Serial

by John Lutz

  “If you don’t find Andy Drubb at home,” Quinn said, “ask around the neighborhood and see what you can learn about him. It won’t hurt if he hears about it and gets nervous.” He glanced at his watch. “Stop and grab some lunch on the way downtown.”

  “Wanna join us?” Vitali asked.

  “We already had lunch at my place,” Quinn said.

  “In the middle of the day?” Mishkin said.

  “That’s when people eat lunch, Harold,” Vitali said.

  Mishkin was staring at Pearl’s breasts again. Pearl was sure she wouldn’t like the reason why.

  The Albert A. Aal Library looked like a miniature court building. Though it wasn’t all that wide, it had shallow concrete steps leading to half a dozen columns framing five tall wooden doors outfitted with brass kick and push plates. One of the doors had a sign warning that it was automatic, as if anyone getting too close to it might be flipped back down the steps. Fedderman chose that one. The others looked too heavy to move.

  The library was surprisingly spacious inside, and well lighted. While it might be narrow, it was long, with rows of steel shelves laden with books. Off to the side was an arrangement of armchairs and wooden racks of magazines and newspapers. A blond boy who looked too young not to be in school was slumped in one of the chairs, reading a car magazine. Fedderman could see only a few people browsing the stacks.

  A gray-haired woman, long and narrow like the library, sat behind the wooden counter where books were checked out and returned. She had on round metal-framed glasses trailing a thin braided loop that was buttoned to her blouse. There was no way she could misplace the glasses, Fedderman thought. He’d bought reading glasses but could seldom find them so had stopped looking. He could still see well enough without glasses, if he held whatever he was reading at arm’s length and squinted. That was good enough for him because it had to be, unless he happened to stumble across his glasses by sheer luck. But with glasses like this woman’s . . .

  “Help you?” the woman asked. Fedderman realized she was staring at him with narrowed eyes. Her expression was faintly disapproving.

  “Research,” Fedderman said. He was uncomfortable around librarians. Had been since as a teenager he’d returned Lady Chatterley’s Lover three months overdue and—

  “What is it you’d like to research?”

  Fedderman sure wasn’t going to tell her that. “Something in an old newspaper.”

  She observed him as if he were a mildly interesting insect. “We have newspapers on microfiche,” she said. “Our research room is straight down and to your left at the end of those aisles. Someone back there will help you.”

  Fedderman thanked her and wandered off in the direction she’d instructed. Never a scholar, he still very much liked the unique musty scent of old books. And many of the library’s books were old. Only about half seemed to have dust jackets, and some of them were faded.

  He had no trouble finding the research room. It had three walls and four viewers, and a wall of shelves on which were stacks of small cardboard boxes with writing on them in black felt-tip ink. A scholarly looking man in a saggy brown corduroy jacket and sloppily knotted pink tie sat at one of the viewers, intent on what was sliding past sideways on the glowing monitor. Fedderman noticed that the corduroy jacket had leather elbow patches. He had never owned anything with elbow patches.

  At the far end of the room was the librarian Fedderman had been told would help him. She was reaching up to replace one of the boxes that held a cartridge when she glanced over and saw him. And smiled.

  Penny Noon.

  She looked more like a librarian today, wearing light gray slacks, a darker gray blazer, and what looked like a man’s miniature tie over a white blouse. A large white button with red lettering was pinned to her blazer’s lapel. It read Save the Book.

  “More questions about Nora’s murder?” she asked.

  “You know me,” Fedderman said, though she didn’t know him all that well. “Always working.”

  “So it seems.”

  “I thought we’d . . . gotten more trusting of each other. That maybe we should see each other again.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I’m the victim’s half sister. Isn’t there a conflict of interest there?”

  “If there is,” Fedderman said, “I don’t care. When certain situations occur, when you meet certain, special people, you should take advantage of them.”

  “Of the special people?”

