In for the Kill

by John Lutz

  Nift shifted to his left and a dim brown eye gazed up at Quinn.

  Pearl almost gagged as she returned the dead stare of the severed head resting on its side atop the detached arms.

  "Brown hair," she said flatly, of the dead woman in the tub. No emotion. Better to be a cop instead of a horrified basket case.

  Nift said, "Let me introduce you to Miz Celandra Thorn. Forgive her if she doesn't shake your hand, but you can shake hers all you want."

  Pearl felt like kicking the little bastard.

  "Thorn!" Quinn said. "Not the roses themselves. Goddamnit!" He knew it was something they should have thought of; it had been hinted strongly enough by the note about roses. They'd missed the oblique reference in the killer's note again. It was there for them and so obvious in retrospect. They'd been outsmarted.

  "Maybe Celandra is a type of rose," Pearl said, but she knew better. Like Quinn and Fedderman, she'd researched roses named after women until she'd never see roses the same way. It had been thorn, and they'd missed it.

  Nift straightened up, holding a gleaming steel probe in his gloved right hand, and the entire familiar stack of pale body parts in the bathtub was visible. As with the other Butcher victims, the blanched cleanliness of the victim and the crime scene appeared antiseptic and barren of anything that might prove in any way useful. Probably it would be difficult even to find a germ, much less a clue. There was only the ritual arrangement of meat on display.

  "Like the others," Nift said. "Same blades, same saw marks, same technique in reducing the whole to its parts." He flashed his nasty smile. "If you put her back together, you'd have a beautiful woman."

  "Would you rather we leave?" Pearl asked.

  Nift ignored her. "As you can see, she was facially a knockout. She had the build, too. Very muscular as well as shapely. I'd guess she danced, judging by the impressively developed musculature in her thighs and calves. Or ran cross-country or lifted weights or some such thing. But with her looks, I think it'd be show business."

  "Playing detective again," Quinn said.

  "Don't you watch those programs on television? We forensics guys solve crimes all the time. We shoot pretty damned straight, too."

  "If this was television," Pearl said, "I'd mute you."

  "Your partner takes life too seriously," Nift said to Quinn.

  "It's death we're talking about here," Quinn said.

  "Which brings us to cause of same," Nift said. "Looks like drowning. Also, the usual traces of adhesive from duct tape. Body fluids, what have you, all washed neatly down the drain. Time of death probably early last evening; I'll get you closer after the official postmortem." He bent down and placed his steel probe in his black medical case, then peeled off his gloves and slipped them into a plastic bag, which he also placed in the case.

  "So much for the prelim," he said. "Whenever you're done playing with her, you can send Celandra down to the morgue."

  They walked with him into the living room and watched him leave.

  Fedderman, talking to one of the techs over near a window, noticed Pearl and Quinn and came over. Even though it was warm in the apartment he still had on his wrinkled brown suit coat, and had his notepad stuffed in the coat's breast pocket behind where he had his shield displayed. He'd been taking notes. A stub of yellow pencil was tucked behind his right ear.

  "Just a moment," he said, excusing himself.

  Quinn knew where he was going, though probably there was no need. It was a professional obligation to call on Celandra Thorn.

  Fedderman looked pale and somber as he returned to the living room.

  "The bastard!" was all he said. Then, "Like the others. Leaving us nothing to work with."

  "Someday maybe he'll drop his wallet with his ID and photograph," Pearl said.

  Quinn wondered what was bothering her. He could understand her being sarcastic with that little prick Nift, but why was she riding Fedderman?

  Still sobered by what he'd seen in the bathroom, Fedderman ignored her and pulled his notebook from his pocket. He flipped through the pages for a few seconds then stopped. "Victim's name's Cecelia Thorn," he said. "Acted under the name Celandra. A friend she had a breakfast date with came by to get her, found the door unlocked, then let herself in and found what was left of Celandra." He glanced over at Quinn and Pearl. "The name Thorn--"

  "We know," Pearl said, cutting him off.

  "We should have thought of it," Fedderman said. "It's right there in the note between the lines, just like thorns are between the roses. If you're thinking roses, you're a fool if you're not also thinking thorns. Like coffee and cream."

