by John Lutz
He walked over to the sofa. The little man might not have balls, but he didn’t look scared, only curious. Maybe it was the look of a guy who’d already lost all he had.
The Skinner picked up the theater ticket from the sofa arm and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
“Good,” the man on the sofa said.
The Skinner moved toward the door.
“Enjoy the play. Remember it,” said the man on the sofa. “It’s a musical.”
“God!” said the Skinner, and let himself out of Judith Blaney’s apartment.
42
Hogart, 1992
Beth Brannigan had never felt so much pain. The contractions were coming closer together, tying her into knots so she could hardly breathe.
The baby is trying to get out. He’s trying to be born.
Beth found herself terrified and astonished, as if this were something she’d never suspected would happen. As if she hadn’t been waddling around all those months with a new life inside her.
A complete surprise.
The bedroom window lit up with a flash of distant lightning. A storm on the way. Just what Beth needed.
Thunder rumbled through the darkness outside. A few large raindrops struck the window, and then came the steady plinking sound of rainwater dripping against the metal elbow of the downspout.
Beth switched on the bedside lamp and glanced at the numerals on the clock radio. Two-thirty a.m. Babies picked the damnedest times to be born.
If this was the real thing.
Even if it wasn’t the real thing, what was she going to do to find out? Wait until her water broke before calling for help?
She reached for the landline phone by the bed and considered calling 911. Then she decided that would probably bring Sheriff Westerley or his deputy Billy Noth.
Beth realized it was Westerley she wanted to come, to be by her side.
She put the phone back in its cradle and rooted in the tiny nightstand drawer until she found his number.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the night. Rain began falling in a torrent.
When Beth picked up the phone again, a strange thing happened. Some of her fear disappeared, and it was replaced by an odd kind of exhilaration. This was really happening. She was about to become a mother.
She made her call, alerting what had obviously been a soundly sleeping Westerley, who came awake in a hurry.
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t have called if I wasn’t,” Beth said. “You told me—”
“Huh?”
“What?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I was putting on my pants. How close together are the contractions?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“We got some time, then. Stay calm.”
“I’m glad you know something about this. What was that?”
“Knocked over a lamp. Oww! Damn it!”
“Sheriff? Wayne? You okay?”
“Yeah. Stubbed my toe. You stay calm and I’ll be there before you know it.”
“Wayne?”
“I’m leaving. I’ll see you soon.”
There was a crash, and he hung up.
Beth lay in bed smiling, until the next contraction.
The seven-pound-four-ounce baby boy was born at 6:07 that morning. The birth had been accomplished without complications. It hadn’t been easy for Beth, but it was less painful than she’d expected.
Sheriff Westerley had stayed at the clinic throughout the ordeal of birth. He came into her room a few minutes after the nurses had given Beth the infant to hold.
He leaned over the bed, and she thought he might kiss her on the forehead. Instead he straightened up and smiled down at her.
“He look’s like he’s got all his parts,” he said.
She laughed. That hurt a bit, but the pain didn’t dent her relief and euphoria. “I’m gonna make you his godfather.”
“Fine with me,” Westerley said. “In fact, I’m honored.”
On the birth certificate Beth used her maiden name, Colson. The space for father was filled in with unknown. Beth named the baby Edward Hand, after her grandfather. Her son would be Edward Hand Colson.
Beth, lying in bed with her eyes closed and with an inner peace that she’d never believed possible, was already thinking of him as Eddie.
43
New York, the present
Fedderman and Penny Noon were eating pasta at Vito’s Restauranti in Lower Manhattan. The food was a lot better than the neighborhood.
“The angel-hair pasta’s terrific,” Penny said, winding another bite around the tines of her fork, “but I wouldn’t risk coming here alone for it.”
“Mean streets,” Fedderman said. He had on the new suit and looked better than merely respectable.
Penny paused in her winding and raised her eyebrows. “You’ve read Chandler?”
“And Hammett,” Fedderman said. “We detectives like detective fiction. It gives us a break from the real thing.”
“The novels aren’t realistic?”
“Sometimes, but not usually,” Fedderman said. “Down in Florida, when I was sitting fishing and not catching anything, I read a lot.”
“Just detective fiction?”
“Mostly. Connelly, Grafton, Parker, Paretsky, Mosley . . .”
“Those are fine writers.”
“I left out a lot who are just as good. There’s this guy in St. Louis . . .”
“Something about you,” Penny said. “When we met I knew somehow you had a literary bent.”
Fedderman took a sip of the cheap house red. He’d never considered himself the literary sort. He realized Penny was doing something for him, lifting him in ways he hadn’t suspected possible.
“Sometimes your boss, Quinn, seems like a character out of a book,” Penny said.
“A good book?”
“The best. There’s something about him. He can make you trust him. And he’s handsome in a big homely way. Like a thug only with a brain. It’s easy to see that people respect him. And sometimes fear him.”
“It can be the same thing,” Fedderman said.
“Have you ever seen Quinn angry?”
“Sure have. And sometimes he’s angry and you don’t know it. That’s what’s scary. He’s tough in ways that are more than physical.”
