by John Lutz
“I knew that.”
“Yeah, you did. But I was just thinking how I know a lot about guns, and somebody gets murdered next door with a knife.”
“Funny world,” Quinn said.
“Not so funny.”
“You just offered a cop a joint.”
“Nobody laughed.”
“Peace,” Quinn said.
As Quinn waited for Fedderman to meet him down in the building’s vestibule, he thought that if they needed to talk to Free again, he’d send Pearl.
8
Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman were in the office later that day when the door opened and an emaciated-looking man in his forties burst in and stood swaying. He was average height and dressed in dirty gray pinstripe suit pants and a jacket that almost matched them. His white shirt was yellowed, his tie loosely knotted and layered with stains. His shoes were scuffed and one of them was untied. He made Fedderman look like a clotheshorse.
The man steadied himself by resting one dirty hand against the wall and said, “Quinn.” His gaze roamed redeyed around the room.
“You’re drunk,” Pearl said. “Get the hell out of here.”
“I’m drunk, asshole, but I’m not going nowhere till I find Quinn.”
“I’m here and I’m found,” Quinn said. He stood up and moved around his desk, peering at the man. From the corner of his eye he saw Fedderman also stand, in case the obviously inebriated visitor started trouble.
“I’ll asshole you,” Pearl said, and came up out of her chair.
Quinn raised a hand and she stopped. Something was going on here beyond a drunk finding his way through an unlocked door.
The man removed his hand from the wall, leaving a dark smudge, and stood almost humbly before Quinn.
“I know you,” Quinn said. “Jerry Lido.” He saw again the young, uniformed cop standing frozen by fear against a brick wall, watching a child burn.
“I didn’t wanna come here at first,” Lido said. “Wasn’t sure what was gonna happen. Were you gonna listen to me or beat the shit outta me?”
“I’ll listen,” Quinn said. He wasn’t sure how to feel about Lido. He abhorred what the man had done—rather not done. On the other hand, how could he not feel sorry for him? Quinn had suffered debilitating guilt because he hadn’t at first seen the infant in the car seat. What had guilt done to Lido?
“I don’t feel like I deserve a chance,” Lido said, “but here I am anyway.”
“Why?”
For a few seconds Lido looked as if he was wondering that, too. “You mighta heard I got interested in computers, got good at using one.”
“I heard you were a genius at using one, sometimes illegally, but you were too smart to get caught.”
Lido chanced a rueful smile. “Too smart to admit it, too.”
“Okay,” Quinn said. “So why did you look me up?”
“I saw in the paper what happened to Millie Graff,” Lido said. He writhed slowly as he spoke, as if suffering great internal pain. “Wanted to do something about it, so I read all about the case in the news. Then talked to some guys I know who are still in the NYPD. Then I set to work with my computer. You’re looking at a man who don’t have shit, Quinn—except for my tech equipment. I spent every dime I begged or borrowed on that, and I can work it like I’m conducting an orchestra. You wouldn’t believe—”
“Let’s get to the point, Jerry.”
Lido moved farther into the office and was standing near Pearl’s desk. “I worked the Net, learned something about Philip Wharkin. You gotta—” As he spoke he gesticulated with his left arm and knocked Pearl’s empty coffee mug off her desk. It bounced loudly on the floor but didn’t break.
“Clumsy alky!” Pearl said, her temper flaring. She stood and reached over her desk, shoving Lido backward.
Lido knocked her hand away. “Don’t you ever goddamn touch me, you pussy cop!”
Pearl was around the desk, after Lido. He used his arm to sweep everything from her desktop onto the floor; then he snarled and went at her.
Pearl didn’t back up. Lido swung at her and missed. Pearl started to punch back, but Quinn had both her arms pinned to the side within a few seconds. Fedderman grabbed Lido by his belt and shirt collar and yanked him back so he and Pearl were out of punching range.
“Calm down now, damn it!” Quinn shouted. He spun Pearl to face away from Lido, staying between them. “You calm?” he whispered in her ear.
“Don’t I seem calm?” She was actually vibrating in his grasp.