  He felt a flicker of annoyance and embarrassment. “Is this what’s known as verbal fencing?”

  “No, it’s a way of avoiding the subject. We are the subject. Rather, our relationship, brief as it is. I apologize. I’m being evasive and you’re being direct.”

  “There isn’t that much time to say what’s on your mind,” Fedderman said. “For any of us. I know that because of my work. You should know it because of . . . what’s happened.”

  They were both quiet for a moment. Both thinking about Nora. Both knowing that the last thing Fedderman had come here for was to discuss the murder case.

  Fedderman began to perspire. He had to break the silence, change the subject. He wasn’t good at this kind of patter, especially in the presence of this woman who made him tongue-tied.

  “The book,” he said, nodding toward her lapel button. “Who’s it need saving from?”

  “Oh, so many people. Most of them with e-books.”

  “Huh?”

  “Electronic readers.”

  “Those things can’t be much fun,” Fedderman said.

  “Someone closer than you imagine might disagree with you.”

  “How do you turn pages with them?”

  “I’m afraid pages are becoming obsolete. Like librarians.”

  “Save the librarians,” Fedderman said.

  The guy in the corduroy jacket gave him an annoyed look, like a man on the verge of growling. Instead of growling, he gathered up some papers, and then glanced in Penny’s direction and stood and left the research room. What? Had they been talking too loud?

  Penny walked over and switched off the viewer Mr. Corduroy had left on. Fedderman enjoyed watching her do that. Maybe too obviously.

  “Did you come here to save this librarian?” she asked.

  “Yes. From the electronic book.”

  “Is that what you told Ms. Culver?”

  “The woman at the desk? No, I told her I wanted to find something in an old newspaper.”

  She smiled and moved closer to him. He noticed she was wearing perfume. He couldn’t place the scent, but it smelled better than old books.

  “Was that a fib?” she asked.

  “Who would fib to Ms. Culver?”

  “I bet you would,” she said. She absently buttoned his shirt cuff, then stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  He embraced her and brought her close, held her tight, kissed her on the lips, felt her tongue warm and soft against his own.

  Their hands were all over each other, there in the research room.

  27

  It was easy to get into Candice Culligan’s apartment. When the doorman was about half a block away, hailing a taxi at the busy intersection for some tenants, the Skinner simply entered the lobby and crossed to the elevators. Even if the doorman returned immediately, the killer wouldn’t be seen, as the elevators were around a corner and out of sight from the building entrance. Not that it mattered, because there was an elevator at lobby level. He stepped inside, pressed the close-door button, then the button for Candice’s floor. He leaned his shoulder blades against the back wall of the elevator and relaxed as he rose.

  New York, New York, it’s a vulnerable town.

  The Skinner had done his research. It hadn’t been difficult to obtain Candice’s address.

  The next step, gaining entry to her unit, turned out to be less of a problem than he’d anticipated. This was the second time he’d been in the building. The first time he’d watched her stretch and reach
to the top of the doorframe, where she had a key to her door hidden. Amused, he’d watched her use the same key to unlock a knob lock and a dead bolt set about ten inches above the knob. Two locks, and maybe a chain lock visible only from inside.

  Can’t be too careful, he’d thought, as he watched her place the key back dead center on top of the door frame.

  And there the key was again today, square in the middle on top of the wooden lintel.

  New York, New York . . .

  This time he took the key inside with him and made a wax impression. There was a key shop in another city where he could have a duplicate made.

  Knowing Candice was working hard uptown at the offices of Kraft, Holmes, and Deloitte, he leisurely wandered through the condo unit. Since she hadn’t moved in all that long ago, the place still wasn’t completely furnished, so it was easy to find her files and important papers, to get a feel for her life so he wouldn’t be killing a stranger. He hadn’t felt that way at first, but yes, he was beginning to enjoy killing, especially if he knew the woman as a person. That business about seeing women only as interchangeable sex objects didn’t always apply. The feeling of absolute control and power over women he knew, of playing God with the fools who believed in God—that applied.

