by John Lutz
Slowing near a boat-rental and souvenir shop, the killer parked the Chevy in the shade of some cypress trees at roadside. He climbed out and stood by the hood and barely audible ticking engine, watching the surf foam on the sand. Lined up on grassless, hardened ground in the shade were some wooden picnic benches. No one was sitting on any of them.
He reached back into the car and got his Acer laptop, carried it to one of the benches, and sat down not far from a tattered white towel someone had forgotten or discarded. It was stained with what looked like lipstick.
The killer thought briefly again about Spindrift and Taylor Reminger. Remembering. Smiling his secret smile. It was a fine world if you were a taker. Not so fine for Taylor and the others. Givers.
He opened the laptop and adjusted its position so the sun wasn’t shining directly on the screen.
He wasn’t surprised when he couldn’t get online. That was okay. When he left here, he’d check into a motel that featured online service. Then he’d take another look, do another quick read-through on a young woman named Patricia Maria Angelina (called simply Pat by her zany Facebook friends).
One of those friends was the killer.
He wasn’t one of the crowd Pat ran with in the real or virtual world, but he’d learned a lot about her via Facebook. That she was nineteen, five foot four, a natural blonde (he’d see about that), and liked heavy metal music. She was planning to enroll in college at Northwestern University in Chicago as soon as she had enough money saved. Unable to get along with her mother and father, she’d moved out and was living with her roommate, Jessica, in a small apartment near the beach. The killer had seen the address in the background in one of her Facebook photos, a shot of her standing next to a small shaggy dog. The dog must belong to someone else. The killer knew Patricia didn’t own a dog, but had a battle-scarred black-and-gray tomcat named Snuffy, which she loved very much. She was the type who could love almost anything or anyone without reservation. A trusting soul with a luminous smile.
He liked her on Facebook.
Without reservation.
4
New York
Quinn smoothed out the newspaper page from the package the mail had brought. It was wrinkled but readable.
According to the Spindrift Bugle, the murder of young Taylor Reminger was a once-in-a century event. Spindrift was one of many resort towns in Florida, places where spring breakers occasionally lost their lives in one way or another. Booze, drugs, sex, youth, and an ocean were a lethal combination. But even those kinds of deaths hadn’t occurred in the town in over twenty years.
Taylor was Taylor “Tey” Hope Reminger, from Long Island, a student who’d expected to start college in New Orleans later in the year. Her photo was one of a reasonably attractive girl making the most of her looks in what appeared to be a high school graduation photo. Quinn noted that she was twenty-two, so she’d put off college for a while.
The thing about her that interested Quinn was the manner of her death. She’d apparently been tortured with shallow, skillful cuts by a sharp blade, where it would hurt the most. Not only hurt, but humiliate. Nipples had been removed, along with an earlobe, found lying alongside Tey’s head with a cheap souvenir shell earring still attached. Her clitoris had been cut off. Then there were what seemed to be cigarette burns in strategic spots meant to be most agonizing.
The ME’s opinion was that most of the injuries had been inflicted ante mortem. While she was still alive. Even the cuts on her forehead, where the letters D.O.A. had been carved. Some of that blood had been wiped away after her heart had stopped pumping and her breathing ceased, so the letters were more legible. Those who looked closely noticed that her hands were misshapen.
Quinn gave the small-town newspaper page out to the others to read. Everyone was quiet as the news item was passed around.
“Looks like he was trying to get information out of her,” Fedderman said, when the page had made the rounds and been returned to Quinn. “Or he’s just a sadistic bastard.”
“She displayed some bravery,” Helen said. “Her torturer didn’t get whatever it was he wanted, even after he broke her fingers one after the other. D.O.A. is thorough.”
“The same might be said of his copycat,” Quinn said.
Helen didn’t seem surprised by the notion. It had passed through everyone’s mind. Killers like D.O.A. often inspired copycat murderers. To some of the twisted, he was a hero.
Quinn knew that was what worried Renz. That and a sixth sense that hinted at what was about to happen in his city. New York was everybody’s big league, even when the sport was murder.
It took a major leaguer to play this game. Quinn.
“Renz figured you had experience with this kind of killer,” Helen said.
“Renz wants to stay as far away from it as he can,” Pearl said. “If this guy keeps killing and brings his act to this city, copycat killer or not, the media will have a feeding frenzy.”
“Let’s say the commissioner prefers to lead from behind on this one,” Helen said.
Harold said, “That way you don’t get shot in the back.”
“We’ve been in this position before,” Quinn said. “Renz has read it right. The killer and I are playing some kind of game, and he’s ahead.”
“Or he’s dead,” Fedderman said. “Went someplace where he wouldn’t be found and blew his brains out. Guilt can do that to people.”
“Not likely,” Sal said. “But possible.”
“Even dead serial killers inspire followers,” Pearl said.
“Especially dead ones,” Helen said. “Though I agree with Feds. It’s been awhile. It might very well be that D.O.A. is dead.”