“You obviously respect him.”
“I know him. He’s a good man. We’ve been friends for a long time. Rode together in a radio car back in another era.”
“Has police work changed that much?”
“Society has. Police work changed along with it.”
Penny was going to ask what Fedderman meant by that when his cell phone buzzed.
“Sorry,” he said, smiling apologetically as he dug the phone from a pocket and checked caller ID. He delayed making the connection. “It’s Quinn.”
“Of course. He sensed we were discussing him.”
Fedderman pressed TALK. If the call was one he didn’t want Penny to overhear, he was ready to remove his napkin from his lap and stand up from the table.
But it was Quinn who did most of the talking, and the call promised to be brief: “We’ve got another Skinner victim, Feds. Woman named Judith Blaney.” He gave Fedderman Blaney’s address.”
“On my way.”
After breaking the connection and slipping the phone back in his pocket, Fedderman said, “That’s something that hasn’t changed about police work. We get a call, day or night, and we have to respond.” He reached across the table with his right hand and stroked the back of Penny’s hand, so delicate and smooth. “I’m sorry.”
“We both are,” she said. “But I understand.”
Fedderman noticed that his right shirt cuff was unbuttoned. He raised his arm to fasten it, at the same time waggling a finger to summon their waiter.
“I’ll put you in a cab, then I’ll have to drive cross-town,” he told Penny. He’d driven them to the restaurant in the unmarked and had it parked outside near a fi
re hydrant.
The waiter arrived with the check and surveyed their half-eaten food. “Wanna box?” he asked.
Fedderman, who’d planned on spending the evening with Penny in her apartment and wanted to punch someone, felt like telling him yes, he did want to box, but instead declined.
Penny accepted the waiter’s offer, but she had in mind angel-hair pasta rather than pugilism.
44
When he glanced across the room, over what was left of Judith Blaney, Quinn saw Fedderman enter the apartment. Fedderman had his designer suit on, causing a few of the uniformed cops and white-clad techs to regard him with new respect. Maybe Fedderman had been elevated to their superior in some way they didn’t yet know.
It was a good thing the victim’s apartment was spacious. Vitali and Mishkin were also there, along with Pearl. Nancy Weaver, in plain clothes, was also there, and nodded to Fedderman, or to the suit. Nift was at work on the body. The techs were doing the dance of white gloves. The two uniformed cops who’d taken the squeal stood near the door, controlling entrance and egress. They were Bob Stanze and Paul Goldak, two of the NYPD’s best. Fedderman wondered if they’d just happened to take the call or they were there by design because Judith Blaney was somebody important. The apartment was big and in an expensive neighborhood—but not that expensive for Manhattan.
“Was she queen of something?” Fedderman asked Stanze, as the handsome young cop moved to block the entrance again.
“Office manager for Bleaker and Sunshine, Mad Avenue ad agency.”
Fedderman must have looked blank.
“You know, the talking goose?” Stanze said.
“Oh, yeah. The Southern Morgan Bank commercials.”
“Blaney must have known everything the goose was gonna say,” Goldak said. He was a small man with a big heart, and a kidder. It was impossible to know if he was joking or suggesting a possible motive.
Quinn, wondering what they were talking about, motioned Fedderman over.
“What was that all about, Feds?”
“Talking goose.”
Quinn felt like sighing. Did talent for detective work come with a skewed view of the world?
Like the killer’s?
“Lots of artistic blade work this time,” Quinn said, gazing again at the victim.
The silver letter S and its chain were draped across Judith Blaney’s forehead and open eyes instead of looped around her neck and resting on her chest and breasts, as with the previous victims. Part of the reason was that the Skinner had removed both breasts and tucked each neatly in its corresponding armpit. The usual shreds of flesh were there, barely still attached to the rest of the body. This time there were also intricate, curving cuts. Designs. Then the wild stabbing and slashing of the abdomen and pubic area. A waddedpanties gag lay near the victim, presumably removed by Nift, and her mouth was open, clogged with blood that had welled up from her throat instead of a scream.
“No shoe in the mouth this time,” Nift said, “like with the last victim.”
“Same killer, though,” Quinn said. “He’s just trying to throw shit in the game. They do that sometimes.”
“Or he might not have found a shoe he liked,” Fedderman said. “One that would make a good unicorn horn—if that’s what it was supposed to be.”
Nift nudged Judith’s hair aside, and for the first time Quinn noticed something white stuffed in her ear. “What’s that?”
“Cigarette butt,” Nift said. “He extinguished a cigarette in each ear. Looks as if it happened some time before her death.”
“Mother of God!” said one of the techs, who’d overheard.
“Hardly.” Weaver’s voice.
“Anybody make anything out of those carved designs or symbols?” Quinn asked.
“Just that the Skinner’s a head case,” Vitali rasped.
“The letter S seems to turn up several times,” Weaver said, “but that could be because the Skinner just liked to make wavy cuts with his knife.”
“Or because you’re looking for them,” Quinn said.
“They could have some sort of religious significance,” Pearl said. “The necklaces with the letter S, for Satan.” She thought for a moment. “Or for sacrificial goat. Remember the victim with the high heel taped to her head to look like a horn.”