He walked her over and forcibly sat her back down in her desk chair. Then he looked over and saw Lido curled in the fetal position on the floor.
Fedderman, standing over him, shook his head. “He ran out of gas in a hurry.” He looked over at Pearl. “You okay?”
“She’s got it together now,” Quinn said, hoping saying it would make it true.
“Who’s gonna pick up all that shit he knocked on the floor?” Pearl asked.
“I am,” Fedderman said, and began doing just that.
His actions did more than anything to cool Pearl’s temper. She breathed in and out deeply.
Lido was sitting up now but stayed on the floor, his arms folded across his chest as if he were freezing. “I’m sorry. Jesus, I’m sorry.” He crawled over and started helping Fedderman. Found Pearl’s initialed coffee mug and placed it carefully on her desk. “You gotta forgive me!”
“I don’t gotta do shit,” Pearl said.
“Jerry, stand up,” Quinn said, figuring a first-name basis might be a mitigating factor here. He went over and helped Lido to his feet. Lido felt as if he weighed about ninety-eight pounds. Quinn led him over and plopped him down in one of the client chairs.
“What is it you’ve got to say, Jerry?”
“I wanna help you on this case. I’ve gotta do that, for my own self-respect. I need enough of it so I can at least shave once in a while without wanting to cut my throat.” He looked ready to cry, dabbing at his eyes with a dirty knuckle. “I’ll work mostly on my own, but I could at least drop by here now and then and report what I find out. And you can tell me what you need to know and I can find it. I can go places on the Internet you wouldn’t believe. Databases you never heard of ’cause they’re top secret.”
“Illegal places?” Fedderman asked.
“Don’t make me walk some fine goddamn line,” Lido said. “All I wanna do is help. I’ll just drop by here now and then. Report in. What’s it gonna hurt?”
Quinn looked at the mess on the floor that Fedderman was still picking up, the mess on Pearl’s desk, the furious glint in Pearl’s dark eyes, the smudged wall where Lido had leaned.
“Nothing, I guess, Jerry,” he said.
Pearl said, “Jesus!” under her breath.
“What were you about to tell us, Jerry?” Quinn asked.
“This guy whose name was written on the mirror, Philip Wharkin. I fed his name in everywhere I could.”
“The bloody name on the mirror never appeared in the press.”
Lido waved an arm. “I told you, I got connections in the department. Other places.”
“Illegal Internet connections?”
“It don’t matter. Anyway, you know where Wharkin’s name came up? On an exclusive members list for Socrates’s Cavern in the sixties.” Lido raised his voice, as well as the level of the alcohol fumes he exhaled. “You remember what that place was, Quinn. A sort of high-class S and M club where kinky business types went to let their hair and whatever else down. I checked the other Philip Wharkin. It’s not a common name. One’s in his eighties living in Queens. Another one’s a nine-year-old black kid goin’ to school in the Bronx. Then there’s our guy, used to be a Wall Streeter, sold bonds for Brent and Malone—they’re outta business now. Our Wharkin retired in nineteen-eighty, and died of a heart attack in Toms River, New Jersey, in nineteen-eighty-two.”
Quinn thought over what Lido had said. It wasn’t much, but it could easily be checked and might save some
legwork. And Lido was desperate to help solve this murder. Quinn could understand that part.
“I’m not sure how this helps us, Jerry.”
“You know how, Quinn. It’s a piece of the puzzle. It introduces S and M into the case. It’s a goddamned lead!”
“He’s right,” Fedderman said. “And there’s the letter S on the victim’s neck chain. Could stand for Socrates.”
“I’m with Feds,” Pearl said. She picked up a paper clip and threw it at Lido as hard as she could. He flinched as he might before incoming artillery fire.
“Okay, Jerry,” Quinn said. “You’re on. And you get paid.”
“I don’t want any pay,” Lido said. “Not now. Not yet, anyway.”
“Don’t play the martyr, Jerry.”
“I’m not playing, Quinn. You gotta know that.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I’ll learn more for you,” Lido said. He struggled up out of his chair, almost tipping it over. “I’ll be back. Report in.”