  "Ham and eggs," Pearl said. "The Butcher is probably feeling pretty smart right now."

  "The smarter he feels," Quinn said, "the sooner we'll nail him."

  "Techs told me not to expect much in the way of useful prints," Fedderman said. "There are various ones around the apartment, but they're sure our guy wore gloves. No blood-work to be done, either. He drains them as best he can before he cuts, and whatever blood gets splashed or smeared around he scrubs away like an honest Dutch maid."

  "So we've got zilch again," Pearl said.

  "Not quite," Fedderman said. "A neighbor down the hall seems to be the last one who saw Celandra alive, in the elevator about six o'clock yesterday evening."

  "According to Nift, that's just about the time she was killed," Quinn said.

  "This"--Fedderman consulted his notes again--"Mrs. Ida Altmont was going out to walk her dog and stepped out of the elevator at lobby level when Celandra was coming in. They exchanged a few friendly words, then Celandra got in the elevator. The thing is, when the Altmont woman's dog was finished doing its business, Mrs. Altmont went grocery shopping, then stopped at a Starbucks for a coffee. Got back home about eight o'clock and saw a man leaving the lobby carrying a white box. He had on a gray shirt and dark pants, and she thinks he mighta been a deliveryman of some sort. Not much help on the description. Average height and weight. Dark hair, she thinks, but he was wearing a baseball cap. She remembered him because her dog growled at him even though he was over a hundred feet away, and the man looked what she called furtive."

  Quill sighed. "Furtive, huh?"

  "You don't often hear a witness say furtive," Fedderman said.

  "He was carrying a box," Pearl reminded them. "The Butcher's gotta have something to lug around his cutting tools and power saw."

  "And maybe an apron or change of clothes in case he gets bloody," Fedderman added.

  "Let's canvass the building," Quinn said. "Make sure nobody got a delivery or had a pickup around eight last night."

  "We've also got Debrina Fluor," Fedderman said.

  Quinn and Pearl looked at him.

  "She's downstairs in the unmarked. She's a dancer and friend of the victim, the one who let herself in and discovered the body. Pretty little thing."

  "You go down and get her statement," Quinn said. "I'll tell the paramedics they can remove the body soon as the techs are finished here. Then Pearl and I will see what Ida Altmont has to say."

  44

  The butcher shop stench came after them as they walked a short distance down the hall. Or maybe they carried it with them.

  Pearl wondered with sudden irrational panic if maybe they always would.

  The Altmont apartment was three doors down. Quinn knocked, and the door promptly opened.

  A small, hairy brown dog ignored Quinn and acted as if it wanted to tear Pearl's leg off. The stocky redheaded woman who'd opened the door adroitly scooped up the dog and clasped it tightly to her breast, saying, "No, no, no, Edgemore. We say no, no, no to naughtiness."

  Shouldn't we all, Pearl thought, wishing she could have kicked the hairy little bastard.

  Quinn was smiling. "Edgemore," he said. "Nice name. Nice dog." He reached out and petted the dog, which became instantly quiet and licked his hand.

  "It's sort of a family name," Ida Altmont said. Pearl noticed for the first time that the woman's face
and eyes were puffy, as if she'd been crying. Though she seemed younger at a glance, he guessed her age as about sixty. "Such a horrible, horrible thing that happened to Celandra," she said. "And right down the hall. So horrible."

  Naughtiness, thought Pearl.

  Ida Altmont sat down in the corner of a graceful blue-patterned sofa with dainty mahogany legs. Pearl noticed there was brown dog hair on one of the throw pillows. She and Quinn remained standing, watching as the distraught woman drew a handkerchief from a pocket of her gray skirt. She didn't use the handkerchief, merely crumpled it and gripped it tightly in her right hand, keeping it in reserve in case grief or fear overcame her.

  "Did Celandra Thorn seem her usual self when you and she talked at the elevator?" Quinn asked her.

  "Oh, yes. Very friendly. Celandra was always friendly to everyone."

  "You told Detective Fedderman about the man you saw leaving the building when you returned from walking Edgemore."

