by John Lutz
"Nothing new so far," Quinn said, getting impatient and also figuring he might beat Pearl to the punch. He could almost hear Pearl ticking.
"You'll be standing over Myrna," Renz said to Quinn. "Maybe with your hand on her shoulder, and you and she could be looking into each other's eyes. Drive our sicko killer wild."
"Hint at a romantic attachment?" Pearl asked.
Renz nodded. "You got it. Hint broadly."
Fedderman rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his white shirt cuff just beginning to come unbuttoned. "Myrna's still a good-looking woman," he said. "It'd be easy to believe an attachment."
"Maybe you should be it," Pearl said.
Fedderman looked aghast. "I'm hardly in her league."
"Such modesty, when it's convenient. Other times you're Brad Pitt."
"It's Quinn he hates," Helen said. "Quinn is his great nemesis, maybe even the lost father figure who deserted him. Our killer simultaneously hates and respects Quinn."
Many do, Pearl thought.
"So he's all the more likely to respond," Renz said.
"It's possible he'll respond with an oedipal rage," Helen said, "vented at his mother rather than Quinn. When it comes to people he loves, hates, and fears, all at the same time, Mom's at the top of the list. It's Mom he's repetitiously killing."
"Isn't this all getting way too complicated?" Pearl asked.
"Maybe not," Fedderman said. "We're dealing with a complicated psycho."
"It'll all seem simple when the cuffs are clicked on him," Renz said. He stuck the dead cigar back in his mouth.
"Or a bullet brings him down," Fedderman added.
"I di'n' hear 'at," Renz said around the cigar.
Quinn wasn't sure he liked this at all. Still, if it might work...
He glanced over at Helen, who was idly rocking back and forth simply by flexing her long muscles, looking more like a decathlon champion than a psychologist. He knew her background. She wasn't just Helen Iman, NYPD. She was Dr. Iman, Psy.D. The expert in the room.
She caught him looking at her, misreading him. Maybe.
"Have you ever secretly thought of sleeping with Myrna Kraft?" she asked him.
"If I were a spider."
Pearl was silent.
There was a mood in the office no one quite understood.
Renz removed the dead cigar from his mouth. "So whaddya think?" he asked the room in general.
"I think it's a brilliant idea," Helen said. "But be ready for whatever you wake up."
62
The sun cleansed, purified, burned away whatever festered and gave pain.
At least for a while.
The Butcher sat on a bench at the Seventy-second Street entrance to Central Park and tilted his face up to the warm sunshine. He'd dreamed again last night and had been in no mood for breakfast this morning. He was tired from lack of sleep, and there was a sour taste beneath his tongue that persisted no matter what he did.
Not that he couldn't shrug off his dreams when he was awake.
Not that he couldn't at all times differentiate dreams from reality.
Except during his dreams, of course.
He almost shivered with the chill he felt even in the warm sun.
After his morning shower, he'd taken a walk, thinking that might stir his appetite and then he'd stop somewhere and have at least orange juice and coffee. And of course he wanted to read the morning Post he'd picked up at a kiosk during his stroll to the park. He was always interested in what the media had to say about the killer who so baffled the police and intrigued the public. Even the grand gray lady, the Times, the paper of record, sometimes ran news items on the Butcher, and right on the front page, above the fold.
Sherman smiled up at the sun. He'd found fame, in an anonymous way. Had he always sought fame? Or had it only been after he'd begun to act on what he'd known, what he'd felt?
He cautioned himself that it could be dangerous, this hunger for publicity. It was a hunger that at times consumed its own compulsion. Sherman had read the literature on serial killers and knew as much about them as Quinn. Well, maybe not that much. Quinn had actually met serial killers, whereas Sherman merely...was one. His smile broadened and he almost laughed out loud, sharing the joke with the sun.
He was still tired and his legs felt heavy, but he was definitely feeling better. He'd sit here a while, read the paper, and enjoy the day in its full and early bloom. After glancing around the park and then out at the busy avenue, he drew his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, slipped them on and adjusted the frames at the bridge of his nose, and opened the paper in his lap.
