by John Lutz
He turned and gave a dismissive wave as he walked toward his waiting car and driver. Quinn had to admit the suit looked great on him. It was the only thing he liked about Harley Renz.
Other than he was better than Vince Egan.
Ten minutes later, Pearl and Fedderman drove up in the unmarked and parked in the space Renz’s Lincoln had occupied. As they approached the bench, Quinn thought Pearl looked businesslike in a gray jacket and dark slacks, a V of white showing where the coat was buttoned. Fedderman limped along as if his feet hurt; compared to Renz’s nifty attire, Fed’s brown suit hung on him like rags. One of his shirt cuffs protruded from the coat sleeve, unbuttoned and flapping around as he swung his arms. The general effect was that of a portly scarecrow on the move.
“Traffic,” said Pearl, who’d been driving. She said it by way of explanation, nothing of apology in her tone. Could she apologize? For anything? “Been waiting long?”
“No, and I’ve had company.” Quinn told them about his conversation with Renz.
“Guy’s a genuine prick,” Pearl said.
“So everyone says.” Quinn used the back of his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead. Pearl had to be hot in that blazer, and Fedderman in his shoddy suit. “Was Renz right to be skeptical of our search for the literal key to the case?”
“He was right,” Pearl said. “I never knew there were so many places that duplicated keys every day in the areas of the murders. The locksmiths-and only some of them are — know the blanks and brands common to apartment keys, but lots of their customers pay cash. Records aren’t available, and charge receipts yielded nothing.”
“Renz has been right so far,” Fedderman said, as if he’d only been half listening to Pearl. Quinn could see now there were crescents of perspiration beneath the arms of his suit coat. Or were those stains from yesterday? “But only so far.”
Pearl and Quinn both looked at him.
“Suppose we assume the killer duplicated his own keys. You’ve seen that some of those machines are portable, Pearl, and using them doesn’t take a great deal of skill or training. So let’s work this backward.”
Pearl didn’t know what he meant. She looked quizzically at Quinn.
“He means start with tradesmen who worked in any of the murder apartments, and also have their own portable key cutters.”
“That’d narrow it down,” Fedderman said.
“Would it ever!” Pearl grinned and kissed him on the cheek.
Fedderman blushed and glanced almost guiltily at Quinn.
56
Jubal rolled off Dalia and sighed, still trying to catch his breath. Dalia liked to go twice sometimes, once on top, then on the bottom. He couldn’t imagine Claire even suggesting such a thing-not since she’d become pregnant.
They were in Chicago’s venerable and almost shabby Tremontier Hotel, where they were registered under their real names, Dorthea Hartnagle and Arnold Wolfe. It wouldn’t do to let the others in the production of As Thy Love Thyself know they were longtime lovers. Show business could be a small world, and Jubal was married to an actress.
The room was warm and smelled of sex and the rose fragrance perfume Dalia always wore. Jubal had come to love the combined scent. It almost made him hesitate in lighting a cigarette, but he reached over to the bedside table, carefully avoiding Dalia’s overturned champagne glass, and got his pack of Camels and a hotel book of matches. He fired up a cigarette, then leaned his head back on the damp pillow, took a long drag, and exhaled.
“Jesus, that’s good!”
Dalia was staring over at him, grinning. “The sex or the cigarette?”
“All of it.”
“Your wife know you’re back smoking?”
“Somehow that doesn’t seem like the logical question.”
“I guess it isn’t.”
“There’s a lot Claire doesn’t know about me.”
“Yeah, I bet you’re really misunderstood and abused.”
“You know what I mean, how it is.”
“Do I ever.” Dalia rolled onto her stomach and felt around for the bottle of Dom Perignon on the floor. She found it, then righted the champagne glass and poured what little was left of the bottle into it. She sat up cross-legged and nude on the bed and experimentally sipped champagne.
“Flat?” Jubal asked.