  Ida Altmont beamed, obviously pleased that he'd remembered the dog's name. All in all pleased with Quinn, this mature, ruggedly handsome cop favoring her with his attentiveness. "That's right. Edgemore and I had gone grocery shopping for some salad vegetables, then we stopped for lattes at Starbucks before returning home."

  "That would have been about eight o'clock?"

  "As near as I can remember."

  Under Quinn's seemingly casual questioning she recounted how she'd been approaching the building, and when she was almost there an average-size, average-looking man came out and bounded down the concrete steps to the sidewalk. She tightened her grip on the handkerchief and waved it in the general direction of her face. "He was carrying a large white box and looked..."

  Quinn and Pearl waited patiently.

  "Furtive," Ida Altmont said.

  Pearl had been expecting average.

  "What size was the box?" Quinn asked.

  "Oh, I'm a poor judge of such things, but I'd say it was about as wide as it was high, maybe eight or ten inches, and quite long, maybe twenty-four inches. It looked like one of those white boxes florists use for long-stemmed flowers, only somehow heavier, sturdier."

  "A very good description," Quinn said. "Are you a trained observer?"

  Ida Altmont fidgeted about, made uneasy by the compliment. "Oh, no, no. It was still light out, and I do watch things when Edgemore and I go for our walks. We like to notice what's going on around us."

  Quinn smiled at her. "If only Edgemore could talk."

  Pearl was pretty sure what Edgemore would say, and didn't like it.

  "Sometimes," Ida Almont said seriously, "it's almost as if he can."

  "What would he say about the man you two saw?" Quinn asked.

  Pearl was impressed. She'd thought he was simply buttering up the woman.

  "Edgemore wouldn't have liked him," Ida Altmont said immediately. "He would have said the man was in too much of a hurry and looked furtive."

  "Maybe he was running late and had more deliveries," Quinn suggested. "So why would Edgemore be suspicious?"

  "Why, because he's a dog. They know things about people; they notice things we don't."

  "Such as?"

  Ida Altmont sat back, frowning, and her eyes widened. Then suddenly she smiled, as if memory clicking into place had tickled her. "Well, it didn't seem that he was from a nearby restaurant, making a takeout delivery on foot. It wasn't that kind of package, and he simply didn't look the type. And Edgemore and I thought it odd that a deliveryman would be dashing about so when he was leaving, and carrying a package he'd apparently failed to deliver. Also, we could see up and down the block and there was no delivery truck. Surely if the man we saw was there to make a delivery of such a large package, he would have parked his truck or van nearby. There were available spaces right in front of the building, I'm sure."

  "My, my," Quinn said, "you're an excellent observer!"

  Ida Altmont batted her false eyelashes at him. "We do try."

  "What was parked on the block?"

  "Oh, cars. Lots of cars."

  "Do you remember which of them was closest to your apartment building?"

  "A white one, I think. Large. With stickers plastered all over the bumpers advising us to vote for the wrong people. It belongs to Mr. Cammering downstairs. Why aren't those political stickers ever pasted on straight?"

  "I don't know, dear. Were there any unfamiliar cars?"

  "Many of them. I really can't remember much about them. But I am certain that Edgemore and I saw no delivery truck, yet there was a deliveryman." She said it as if they'd observed an impressive magic trick.

  "Might the man have gotten into one of the cars?"

  "No, no. When Edgemore and I entered the building, he was near the end of the block, still walking."

  Which wouldn't necessarily mean he lives nearby, Pearl thought, only that he traveled by bus, subway, or cab, or that he had the good sense not to park his car near the building where he intended to commit murder.

  "Did you notice any lettering or a company logo on his jacket?" Quinn asked.

  "No, but I might have been too far away to notice. And it all happened rather fast."

  Quinn thanked Ida Altmont for her time and her help, then gave her his card and asked her to call if she remembered anything else about last night.

  Now that he was finished with Ida, Pearl spoke to her. "You said the deliveryman wouldn't have parked far away with such a large package. Did it appear heavy to you?"

  "Why, yes. Yes, it did. More heavy than large, actually, if that makes sense."

  "It does," Pearl said, thinking steel blades and a portable saw.