Ah! Interesting.
He leaned over the paper, peering at the photograph on page two. Not merely interesting. Astounding! Mom and Quinn, in some kind of room, perhaps an office. Mom was seated at a table, a sheet of paper before her, and a pen in her hand. Quinn was standing close by, just behind her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder near the curve of her neck. She was staring not at the paper or camera but up into Quinn's eyes.
And the way he was looking at her!
How dare--
Sherman felt a cold, cold pressure just beneath his heart. He closed his eyes and waited until it went away before he looked again at the photo in the Post.
Now he smiled. Making himself arrange his facial muscles at first, but then the smile became genuine. Reason had supplanted emotion.
This photograph was obviously a trick. He laughed out loud, a kind of strangled giggle. Quinn! He didn't hate him, didn't want to kill Quinn. After all, he'd chosen Quinn. And Quinn hadn't let him down. Sherman laughed again, this time in admiration at the wiliness of his opponent. The old "Killer's Mother Signs Statement" trick, but with a twist. Wonderful! Audacious! Mom as bait while having an affair with the lead detective. All a lie, of course. Quinn had come up with something new, something innovative, that could be added to all the other misdirected claptrap written and spoken about serial killers and their mothers.
Misguided and unhappy professors in musty classrooms or lecture halls half full of bored students, TV chatterhead pop psychologists mouthing the tired phrases of others, spoon-feeding pap in sound bites to the millions, what did they know? Who were they to presume?
Well, let Quinn be smug for a while. Sherman knew better. Who was this asshole detective really? And how innovative was he? Did he think he'd invented flush toilets or the forward pass?
He realized he was clenching his jaw. No anger. No need and no reason for anger.
Sherman knew the police were getting anxious, wondering if he'd actually rise to the bait and confirm their cleverness. They were the ones feeling the pressure. They were planting staged photographs in the newspapers. They were the sources of amusement being laughed at for their futility. They were the ones lost in the swamp.
As he stood up from the bench, he folded the newspaper, then walked over to a nearby trash receptacle and dropped it in with the rest of the detritus of humanity.
Then he began to walk, still not hungry.
Around two that afternoon he fell asleep in his recliner and dreamed of Quinn and Mom gazing at each other...that way. Of them doing other things. Of Sam Pickett and the sounds that had come from Mom's bedroom, the squeal of the bedsprings and crashing of the headboard against the wall, over and over and over until it became like distant thunder that wouldn't quit, that wouldn't allow peace or safety, that remained fear on the horizon.
The squeal of the bedsprings!
The squeal of the bedsprings!
There was no way to stop it, or to stop the distant thunder from moving closer and closer.
The past threatened like a summer storm, roiling the darkness of his mind, and other sounds and images rose unbidden to the surface of Sherman's memory: the lapping of black water in moonlight, the persistent droning of insects, the smooth dark movement in shadowed glades, the shrill scream of the power saw cutting through--
The squeal--
The storm grew in intensity an
d roared in on him like a hurricane.
It gathered him struggling to its bosom, and he surrendered to it.
He expected darkness when he opened his eyes, but light flooded in through the window. He sat for a while staring out at the city, still there and not a dream, miles of soaring stone and glass and angular stark shadow and bright sunlight. The past was over and gone. Outside the window was the present.
Now! Real!
He swallowed his fear and the bitterness of sleep and dreams.
A trick. The photo in the newspaper looked real but it was a trick.
But the dream echoed and flashed in his mind and Sherman was furious, perspiring, his heart hammering.
Calm, damn it! Calm...A trick...
He recalled fishing in the swamp, the bait taken, the hook bare. Sometimes a gator would yank at the line, breaking it and sweeping away hook and bait with an invisible awesome power. Quinn would learn there were creatures you didn't fish for. Quinn could never imagine. He'd never been where Sherman had been, or learned the hard lessons. You didn't stalk creatures that regarded bait and hunter as gift and prey.