  He was careful not to touch most things and not to leave a fingerprint.

  An hour later, he still hadn’t found where Candice kept the password to get online at her desk computer. Her word processor was accessible and contained mostly legal documents or letters. Boooring. And yet they showed a side of Candice that was organized and precise. It was a side that would soon die like all her other sides. She existed now only because he let her.

  When he was ready to go, he glanced around. He’d been sufficiently careful. She wouldn’t suspect that anyone had been here in her absence.

  But did he want that?

  He’d have a key next time he visited, so what did it matter if she had something to think about? To worry about? Something she’d recall, when the time came, as a portent she shouldn’t have ignored?

  He returned to the bedroom and flopped down on his back in the middle of the white duvet on her king-size bed. He stayed there a few minutes, not moving, and then got up carefully and looked at the bed, at the impression he’d made in the duvet. Candice would notice it and realize someone had lain there in her absence. Someone larger than herself. Certainly the impression described the outline of a man. In her bedroom. On her otherwise pristine white bed.

  Let her think about that.

  He’d leave the door unlocked when he left, but replace the key precisely where he’d found it. When she realized the door was unlocked, Candice would assume she’d forgotten to lock it when she’d left for work that morning. She wouldn’t be too concerned. Not until she went into the bedroom and noticed his impression on her bed.

  He smiled, picturing the expression on her face, imagining the fear that would lance through her.

  He knew what she’d do next. She’d steel herself and search through each room to make sure no one was there. To reassure herself that she was alone.

  But she’ll know someone has been here.

  Let her think about that.

  And think and think . . .

  28

  “I don’t like pressuring you,” Harley Renz told Quinn, “but you know how it works, how it gets passed along like stomach gas.”

  Quinn thought that was one of Renz’s most memorable analogies.

  “So who up near the esophagus is pressuring you?”

  “Seems like everybody in the goddamned city who wears a suit and tie.” Renz sat opposite Quinn’s desk, hunched low in one of the client chairs, his pink jowls spilling over his white collar. “Think way up where the food is chewed, Quinn, and that’s where it all starts.” Renz wagged a pudgy, manicured finger. “Nobody, but nobody, wants another Skinner victim.”

  “Especially the victim,” Quinn said.

  “Don’t be difficult, Quinn. I’m only doing what I’ve always done, prying the monkey loose from my back so it can ride yours for a while.”

  “Heavy monkey.”

  “That’s the idea. In order to get rid of it, you’ll lean hard on your people.”

  “On Pearl?”

  “Maybe not on Pearl.”

  Quinn thought of things to say, but he reminded himself that the killer’s first victim, Millie Graff, had been someone Harley and a lot of other cops shared a special bond with; and now they shared a special desire for justice.

  “We’re doing everything possible,” he said, “following every lead, talking to everyone.”

  “Such as?”

  “The victims’ friends, colleagues, neighbors, relatives. People who for whatever reason might be able to put victim with killer. William Turner. Remember him?”

  “Jog my memory.”

  “Whips and orgasms, about thirty years ago.”

  “The Socrates’s Cavern guy? That was longer ago than that. Jesus! Black leather. People in cages, or tied up, or both. You’re wasting your time there. Millie didn’t have anything to do with that kinda bullshit.”

  “We’ve gotta touch the bases as we make the turns,” Quinn said.

  “You gotta hit the ball first. In fact, I gotta convince people above me that you’re friggin’ A-Rod. That you’re returning the investment. I’m telling you, Quinn, for both our sakes, you better come up with something to show.”

  Quinn leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Or what? The NYPD’s gonna fire me? Again? Or try to prosecute me? Again? Or they’re not gonna pay me?”

  “Ha! You think that’s an idle threat?”

  “Which one?”

  “You think this city’s actually paid everyone it owes? Read the papers, Quinn. You’re in line somewhere behind Roach Control.”

