John Lutz Bundle (147 page)

Pearl told herself it was too early for Dr. Eichmann to call about her biopsy report, but she was nonetheless impatient. Quinn was off somewhere in a meeting with Renz, and Fedderman was trading briefings with Vitali and Mishkin so the left hand would know all about the right hand.

She’d been jumpy all morning, still angry at her mother and that prick Milton Kahn, anxious because she’d slept so poorly. She was jacked up on too much coffee and considering taking up smoking to calm her nerves, though she had never smoked. But most of all she was worried about the removed mole. Where was it now, somewhere out of state in a jar on some laboratory shelf? Being whirled dizzily in a centrifuge? Subjected to extreme light, magnification, and probing with sharp instruments?

For the past two hours she’d been seated at her desk, working on her computer because there was nothing more productive or distracting for her to do. Now and then leaning forward to sip more coffee, she played her fingers over the keyboard and jerked and clicked the mouse on its pad, trolling for information on any murders, anywhere, any time, that involved the hanging and disemboweling of the victims.

There was a case in Seattle two years ago, but they’d caught and convicted the guy, who’d turned out to be a former medical student and city employee. Another, five years ago, in California. In that one the killer was a mental case searching for a healthy kidney to be transplanted in exchange for his own diseased one. He’d been caught when he’d broken into a hospital to perform the surgery on himself. His motive was that he’d been unfairly kept too long on the transplant waiting list. He, too, was convicted, and died in prison.

That was it. This kind of murder was less popular than gunshots, stab wounds, poisoning, blunt instruments, or strangulation.

Pearl was about to give up, get another cup of coffee, and do some serious pacing, when on an obscure Web site about crimes against animals she discovered the case of a man named Dwayne Avis. Five years ago he had gotten a suspended sentence and paid a fine after torturing dogs on his upstate New York farm. Six of the animals had been found hanging and gutted in his barn.

Not quite the same thing as dead women, Pearl thought, leaning back in her chair and pressing a fist into her aching back.

But what other leads did they have?

She reread the small-town newspaper article on her computer monitor. Avis expressed no remorse, according to the reporter, and had threatened state police with a shotgun when they entered his property. When subdued and arrested, he stated that the dogs were his and what he did with them was his business. There was no photo of Avis accompanying the article.

Sick bastard,
Pearl thought. Who’d do that to defenseless animals and then resist arrest and try to defend his actions? Or maybe he was simply evil. It might not be a bad idea to at least talk to him, make sure he wasn’t getting away with doing the same thing again. After five years, people forgot.

After five years, people had moved away. It was possible Dwayne Avis was one of them. He might be gone or might even have died. Some dog lover might have shot him, and good riddance.

Or maybe he’d moved to New York City.

Pearl manipulated the mouse and made her way electronically to the paper’s front page. It was the
Mansard Gazette,
headquartered in Mansard, New York. Pearl clicked back to the five-year-old news article about the slaughtered dogs. She printed it out to show to Quinn or Fedderman, when one or the other turned up at the office. Then she made use of the Internet to find out more about Mansard.

It turned out to be a small upstate farming town with a population of less than five hundred. Pearl figured most of that meager number lived on outlying farms. The Web site listed two phone numbers for the Mansard city hall. Pearl called the one titled “Public Relations.”

She didn’t introduce herself as a cop. Small towns could be gossip nests. If Avis did somehow turn out to be a suspect, she didn’t want him alerted that the police were again interested in him.

A perky-sounding woman named Jane Ellen answered the phone and never even asked Pearl’s name, but assumed she must be writing an article or doing a school paper on Mansard—maybe because Pearl led her in that direction.

Pearl listened to a lot about average rainfall and temperature, home prices, school ratings, and something called the Fall Apple Theater, before asking if Dwayne Avis still lived in or around Mansard.

“He’s still on his farm,” Jane Ellen said. Her tone had definitely become cooler.

“I met him once, and he told me about Mansard,” Pearl said.

“Oh? He have anything good to say about it?”

Pearl laughed as if Jane Ellen were joking. “Of course he did.”

“Dwayne is one who keeps pretty much to himself. Likes it out there on his farm, all secluded. Folks pretty much respect his wishes.”

“Is his farm far from town?”

“’Bout ten miles.”

“What’s he grow?”

“Not much. Drives his old truck in and sells some tomatoes and corn at a local produce market the town has in season. Sometimes okra.”

Okra? Haven’t had that in years. Don’t miss it.
“Does he have any animals on his farm?” Pearl asked.

Jane Ellen was silent for a while. Then she said: “Not anymore. Had some kind of trouble years ago, but that’s not for me to talk about.”

But you just did.
“What kind of trouble?”

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s just stories floating around. I don’t pay much attention to them. Where do you know Mr. Avis from?”

“Oh, I don’t know him at all. We just found ourselves sitting together on a bus once and got to talking. You know, passing strangers thrown together—and he started talking about Mansard, and I found myself getting interested.”

Jane Ellen was starting to get suspicious. It wouldn’t be good if Dwayne Avis learned someone had called and inquired about him.