Quinn could never imagine.
Sherman reached for his cell phone and pecked out Lauri's cell phone number. Cell to cell, like a living organism. His heart slowed its pace and he was breathing evenly at last.
She answered on the third ring.
"Hi," he said. "Miss me?"
63
Undercover officer Jack Neeson was playing the bellhop, pansy uniform and all. Shakespeare or whoever the hell had said it was right--life was like a stage and we were all actors. Sometimes Neeson was a bum, sometimes a drug dealer, sometimes a straight-arrow WASP with a smile and a line, sometimes a low-life asshole in the rackets. Always he was a cop.
He was hanging around just inside the entrance to the Meredith Hotel, trying to remember a joke he'd recently heard, when he recognized Quinn's daughter. She was on the arm of a guy in a well-cut blue suit and carrying a white box that looked as if it might have flowers in it. He and the girl made a good match. She was a looker, though still young and not as filled out as Neeson liked them. The guy she was with was a nice enough looking sort, with a medium-size, athletic build and a head of full wavy blond hair worn a little too long.
Neeson figured Quinn might already know she was here. She could even be on her way upstairs to see him.
But she and her date--looked like a date, anyway--made a left turn away from the elevators and walked down the corridor leading to the hotel's pricey restaurant, the Longitude Room.
A date, then. Neeson envied the guy. He recognized Lola, Laura--whatever her name was--from seeing her hanging around Pearl Kasner. Pearl acted like she wanted the girl to scram, but Neeson would have taken just the opposite position, even though the kid wore that glitter thing screwed in the side of her nostril. Why the hell did they do that?
There was a joke about those nose studs, but he couldn't remember that one, either. He maintained a large repertoire of jokes because it helped to keep the memory sharp, which was useful in his work. If only he could remember the damned things...
For a few seconds Neeson thought it might be worth calling upstairs and letting Quinn know his daughter was in the building, just in case, but what was the point? The guy she was with must be okay, if Quinn's own daughter was going out with him and could vouch for him.
Movement over by the lobby entrance caught his eye.
Here came a little guy with a carry-on slung by a strap over his shoulder, wearing baggy khaki pants and a black golf shirt, an airline ticket folder sticking up out of his breast pocket like a badge saying, "I am a rube tourist." Yeah, sure. He fit the description and like a lot of other men resembled the old photo of the suspect, only he was probably too short. Way too short.
Still, it paid to be thorough.
Neeson knew dozens of short guy jokes. His vertically challenged partner had once filed a complaint against him. Neeson was soon transferred out of the precinct. He kept an eye on this short guy checking in, waiting until the man had shooed away the real bellhop, who wanted to carry his bag, and strode off toward the elevators.
Soon as the elevator door closed on the guy, Neeson was at the desk. Getting information fast on these mopes was major in this operation.
The guest's name was Larry Martin. He was from Sarasota, Florida. Neeson used the phone to call in the information to Fedderman, who called back within minutes and said the name and address checked out, and reminded Neeson the suspect was medium height, an estimated five-feet-eleven inches tall. The information on Martin's Florida driver's license had him at five-feet-five inches.
"Didn't look even that tall," Neeson said. "But maybe his legs weren't all the way out."
"I don't follow," said Fedderman's voice on the phone.
"A joke, a joke," Neeson said. He had to struggle not to laugh.
"You're a smart-ass for a bellhop," Fedderman said, and hung up.
Two hours later, Neeson didn't notice Lauri Quinn and her date emerge from the restaurant corridor and walk toward the elevator.
Lauri was tired but happy, and hanging on Joe's arm this time for support as well as show. One of her high heels turned in slightly as she walked. Her date still carried the long white box. A gift he'd promised to show her after dinner, when they were upstairs in the room he'd reserved.
She sat on a small bench for a minute or so, while the elevator made its way down. He still held the white box beneath his arm. She thought he looked amazingly handsome, standing there. The finished product.