“Do that, Jerry,” Quinn said. “We’ll set you up with a case file so you have more to work with.”
Lido sniffled and wiped his nose. “That’d be great. I thank you, all of you. I really do.”
He stumbled toward the door, bracing himself against the wall again, leaving more smudge marks, brushing a framed photo of the New York skyline and knocking every building crooked. He managed to open the door and half fell through it, and somehow closed it behind him.
The three detectives stared after him.
“There goes a walking powder keg,” Fedderman said.
“Too bad we don’t have an umbrella stand,” Pearl said. “He could have knocked that over, too.”
“So what was Socrates’s Cavern?” Pearl asked.
“It was on the West Side,” Fedderman said. “All voluntary, or so they said. Bad girls and boys in cages, bondage and discipline, flogging.” He finished stirring the coffee he’d gotten, along with a fresh cup for Pearl, and laid the spoon on a napkin alongside the brewer. “Some weird shit went on there, games for consenting adults. Even more than that, was the rumor. Believe the whispers and they were into some heavy action.”
“You talk like you were there,” Pearl said.
“I was. Not long before the place closed in the seventies. An assault call. But when we got there we couldn’t find a victim. Well, I mean about half the people we talked to were victims. A good percentage of them wanted to be handcuffed and taken in just for the experience. I had a young partner, DeLancy. He asked some dominatrix dolled up in black leather what a golden shower was. They started having fun with him, and he didn’t seem to mind. We left without arresting anybody.”
Pearl leaned back in her chair, away from her computer that by some miracle Lido hadn’t knocked off the desk. “So what did you think, Feds? I mean, you think the sex devil was at work there big-time?”
“My sense of the thing is that the same behavior that was going on there is still going on, only then it was more . . .”
“More intellectual,” Quinn said. “That gave it an air of semi-respectability and upper-class clientele.”
“Like the Playboy Clubs?” Pearl asked.
“Like the Playboy Clubs with handcuffs and whips,” Quinn said.
“Is it possible our killer just happens to be named Philip Wharkin?”
“And just happened to write his name in blood on the bathroom mirror?” Fedderman asked.
“More likely,” Quinn said, “he’s somebody who knows who Philip Wharkin was and is using the name. Fashioning himself after Wharkin, maybe as a way to rationalize his crimes.”
“Maybe there’s a new, modern version of Socrates’s Cavern,” Fedderman said, “and we’re just now learning about it.”
“Or that’s what he wants us to think,” Pearl said.
“I’m halfway there,” Fedderman said, “thinking that’s what it is.”
“Wishful thinking,” Pearl said scornfully. “And not with the part of you where you wear your hat.”
Fedderman ignored her. “I remember when we raided Socrates’s Cavern. There were women there leading men around on leashes.”
“DeLancy,” Quinn said.
“Yeah. My old partner. Freddy DeLancy.”
“As I remember, he got tangled up with a woman from Socrates’s Cavern. Broke enough regulations they had to make up new ones to cover what he was doing. He left the NYPD and moved out to California.”
“Became a nudist,” Fedderman said. “The club must have influenced him.”
“That’s not really the same thing,” Pearl said. “Socrates’s Cavern and a nudist colony.”
“Oh, DeLancy didn’t belong to any kinda colony. He was what you’d call a lone nudist, and in public places where it wasn’t a good idea. Like on buses.”
“Back to the point,” Pearl said, “we’ve got what might be a modern version of Socrates’s Cavern, or we got a nut operating on his own who knows about the club and is imitating it.”
“Or he’s not so nuts and wants us to think there’s a new Socrates’s Cavern,” Quinn said.
Fedderman said, “I’m thinking there is a new one.”
“You’re hoping,” Pearl said.
“So what if I am? Detective work can be interesting sometimes, right?”
“You’re easily led.”
“Me and DeLancy,” Fedderman said.
Pearl said. “I don’t like to think about it. Or maybe I do.”
9
Nora Noon stood near her booth inside the brick school building on the West Side, where the weekly flea market was held. It was warm and drizzling beyond the door at the end of the long corridor, slightly cooler but dry inside the school.