Weaver ignored Pearl’s brainstorming other than to give a disbelieving little “Hmph.” Quinn could see that Pearl didn’t like that. He reminded himself again to keep these two separate as much as possible. Not easy to do, since Weaver was Renz’s liaison officer.
Screw them! Quinn thought. If they couldn’t get over their petty disagreements and do their jobs, they could take a walk.
Of course, he had to live with Pearl.
Wanted to, anyway.
Pearl might have been right about Weaver imagining her own letters on what were random carvings. There seemed nothing significant in the almost elegant cuts other than that the killer was having his grotesque version of fun.
“Did the same knife do the carving that did the rest of the work?” Quinn asked Nift.
The little ME with the Napoleon haircut squatted with his head bowed for a few seconds, pondering. “Yes. I think we can assume the same knife did all the cutting, including the removal of the breasts. And the nipples. Which are, incidentally, beneath the breasts.”
Nift stood up and puffed out his chest. Quinn thought he might have actually slipped his fingers inside his shirt à la the famous Napoleon portrait, but for the bloody gloves. “Odd thing about this one. The hate is there. The passion. But there’s also a kind of wild exuberance in the random, swerving cutting on the body. More as if the killer was entertaining himself instead of grimly exercising vengeance. And those aren’t deep cuts. She was alive and watching and feeling when those were happening. How the Skinner must have enjoyed it!”
Quinn turned away and exchanged glances with Pearl. Nift sounded exuberant himself, and it was sickening.
“When are they gonna—” Pearl began, but Quinn raised a hand to silence her, then led her away.
“I was just wondering when that little prick will finally be fired,” Pearl whispered to Quinn.
“He’s a city employee,” Quinn said, “and he knows the secrets of the dead.” He gave her shoulder a slight squeeze to make sure he had her attention. “He’s our colleague.”
Pearl said something about lying down with dogs and wandered away. Quinn could tell she was seething.
“Girlfriend’s got the jumps,” a voice said beside Quinn. Nancy Weaver, who’d noticed something wrong between Pearl and him and sidled over.
“Let’s all just do our jobs, Nancy,” Quinn said. And moved closer to the corpse.
The Skinner watched the man who’d been in Judith Blaney’s apartment approach him where he sat sipping a chocolate latte at an outside table. Traffic streamed past only a few yards away. The Skinner was unbothered by the low haze of exhaust fumes. There was a tilted green umbrella above the table that kept the sun out of his eyes but allowed for a warm slice of light across his bare forearms.
The man came and stood by the table but didn’t move to sit down. The Skinner didn’t invite him to sit.
The man reached into a pocket and laid a used and canceled theater ticket on the table next to the latte mug.
“Your alibi,” he said. “And there’s no way to prove you weren’t there last night at the time of . . .” He glanced around. No one was seated near enough to overhear. He smiled. “We don’t need to say it out loud.”
“It was really a crap play,” the Skinner said. He returned the smile but in a way that was creepily joyful. “But the encore performance was terrific.”
“I’m glad you had a good time.” The man turned to walk away, and then hesitated. “You like baseball?”
“The way I like Mom and apple pie. ’Specially Mom. Why?”
“You didn’t enjoy the play. Maybe next time we can make it a ball game.”
The Skinner didn’t like h
earing that. Not at all. A “next time” with this potential blackmailer’s involvement wasn’t what he had in mind. He worked alone. A secret between two people wasn’t a secret. People like this, bullies and parasites—he didn’t like them at all. They hadn’t the right to live.
On the other hand, they were usually smart, and cautious with their information. Someone else knew, or there was a letter with a lawyer or in a safe deposit box. Insurance. The unpleasant man knew he didn’t even have to tell the Skinner about such insurance. They both knew he was safe.
The man walked along the street parallel to the curb as he was trying to hail a cab. It brought him close again to the Skinner’s table.
A cab slowed and swerved toward him and he pointed a finger at the Skinner, his thumb raised like the hammer of a revolver. Grinning, he brought the thumb down and said, “Yankees fan! Am I right?”
The Skinner said nothing as the man climbed into the cab and it drove away.
Cocky little bastard.
But he’ll learn.
45
Quinn was on the sofa in the brownstone, leafing through the autopsy photos of Judith Blaney, studying each one carefully. The workmen were busy on the top floor. Sounds of sawing and hammering could be heard, but barely, muted by the thick floor and walls.
Pearl was standing behind the sofa, leaning over Quinn’s shoulder. Her hand rested lightly on his back, weightless as a small bird that had lit there. The hand was either for balance or to display affection. Quinn couldn’t be sure which.
They were going to make a lunch of the lasagna they hadn’t eaten last night at Ricco’s Restaurant. That the gruesome morgue photographs of Judith Blaney didn’t affect their appetites suggested to Quinn that maybe they’d been in this business too long.
He glanced back at Pearl, then straightened the stack of black-and-white photos and placed them on the coffee table. Pearl came around and sat in a chair facing him.
“I was studying those wavering cuts in her torso and thighs,” Quinn said.