Neeson came in from talking to the doorman outside and observed them getting into the elevator but didn't think much of it. They were probably on their way up to the sixth floor to see Quinn, or maybe they were going to a room and the guy was going to be doing what Neeson wouldn't mind doing.
He told himself not to let his imagination run away with him. This was the daughter of one of the shrewdest, toughest homicide detectives the NYPD had produced. Better to get crossways with tyrannosaurus Rex. If the blond guy didn't know that and was going to tap the kid, good luck to him.
Neeson leaned with his back against a wall, almost out of sight over by some potted palms, and paid attention to the other guests coming and going, to the real bellhops hustling to get their bags and stack them on luggage carts. It looked to him like a hard job. Those guys deserved their tips.
Not that they didn't also have some fun. There must be a thousand jokes about bellhops.
Pearl was in 624, the room down the hall from Myrna Kraft's, seated at the corner desk and wearing the headphones again. Not that there was much to hear other than what might be the faint sound of Myrna breathing deeply in her sleep. Myrna had gone to bed and didn't even snore. Which kind of aggravated Pearl, who'd been told that she, Pearl, softly snored, at times.
Quinn was standing at the window again, peering out at the night and using his cell phone to check on positions since their two-ways didn't work worth a damn in the prewar building with its thick walls. Pearl could hear him talking, but with the bulky earphones on her head had no idea what he was saying. Her back was getting sore from sitting so long, and she was getting bored.
She kept one earphone on and used her own cell phone at her other ear to check her machine at home for messages.
There were two. The first was a reminder of a standing appointment for a mammography next Monday. The second was her mother, berating her for not calling or showing up for her lunch with somebody named Milton.
Milton?...
Then Pearl remembered--she was supposed to be introduced to Mrs. Kahn's incredibly eligible nephew at lunch at the assisted living home. Pearl had stood him up, along with her mother and Mrs. Kahn.
Pearl breathed hard through her nose. Damned complications! She didn't need this crap. Not now. Not ever.
Screw it! Screw all of them!
Pearl refused to let her anger rise. She had her life to live. She didn't need coercions and complications from her
mother or Mrs. Kahn or her nephew Milton--from any of them, especially her mother. She didn't deserve it and wouldn't put up with it. She felt like spitting out her guilt.
"Something?" Quinn asked, noticing the puckered expression on her face.
"Nothing!" Pearl said.
Screw all of them! You, too!
He turned back to the window and his cell phone.
Sherman glanced at his watch and saw that it was past midnight. Time to move.
He'd used a larger ketamine dose this time, figuring it just right. Lauri had made it okay on the way up in the elevator, and into the room. She couldn't have gone much further without her legs giving out.
She'd slept deeply at first, but now she was conscious again, if barely, seated in a wooden chair, her arms and legs taped to the chair's arms and legs, a rectangle of tape firmly fixed across her mouth. She wasn't going to make a sound. She wasn't going anywhere. She and the chair were one, as if they'd been manufactured together out of a single piece. The white box was on the floor behind the chair, where she couldn't see it.
So far, he was pleased. Everything was falling neatly into place.
Her fearful eyes followed him as he moved about the room. He thought she'd still be unconscious if she weren't so terrified. He smiled at her. She looked back at him hazily, bewildered. Poor girl. In her mind, time had slipped a cog. Was maybe still slipping. There was so much she didn't understand.
He slipped off his suit coat and laid it carefully folded, lining out, on the bed. Then he removed his shoes and tucked the legs of his suit pants into the tops of his black socks. Her eyes watched him, wondering.
Let her watch.
He swiveled her chair slightly so she could see in through the open bathroom door.
After winking at her, he scooted a second, smaller armchair into the bathroom, placing it just so. Then he returned and from the white box withdrew a nine-millimeter handgun, a key-chain penlight, a long screwdriver, and a large folding knife with a thin blade. He preferred to use the knife, but the gun was an added measure prompted by the fact that he knew full well he was entering a trap.