“Yeah, but so am I now, after the way you’ve been bouncing on me.” Another sip drained the glass and she placed it back on the table. “Does Claire know about your sitcom offer?”
“Not yet.” The producer of a pilot film for a proposed new cable sitcom, West Side Buddies, about a group of female-obsessed New York pals and neighbors, had called Jubal’s agent and said he might be right for the part of the Mets bachelor shortstop, Eric. There were no guarantees, but Jubal’s agent said he’d gotten word Jubal had a real shot at the role.
“Then you are going back to New York to audition?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Don’t be an idiot. You want the role, don’t you?”
“Sure. There are top people involved. But it’s in New York, and you’re here.”
“And I’ll still be here when you get back. Go! Astin can stand in for you for a couple of days. You won’t be bailing out on us; everyone will understand.” Astin was Astin Jones, Jubal’s handsome and calculating young understudy. There were people in the cast who thought he might be better for Jubal’s part than Jubal. “Hell, everyone will envy you for the opportunity. If they knew about the offer, they’d be urging you to go for it.”
Especially Astin.
“You afraid somebody’s gonna take your place permanently while you’re away?”
Jubal knew what she meant but played dumb. “We’ve been meeting each other for a long time and nobody’s taken my place.”
Dalia let him get away with it and didn’t say anything. She pretended to check the empty champagne bottle to see if anything more could be coaxed from it.
Jubal drew again on his cigarette, then leaned to the side and snuffed out the butt in the glass ashtray near the base of the lamp. The scent of tobacco smoke now dominated the room.
“Maybe I will go,” he said.
Dalia dropped to her side, then scooted over on the mattress, snaked an arm around Jubal’s neck, and kissed him on the mouth.
“I’ll show you maybe,” she said, smiling down at him.
At the airport Jubal checked in and passed through security faster than expected. Before the flight to Chicago he’d had to remove his shoes at LaGuardia, but apparently what might have been exploding wing tips aroused no suspicion on this end. He went into a gift shop and browsed to kill time.
He wasn’t all that eager to see Claire.
He was going to miss Dalia.
Claire was in another city and he’d mentally pushed her aside; it was difficult now to readjust to her. He was still in a Dalia frame of mind.
Jubal knew he’d done a good job of pretending with Claire. Well, not at first. Initially he’d been shocked, and he supposed glad, when she told him she was pregnant. Then came the marriage, and reality began setting in. Marriage, an infant realer by the hour, genuine commitment, a mutual checking account, mutual everything; it was stifling. None of it correlated with Jubal’s plans.
At first he told himself people had to make concessions in life, that he should grow up. But he wasn’t good at convincing himself. He wanted. He needed. Very badly. And not what he already had. Even he hadn’t realized how selfish he was about his future, his career.
Not that he felt he should apologize for his selfishness. Or feel guilty about it. He and Claire were both in show business, and they knew the kinds of sacrifices that had to be made. It was like a religious cult, acting; esoteric, demanding, unforgiving to those who betrayed it. He’d kept his religion, but Claire was losing hers.
So he’d begun seeing Dalia again. Dalia ran in his blood and had done so long before Claire. Their on-again, off-again romance had survived for almost seven years,
mainly because of the sex, which seemed only to get better and more imaginative with time.
During an off period with Dalia, while she was away working on the West Coast, Claire had become a force in Jubal’s life. She’d spun a web that enthralled and hypnotized him, occupying all his thoughts.
But lately, not only because of his deteriorating relationship with Claire, but also probably because of his marriage making Dalia forbidden fruit, and only more desirable, Jubal thought more and more about Dalia. Even making love to Claire, he thought about Dalia.
Dalia was the woman he thought of when he saw the ruby necklace in the airport gift shop showcase.
Dalia loved rubies. She had several ruby rings, a ruby bracelet, and at least one ruby pin that Jubal knew of. He couldn’t recall her wearing a ruby necklace.