The rain was bad for the market in general, where most of the antique and specialty booths were lined up out in the schoolyard. But for Nora it wasn’t bad at all. The small woman with the big, good-looking guy had strolled past her booth three times, the woman eyeing a one-of-a-kind cotton wrap designed and created by Nora. She knew what the woman was thinking: She and Nora were about the same size, and both of them quite shapely, so if Nora sewed something that looked good on her, Nora, it would look good on most women Nora’s size and build.
The woman and the good-looking guy slowed and approached the booth. The guy gave Nora the up-and-down glance she knew so well, but she didn’t mind. Hell, she was used to it and kind of liked it, now that she was pushing thirty. A silent compliment.
Standing at Nora’s display of light coats, the good-looking guy kept his distance while the small woman reached out and stroked a light gray cashmere and cotton creation with a matching sash and scarf that doubled as a collar. She was quite pretty up close, with blond hair and dark roots, like Nora’s hair, and almost startlingly beautiful dark eyes, unlike Nora’s blue eyes. The woman fondled the label.
“This is you?” she asked. “ ‘Nora N.?’ ”
Nora smiled and nodded.
“You have a shop?” the good-looking guy asked, having moved a few steps closer. He was broad-shouldered and had a neatly trimmed gray beard.
“I have places where I display,” Nora said. “Sometimes I’m my own model.”
The good-looking guy smiled. He was something for as old as he must be. His wife, or whatever she was, looked twenty years younger.
“I work in a space near where I live in the Village, and I sell at places like this and over the Internet. Everything is one of a kind, and I design for real people, not six-foot, onehundred-twenty-pound models.”
“With eating disorders,” the good-looking guy said.
Nora smiled. “Sometimes.”
“I sure like this,” the small woman with the dark eyes said, slipping into the coat. And she should, Nora thought. It looked great on her.
“Made for you,” Nora said, “even though we haven’t met until today.”
They played out the familiar scene then, the small woman being reassured by Nora and the good-looking guy that yes, she looked
terrific in the coat.
And you do look great, Nora thought. It would be a pleasure to sell to this woman. She thought back over the work that went into the coat’s design, and then the hours getting the cut and stitching just right. She knew the woman was going to buy the coat. Right now, Nora felt so good about what she was doing. She was in the right business and would make a major go of it. Someday the Nora N. brand would sell to the major buyers, be in the finest stores. No doubt about it, if she just kept working. And she would keep working; she was getting better and better at the design end of the business, and developing an accurate sense of what would sell.
“How much is it?” the good-looking guy asked. He asked it like a man ready to be generous to his lady.
“Three hundred dollars,” Nora said.
The shapely dark-eyed woman, looking sexy as hell in the soon-to-be hers coat, gave him a look calculated to melt. The good-looking guy shook his head and smiled in a way that made Nora like him. “Okay by me, if it’s what you want.”
That was it. The guy had too much class to try to talk her down; he knew the coat was a bargain at three hundred.
Nora gave him a smile. You’ve got faith in the Nora N. brand, too.
The good-looking guy paid with Visa, and Nora watched the happy couple walk away, the small, shapely woman clutching the coat in its plastic bag tight to her side.
It might be raining outside, but Nora was inside where the sun was shining.
By the time the antique and flea market closed, the rain had stopped. Mark Drucker, who sold furniture he repaired and refinished at the flea market, used his dented white panel truck to drive Nora and her merchandise to where she rented space in a former produce warehouse near her Village apartment. When they were finished unloading clothing, they used part of the day’s proceeds to buy a pizza at K’Noodles and then parted. Drucker drove back to Chelsea, where he lived alone, as Nora did, and Nora sat for a while and sipped a second Diet Coke.
She watched people passing on the other side of the window, the men, mostly. Nora thought about Mark Drucker and the good-looking guy. She knew Drucker, though not a matinee idol, was a quality man, and she could sense the same gentleness in the good-looking guy. Men aren’t all bad, she thought, even though they’re all men.