“If he is, we can only hope the bastard suffered,” Jodi said.
She’s very much like Pearl, Quinn thought.
She’s very much like Quinn, Pearl thought.
“Copycat killer or the real thing,” Helen said, “it’s not going to make much difference to the public, or to the media wolves. You and a killer are in the same game.”
Quinn wished they’d stop calling it a game.
But he knew they were right. And what it would mean to lose.
5
Patricia Angelina, D.O.A. thought, looked a lot like Tey Reminger. The only real difference was that Pat was now a redhead and Tey a blonde. But in a certain light Pat could have passed for a blonde.
Which was why he’d selected her. That, and she had simply struck him as the right victim. There was about some women a secret yearning for what Pat was going to receive. His gift to her. He could read that in a woman, and was seldom wrong.
He had first seen her in a souvenir shop across the street from the public beach. She was wearing a white terrycloth sun shawl, open at the front so that it provided glimpses of cleavage and a tan, taut body. Her rubber sandals made a flopping sound on the shop’s plank floor as she moved toward a display of conch shells that had been made into phones. She was aware of the killer watching her; he was sure of that. He casually moved to the opposite side of the conch-phone display.
She made it a point not to look at him, but pretended keen interest in the phones.
“Cute,” he said.
“I wonder what the previous occupant would have thought,” she said, holding up a gray-and-brown-colored shell phone.
“I wasn’t talking about the phones,” he said.
She met his direct approach with a smile, and he knew he was in.
“Are you serious about these phones?” he asked.
“Sure. Someone might call while I’m surfing.”
He feigned interest. “You surf?”
“No.”
“You jest.”
“Yes. Anyway, it’s illegal to surf and text.” She gave him a sideways glance, showing him she was amused by him, by herself. She was enjoying this.
“Illegal bother you?” he asked.
“When sharks are around.” She smiled. “You thinking of stealing a conch phone?”
&nbs
p; “No. I’m a dolphin.”
“I kissed a dolphin once.”
“What happened?”
“It kissed me back.”
“Smart fish. I thought I might buy you one.”
“A dolphin?”
“A conch phone.”
“Why?”
“So you’d feel obligated to have lunch with me.”
The smile stayed, and something happened in her eyes. Something decisive. “Pretty expensive lunch,” she said.
“You’re well worth it.”
“My husband thinks so,” she said. Toying with him. He knew she was unmarried. Knew in fact that she’d recently broken off a relationship with a dorky-looking guy named Art who fancied himself a sculptor. Facebook research again. They laid their hearts out there, and then were surprised that you knew so much about them. Intimate details.
“I’ll talk to your husband,” he said. “He’ll understand.”
She gave him a long and appraising look. “You know I’m not married.”
No dummy, Pat.
“Yep. I’ve been watching you. And I don’t see a ring.”
“I think I recall you from Facebook.”
“That’s why you look familiar!” He looked ashamed. “Tell you the truth, I don’t know much about you.”
“What if I did have a husband?”
He shrugged. “I would never poach.”
Her gaze held him for a few seconds. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“A man with scruples.”
He grinned. “More like one who doesn’t want to get shot.”
She was still weighing her options, contemplating what might be a fateful first step.
“We’ll skip the phone,” she said, laying the conch phone she was holding back where it had sat on display. She smiled. “I’ll take the lunch.”
They left the souvenir shop and set off down the beach toward a restaurant called Knobby’s that had outside dining. As they walked, her sandals flung rooster tails of sand.
“I’m Corey Sanders,” he said, as if taking a cue.
“Your Web name?”
He laughed. “Real name.” In a way.
“Patricia Angelina,” she said.
“Beautiful name. Like poetry.”
“Just plain Pat.”
“Just plain beautiful. You know what else I like about you?”
“Couldn’t guess,” she said, tossing her hair and grinning. Her teeth were perfect and gleamed unnaturally, as if she’d recently treated them with whitener.
“You’re not the sort woman who demands that she pay for lunch.”
She threw her head back and laughed from deep in her throat. “Women like that,” she said, “they always expect something in return.”
“Sometimes,” the killer said, “they get it.”
6
The motel room’s sheer curtains waltzed gracefully with the night sea breeze. It wasn’t completely dark outside, but the sun had been down long enough that the horizon was black against a darkening sky.
Corey, he’d said his name was. But it always took him a few seconds to react to it. Pat doubted now that it was his real name.
And she wasn’t really sure she’d met him on Facebook. It might have been Twitter. Or maybe one of the other social or business sites online. However they’d first made contact, he must have hacked into her computer and found out loads of information about her, because when they’d met, it seemed that within minutes they were old friends. Or at least acquaintances.
It didn’t bother her much, his romping around the contents of her hard drive. Most guys could do that now, and Pat had been guilty of it a few times herself. She didn’t have anything to hide. At least not anything she had put online, so what was the difference? It was all part of the hooking-up game, and at least it was a part you could manage.