This one held a single large stone in a silver setting on a unique silver chain. It reminded the already-lonely Jubal painfully of Dalia. He longed to make her a present of it.
The necklace was overpriced, like almost everything else in the shop. Jubal stood staring at it, considering.
Every addiction is expensive. Even Dalia.
He knew if he didn’t buy the necklace now, it might not be there when he returned from New York, so he decided to purchase it, then conceal it someplace for a while.
“Can I help you?” a voice asked. The graying, matronly woman behind the counter had been observing him in his reverie. “Help you?” she asked again.
Jubal didn’t think she could. Not really. He’d have to figure out a way to help himself.
“That necklace…” He pointed. “The ruby one. Would you show it to me?”
Every addiction…
57
Hubby was home.
The Night Prowler had left the apartment after observing Claire sleep. He’d known Jubal was gone, and that he wouldn’t be away for very long. Chicago wasn’t all that far from New York.
But he hadn’t expected him tonight. Not at this hour.
Close! This had been close! And I’m not ready for it yet. I don’t want it to happen.
It was past three A.M. when the Night Prowler had left Claire. He’d felt secure standing at the foot of her bed, knowing that if he chose to stay, he’d be alone with her until dawn. As I would be if I chose to wake her.
Not yet, not yet…
So he’d left. He was surprised when he’d crossed the street and happened to see Jubal striding toward the apartment building.
You’re supposed to be somewhere else.
But here he was. Handsome young would-be celebrity, moving confidently and with a preoccupied air about him, almost floating down the street, a parade all by himself. Nicely cut suit, tie loosened and askew, hair mussed in a carefully arranged manner, as if he suspected there might be cameras about and wanted to convey a candid flattering moment. Always on; that was the rule. Practicing for greater fame and the fortune that must accompany it.
Jubal Day. Home to Claire!
Must have taken a late flight. Cheaper, or the only seat available. Jubal was carrying no luggage. Traveling light. And why not? I’ve seen your closet; you have a wardrobe here. It’s waiting for you. Like Claire.
Like me.
“Thanks for the mints,” Claire said. She’d gotten up early and decided to let Jubal sleep. Then, when she’d gone into the living room after getting the coffee brewer going, she noticed the two green boxes of chocolate mints on the table. Her favorite candy. Jubal must have bought them for her on the way home. It was so thoughtful and loving of him. She wouldn’t tell him she’d experienced one of her sudden cravings and consumed an entire box of the mints only last night.
Barefoot and shirtless, he stood staring at her, puzzled. “Mints?”
She grinned. He was an actor, all right. And if he wanted to play it this way, that was fine. She went to him and kissed him, standing close while he held her. “Never mind. Want some coffee?”
“Can’t think of anything I want more.”
“I should be insulted.”
“Don’t be. I didn’t mean-”
She laughed. “You’re still half-asleep. When did you get in?”
“About three.”
Claire glanced at a wall clock. “It’s not even nine o’clock. Go back to bed, darling, and have your coffee later.”
“Can’t. Audition at ten. That’s why I set the alarm.”
“I didn’t hear the alarm.”
“My watch.”
“I didn’t even know your watch had an alarm.”
Jubal’s heart jumped. It was the watch Dalia had given him. He’d forgotten to exchange it with his old one before leaving Chicago.
He went to Claire and kissed her. “ Every watch these days has an alarm.” He walked into the kitchen and she followed.
“Technology,” she said. “I can’t keep up.”
“Coffee,” he said. “And you keep up just fine. The way things are, nobody can know everything.”
He poured his coffee, careful to stand so the watch wasn’t visible, making it all look so natural, knowing in his bones she was buying into it.
How can anyone who isn’t an actor cheat on his wife?
The damned photograph was still everywhere, opening old wounds. The Night Prowler had avoided the newspapers and TV for a while, thinking the media mania would subside, or at least go off on a tangent. There was, after all, other news.