  Quinn sighed and dropped forward in his chair so he was sitting up straight. “What I think, Harley, is you’ve got some pressure, but it’s mainly you where the pressure on me starts.”

  Renz stood up and moved to the door. He looked back at Quinn.

  “Pressure’s pressure,” he said. “Wherever it comes from. And pressure crushes things. And people.”

  Quinn sat silently and watched him go out the door.

  Okay, Harley, play the tough guy. Maybe in your place that’s what I’d be doing.

  And you’re right about pressure.

  Vitali and Mishkin were approaching the door to Andy Drubb’s walk-up apartment building in the Village when they saw a thin, dark-haired guy in his forties bound up the steps toward the entrance. He was moving fast, giving the impression he was racing his shadow neck-and-neck. He was fishing in his pocket as he climbed, as if for a door key. Every smooth and familiar move he made suggested he lived in the building.

  “Might we be so blessed, Sal?” Mishkin asked Vitali.

  “We deserve to be,” Sal said. “And there are only six units in the building.”

  “Five to one,” Mishkin said.

  “I’ve bet on horses running at those odds.”

  “Have they ever finished in the money, Sal?”

  “Never.”

  “Then that’s probably Drubb going into the building,” Mishkin said. “You can’t finish out of the money every time at those odds. It’s the law of percentages.”

  That was what Vitali liked about Harold. He actually thought there was a law of percentages.

  This time, of course, Mishkin was right. The law of percentages asserted itself.

  He and Sal simply followed Drubb into the building, waited while he looked in vain to see if he had any mail, then tailed him straight to his door.

  He looked frightened when he saw the two of them standing so close to him and realized they hadn’t simply been going in the same direction. They’d been following him.

  “If you’re looking for money . . .” he said, his eyes wide. People were mugged in the city every day. Maybe it was his turn.

  They showed him their identification.
<
br />   “If we’re looking for money, what?” Mishkin asked.

  Vitali stared at him.

  “Then you came to the wrong place,” Drubb said.

  “I figured you’d say that,” Mishkin said. “The law of percentages.”

  Vitali gave Mishkin his back-off look. “If you’ll invite us in, Mr. Drubb, we’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”

  Drubb finished unlocking his door and opened it, then stood aside so they could enter first. Vitali led the way, while Mishkin hung back and entered after Drubb.

  “It’s about Nora Noon,” Drubb said.

  “How’d you know that?” Mishkin asked.

  “Law of—”

  “Let’s just sit down and get this over with,” Sal interrupted in his gravelly voice. It was an incongruously commanding tone for such a short man, like a truck air horn on a sports car.

  Drubb sat in a worn-out wing chair, Vitali on a wooden chair with curlicue arms that looked as if it belonged in a dining room. Drubb sat in a corner of a cream-colored sofa that could use a good cleaning. The place was a mess, with a pile of newspapers on the floor alongside the sofa, a half-full coffee cup on a table where it would leave a ring, one of the wooden slat blinds hanging crookedly. It was reasonably cool in there, though. A new-looking window air conditioner was humming along efficiently. On the floor directly beneath the air conditioner was a pair of well-worn jogging shoes, one of them lying on its side.

  “I guess you can see I’m a bachelor,” Drubb said. He was a powerfully built little man with wide-set blue eyes and a jaw that looked as if it could stamp steel. In his late thirties. Somehow not a bad-looking guy. Good head of black hair, combed straight back and held in place by some kind of grease. A straight nose and even teeth.

  “We already knew that,” Vitali said. “We checked after we found this.” He held out the slip of paper with Drubb’s name and phone number on it.

  Drubb accepted the paper and stared at it, then raised his dark eyebrows questioningly. Mishkin suddenly wondered if Drubb’s eyebrows and hair had been dyed.

  “We found that in Nora Noon’s dresser drawer,” Mishkin said. “With a number of other things.”