Pat knew it was supposed to be dangerous, meeting real people from the virtual world, but this seemed different. And certainly not dangerous. Corey seemed to be one of the kindest, gentlest men she’d met on- or offline. His smile was brightened with a touch of eagerness, almost as if he were a puppy (or a dolphin) badly in need of affection.
They’d had a few drinks at a beachside bar. A few more. Then he’d suggested watching the sunset and going to dinner at the Sea Sail restaurant. It was an upper-class restaurant, which meant Pat would have to change from her beach robe and floppies. He’d waited for her to suggest that they drop by her motel so she could get into something suitable. It was only right down the beach, near where the tall masts of some sailboats bobbed.
She hadn’t found it suspicious that he was already in dress slacks and an unstructured sport coat, leather deck shoes. No tie. But who wore a tie in Nickleton? And he was carrying a large beach bag, as if he could change into swimming trunks in no time and fling himself into the surf. She could imagine him running loosely and gracefully toward the water, crashing into a wave that crashed into him. Showing the sea who was boss. It was a nice image.
No one paid any attention to them as they passed the windows of the motel lobby, then went down a slanted brick walkway to the lineup of identical blue doors. The smell of chlorine was evident. There was a pool nearby.
Pat worked the key and they entered. Unsurprisingly, the entire back wall of the room was window, framed at both ends by floor-length green drapes and sheer curtains.
When Pat switched on the overhead light, Corey went to the window and closed both the drapes and curtains. The air was still and the sea was only a whisper now.
Pat smiled at him, her heart fluttering. He wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense; it was more that there was nothing wrong with him. All the pieces fit. It gave him a kind of odd anonymity.
“You interested in privacy?” she asked.
“It’s one of my favorite things,” he said.
“That why you call yourself Corey?”
He smiled. “You guessed.”
“It’s okay if you want to remain anonymous for a while.” She gave him a serious look. “Long as you aren’t married.”
He widened his eyes in mock horror. “That’s something you don’t have to worry about.”
She smiled in a way that told him she believed him.
“I’ll throw something on and we’ll go to dinner,” she said. She wasn’t some slut who jumped in and out of bed without first at least breaking bread with a man and getting to know him.
On the other hand . . .
She was easy to bring down. When he drew her closer, she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he waited until she was breathing out, then drove his fist deep into her stomach. Her breath whooshed out of her. She couldn’t inhale. Couldn’t stand up straight. Her eyes bulged as she tried desperately to draw in oxygen.
He gripped her under both arms and kept her from curling up on the floor, the way they always tried to do. Instead he heaved her onto the bed and in no time had her wrists taped behind her back. When he was sure she was breathing almost well enough to scream, he taped her mouth. Screams turned to moans, not even as loud as the sea.
He drew from his beach bag a large folding knife and expertly—even artfully—cut her clothes so they slipped easily from her body. When her legs were bare, he taped them together as he had her wrists. She was lying on her back, her hands behind her. She couldn’t move or turn over with her knees pressed together. He could read her thoughts: “At least he’s not going to rape me.”
She couldn’t guess that he wanted—would take—more than that.
He laid the knife next to her on the bed. Then he drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and took one out. He worked one of those cheap plastic lighters and touched flame to tobacco. Blew smoke off to the side and smiled. It was not at all his usual shy smile.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m a nonsmoker.”
It was past noon the next day, and he was long gone from Nickleton, when Patricia Angelina’s tortured body was found.
A motel maid discovered her dead in her room, taped and still on her blood-soaked mattress. The maid wasn’t the screaming type, but she did vomit when she saw the letters D.O.A. carved on the dead girl’s forehead. She had read about that killer sicko, and another wave of nausea hit her before she got out of there and told Ernie up in the office it was time to call the police. One look at her eyes and pasty complexion and he knew it was past time.
The killer heard the news on the car radio, driving north. The mellow male radio voice said that police were still searching for clues. The killer knew they wouldn’t find anything worthwhile. He’d been careful with fingerprints, DNA, that sort of thing. He watched plenty of cop TV and knew what was necessary to break away clean from a crime scene.
When the road curved inland, and he came to a small area of beach where signs said SCENIC LOOKOUT, he pulled the car over and parked at an angle at a curb, near some picnic benches.
There was a nice view of the beach from there, with sailboats in the distance, but the killer concluded that it was nothing special. Which explained why he was the only one at the scenic outlook.
He removed from his pocket the cheap drugstore disposable phone he’d bought, punched in Quinn’s cell phone number, and idly walked toward the gentle surf.
When Quinn identified himself, the killer simply said Patricia Angelina’s name, and then broke the connection.
Quinn would know who’d called. The killer was sure of that.
He walked closer to the sea and threw the phone underarm into the water. It skipped on the sea like a stone, and then sank.
He remembered what Pat had said about surfing and texting and smiled.
Some dolphin.