But when he’d turned on the TV yesterday, there was a cop in a suit talking to Kay Kemper about the Night Prowler murders, about how the police were getting closer all the time and it wouldn’t be long before an arrest was made. And on the street this morning there was the photograph again, staring from one of the twine-tied stacks of tabloid papers aligned before a kiosk.
It was that bastard Quinn’s fault. He was behind the photograph, the demeaning, humiliating news releases, the increasing pressure, everything. Quinn. He was like something out of legend that never stopped, that couldn’t be stopped. It made the Night Prowler furious that he couldn’t help admiring Quinn even as he loathed him.
Quinn!
The Night Prowler bolted from his chair with the force of his impulse.
No, not impulse, thought! Idea. Strategy.
He put on his new NYPD cap he’d bought in a Times Square souvenir shop (irony-dripping blue), his amber sunglasses, and went outside and down the street to a subway stop. Not the nearest stop; he wasn’t that foolish.
The morning rush was almost over, but there were still twenty-five or thirty people waiting for the next train. No one seemed to be paying much attention to him, staring instead into the dark tunnel in anticipation of the train, or at the littered concrete floor, or down into the shadowed trench where the third rail lay and the gray rats roamed. Fear and the city. He was thankful for subway etiquette.
After riding the subway to the Fifity-third and Lex station, far enough from his apartment, he found a public phone near the Citigroup Building. He already knew the number. Had it memorized. Because he’d been considering this not only this morning, but for the past several days. Working out what to say, how to say it, how to be taken seriously.
If they didn’t put him on hold and forget him.
Two can waltz with the New York media. Two can use them, the rabid, hypocritical creatures who gorge on other people’s grief, then vomit it through mindless smiles and call it news. Two can feel the rhythm and do this destructive, deadly dance of ruination, of blackness and red.
Blackness and red, crimson to black…
He punched out the phone number, waited, then told a woman on the other end of the connection he had vitally important information for Kay Kemper.
Who was he?
“I’m sorry, I can’t reveal that because I fear the consequences. All you have to know is I’m a former New York cop who was high in the department. I have tremendous respect for Kay Kemper. She’s the only one I’ll trust. I’m afraid to talk to anyone else. She can judge the veracity of my information.�
�
Afraid of nothing!
After only a moment’s hesitation, the woman transferred his call.
The world belonged to the bold.
58
Quinn was tired and felt old. Along with Pearl and Fedderman, he’d spent much of the day talking to tradesmen on the decorators’ lists who’d done work the past year in the murder apartments and were known to have their own key-making machines.
There weren’t that many, but it had taken a while to identify and then find them. First the detectives asked the tradesmen themselves if they had the machines, then asked them about other tradesmen. Checking, cross-checking, not turning up a lie. As it turned out, not that many carpenters, painters, or plumbers also made or duplicated keys.
When they’d finished going down the list, it seemed they’d pursued another ghost of a lead. It wasn’t that Pearl’s idea was a bad one; it was just that there was no way to be sure one of the tradesmen didn’t possess a key-making machine and the skill to use it and had managed to keep the capability a secret. As well he might, if he were the Night Prowler.
They’d had dinner at a place on the West Side called Placebo, and stayed there over coffee until almost seven o’clock, commiserating with each other over how the investigation was going. When they went outside, they found that while the sun was low, the evening seemed just as hot and humid as the day had been.
Rush hour traffic had died down when Pearl and Quinn dropped Fedderman back where he’d left his car on Central Park West near Eighty-seventh, the nearest parking space he’d been able to find. It was only a few blocks away, but the overheated and exhausted Fedderman didn’t feel like doing more walking and they didn’t blame him. He lurched like one of the undead in a baggy suit toward his car, opened the door, and dropped in behind the steering wheel.
After watching Fedderman drive away, Pearl pulled the unmarked back into traffic and headed for Quinn’s apartment.
Pearl said, “Idiot!” as she yanked at the steering wheel to avoid hitting a house-size SUV crossing the intersection.