Not very.

  "We finished?" he asked.

  Pearl had the impression he might prefer to hang around for a while and chat, as if he were lonely.

  "Maybe," she said. "I might be in touch." She smiled. "You've been a help."

  "I hope so." He stood slowly and looked around again, almost as if expecting to see Marilyn Nelson. He didn't so much as glance toward the bathroom.

  "What do you know about the bastard who did this?" he asked. "Are you going to find him?"

  "Not much yet, but we're learning. And you can bet we're gonna find him."

  Jones nodded, but he didn't seem satisfied.

  When he was gone, Pearl used her cell phone to call the Waverton and ask for Jeb Jones.

  She waited while his room phone rang over and over, until finally it stopped and someone Pearl assumed to be the desk clerk came on the line and informed her that Jones wasn't in his room but she could leave a message.

  Pearl told him no message, then thanked him and broke the connection.

  So Jones was real, what he'd told her was at least true up to a point, and he wasn't in two places at once. Progress?

  Who the hell knew?

  She glanced at her watch. She was a long way from the Village, but there was still plenty of time to get to where she was having lunch with Lauri Quinn.

  Quinn's request that she talk to his daughter nagged at Pearl, but she could understand why he had to ask.

  Family! Pearl thought. River of blood. Sticky.

  Call Mom.

  The hell with Mom! Trying to run my life. Trying, for Chrissake, to marry me off like I'm some kind of virgin in Fiddler on the Roof!

  Don't call Mom!

  The Hungry U was a bit of a joint, but Pearl had seen worse. And it was in a part of the Village where "joint" was...well, chic.

  Inside, the restaurant was one of those places with a decor that tried too hard. Pearl thought it was like a movie director's low-budget idea of how a Pakistani restaurant should look.

  Wafting on the aromatic air was repetitious recorded music played on an unfamiliar instrument, maybe a zither. Pearl thought the music might be Pakistani, but how would she know? The cooking scents titillated her appetite but made her eyes water. She was led by an exotic-looking woman to a table next to a wall.

  Lauri must have seen her come in and was waiting for her to be seated, because she appeared right away and shook hands with Pearl before sliding onto the chair opposite.

  A waiter also appeared. He was a handsome guy in his twenties with a sharply pointed dark goatee. He was wearing cutoff jeans and a baggy-sleeved white shirt. Maybe that was what waiters wore in Pakistan.

  He smiled at Lauri. "Can't stay away from the place on your day off?"

  "It's the saffron," Lauri said. She looked at Pearl. "That's like this orange-colored spice that's from flowers."

  "Ah!"

  The waiter took their drink orders, diet Pepsi for Lauri and iced tea for Pearl, then left them.

  Pearl studied Lauri. She definitely had her father's eyes and chin. It was odd how the feminine version of what made Quinn look like a thug was somehow beautiful on his daughter. Her hair was blond and worn short in a don't-give-a-damn cut. There was an obviously fake diamond stud in her nose. She was attractive now, but if she somehow managed to grow up in this crappy world, she might be stunning.

  "You know about me," Pearl said. Not a question.

  "Yeah. You're the one who was shacked up with my dad."

&n
bsp; Pearl sighed. Was this going to be difficult? "That's me, all right. He thought we should have this conversation."

  "So he'll understand me better, I suppose."

  "I suppose the same thing," Pearl said.

  "Think it'll work?"

  "Yes. I'm intuitive."

  Lauri gave her a frank look. A Quinn look. "You're pretty much what I expected."

  "Is that good?"

  "Not bad. I'm not predisposed to dislike you."

  Predisposed. Girl's got herself a vocabulary.

  "I'm glad," Pearl said. "I'm not sure what I'd do if you disliked me."

  "You're joking?"

  "Not entirely."

  "Mom said Dad loved being a cop and he also hated it.

  She said you were the same way and you and he deserved each other."

  "Mom had it right."

  "So what happened between you two?"

  "That isn't the conversation your dad wanted us to have," Pearl said. "But I've gotta tell you, that question was so your father."

  Lauri laughed. Quinn's rare laugh only without the low thunder.

  Pearl smiled and opened a menu, buying time to think, beginning to enjoy this.

  "So what's good here?" she asked.

  Lauri grinned brightly and shrugged, at the same time glancing around what was just another tired ethnic restaurant in a tired block of the Village. "Everything's wonderful."

  Pearl was beginning to see Quinn's problem.

  25

  Pearl often thought about why moths were drawn to flame. The problem wasn't that she couldn't figure out the reason. It was that she knew. She wondered if the moths knew, too, and didn't give a damn.

  That evening she phoned the Waverton Hotel again and asked for Jeb Jones. This time he was in his room and picked up on the second ring.

  "I'm the homicide detective you talked to earlier in Marilyn Nelson's apartment," Pearl said. "I have a few more questions to ask. Is this a good time?"