  Quinn was thinking the same thing, and looking at Pearl with approval. It annoyed her that she found herself almost blushing with pleasure at having pleased him. She wasn't a sap like Ida Altmont. Men were such...

  "I'm sorry I couldn't have been more help," Ida Altmont said, getting up from the sofa slowly, as if her legs hurt. She did some more eyelash batting, and then stuffed her handkerchief back into a pocket of her skirt.

  Quinn smiled and waved for her not to bother letting them out. "We'll find our own way. And don't assume you haven't been a great help to us. You never can tell when some seemingly minor piece of information will turn out to be exactly what we need in a homicide investigation."

  "I do hope you catch the animal who did that to Celandra."

  "We will, dear. Perpetrators always make a mistake."

  "Is that actually true?" Ida Altmont asked seriously.

  "Often enough," Quinn said with a grin just for her. "And that one mistake is all we need in order to put them where they belong." Quinn, protector of the city.

  "One mistake..." Ida Altmont said thoughtfully. She seemed intrigued by the idea. More eyelash work. "Might I interest you in some tea or milk and cake?" she asked. Pearl could see, with some irritation, that the woman was entirely smitten with Quinn.

  "Next time perhaps," he said. "It would be my great pleasure."

  He actually gave a little bow, somehow managing not to look foolish. Pearl had to admire how he so skillfully disguised his cynicism. It was something she'd have to work on.

  Since Quinn, finding his own way out, had turned away from her, Ida Altmont went to the door of the room where Edgemore was safely locked away, instead of the door to the hall.

  As Pearl and Quinn were leaving, Edgemore emitted a low growl, then began yapping frantically and charged at Pearl. His teeth were exposed to the gums. The nails on his tiny paws scratched the polished hardwood floor, seeking traction.

  Pearl moved quickly out into the hall, almost bumping into Quinn, and shut the door behind her. On the other side of the door, Edgemore continued to bark. They could hear his nails scraping on the door.

  "What the hell's that dog got against me?" Pearl asked.

  "Dogs know people," Quinn said.

  "They know more than some people."

  "Don't be discouraged," Quinn said. "Perpetrators always make a mistake."r />
  And sure enough, this one had made a mistake.

  But not one Pearl was going to like.

  45

  The day got progressively hectic, making Quinn wonder if he was cursed.

  When his desk phone jangled that afternoon, he was surprised to hear Renz's voice. It was too early for the postmortem findings on Celandra Thorn.

  "You'll have to speak up, Harley," Quinn said. Con Ed had begun tearing up the street right outside, and the intermittent clatter of a jackhammer punctuated everything said in the office. When the jackhammer wasn't chattering, the muted shrill whine of a dental drill from Nothing but the Tooth made its way through the wall.

  Pearl was at her desk, rereading witness statements about the Thorn murder. Fedderman was just coming in through the door, no doubt with additional statements. Quinn planned on the three of them sifting hay for the needle the next several hours.

  But Renz wasn't calling about autopsy reports.

  "We have a print that might prove useful," he said in a loud telephone voice. "Middle finger, right hand. A bloody fingerprint, no less."

  The jackhammer chattered. Quinn came hyperalert. One mistake... Maybe the Butcher had made his mistake, just as Quinn had described to Ida Altmont.

  Might it really work that way?

  "It's the only print that doesn't match any of the seven sets we've found and identified. An obsessive tech discovered it in the bathroom, beneath the front edge of the marble vanity top." Renz gave a satisfied chuckle. "And it couldn't be more clear."

  Amazing, Quinn thought. His mind flashed an image of the killer washing up after the murder. He'd removed his latex gloves, or one had torn, and he absently gripped the edge of the vanity while leaning forward studying himself in the mirror, looking for other bloodstains. The kind of small, casual action that could lead straight to hell.

  But something was nagging Quinn. "Have you run the print?"

  "We're doing that now. I'll fax an enlargement to you when I hang up. If the print's in NCIC or any other data bank, we'll have the name of our killer. He finally got careless. Sickos like him always do, eventually, and they get collared or go out in a blaze of glory. The needle or the gun."