“So tell me,” Pearl said, “just what is the Fall Apple Theater?”

“I realize we’re both usually free around lunchtime,” Zoe said, “but we’ve got to do something about meeting like this.”

“We need a bigger bed,” Quinn said.

Zoe didn’t seem amused. She was standing alongside her bed, where Quinn still lay nude and perspiring and sexually sated. “You know what I mean,” she said. “I’m going to have to hurry to be in time for my next appointment.”

Quinn thought she sounded like a hotel prostitute, but he decided he’d better keep that to himself. He lay quietly and watched her dress. She’d showered, and her body was still damp despite all her toweling off, which made her clothes stick to her. He watched her wriggle into her panties, then her slacks. She smoothed material with her hands, tugged at it, rearranged it, glanced at her image in the dresser mirror and seemed dissatisfied by the way the slacks fit. Quinn thought they looked just fine. She bent down and picked up her bra from where she’d dropped it on the floor an hour earlier. He watched her extend her elbows out while leaning forward and reaching behind her to fasten the clasp. The movement reminded him of a graceful exotic bird flexing its wings.

“You sure you have to leave right away?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m sure.” She reached for her blouse.

While she was standing at the mirror working a comb through her mussed hair, he sat up in bed and scooted his body so he was leaning with his back propped against the pillows.

Zoe was fully dressed now. As soon as her hair was to her satisfaction, she’d pick up her purse, kiss him good-bye, and be gone. They were both out of the mood now, even as they enjoyed the afterglow. Quinn knew he should follow Zoe’s example and reset his mind for work. Noontime assignations were fun—more than fun—but you couldn’t let them control your life.

Still, he enjoyed simply watching her.

She turned sideways and craned her neck, looking out of the corner of her eye to see if her hair was okay in back. For some reason, the gesture reminded him of Pearl. Then he knew why. It was reminiscent of Pearl examining her mole.

“You know Pearl?” he said.

She caught his eye in the mirror. “I feel that I do.”

“She had this mole right behind her ear that kept worrying her. Worried her so much she had it removed and sent away for a biopsy. Now she’s worried about what the biopsy results will be. So rattled she has a hard time even sitting still. Her concern is way out of proportion.”

“And?”

“I’m afraid it’s getting in the way of her work. I guess I’m asking you, as a psychoanalyst, if there’s anything that’d ease her mind, make her revert to her old self on the job.”

“Does she suspect the mole is cancerous?”

“I don’t know what she suspects.”

“She’ll have the biopsy report pretty soon; then she’ll know, and even if the news is bad, she’ll find some relief from her immediate anxiety. Is there some reason for her to think she might receive bad news about the mole?”

“Her mother,” Quinn said.

Zoe stopped teasing her hair with her wide-toothed comb and looked at him curiously in the mirror. “Some genetic problem?”

I’ll say!

“Her mother’s a pistol,” Quinn said. “Pearl says she’s trying to get her to go see this doctor Pearl used to date, get them together again. He’s a dermatologist, and Pearl’s mother figures if she can get Pearl worried enough about the mole, Pearl will make an appointment to see Milton Kahn—the dermatologist.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Well, you’d have to know Pearl’s mother.”

“I know about matchmaking mothers, and Pearl’s sounds like an extreme example.”

“Anyway, Pearl saw a different dermatologist and is waiting for the results.”

“Good for Pearl. But she’s defying her mother. That might be leading to a heightened sense of apprehension.
Mother’s always right.
That phrase stays with many of us all our lives. Ruins many lives.”

“So what should I do?”

Zoe finished with the comb, walked over, and kissed Quinn on the lips. “Wait,” she said. “Like Pearl.”

Then she smiled at him and hurried from the room.

Quinn lay for a while longer in Zoe’s bed, feeling the rush of cool air from the window unit and listening to traffic below on Park Avenue, letting his mind wander. He could still feel the heat of Zoe from her side of the bed, still smell her and almost hear her moans of ecstasy.

An uneasiness crept into his state of quiet bliss.

Why did I make love to Zoe, then ask her about Pearl?

Why the hell did I do that?

But an old cop knew that just because there was a question didn’t mean there was an answer.

Quinn was parking the Lincoln in front of the office when his cell phone chirped. He fished it from his pocket with one hand while spinning the steering wheel with the other to maneuver the nose of the long car toward the curb. Sometimes driving the Lincoln in Manhattan reminded him of captaining an ocean liner in a port crowded with smaller, faster ships.

He pushed the phone’s talk button by feel, said, “Quinn.”

“It’s Feds,” said the voice at the other end of the connection. “I got filled in by Vitali and Mishkin about the Farr shooting. They were close and heard the squeal on their car radio and got to the scene ten minutes after Farr was killed. The shooter, Bertrand Wrenner, was sitting on the front steps of Farr’s building. The victim was sprawled half in, half out of the place, across the threshold. Wrenner was sobbing and still holding the murder weapon. The uniforms first on the scene took it from his hand, then read him his rights.”

Quinn put the shift lever in park and turned off the engine. “He’s confessed?”

“They couldn’t get him to stop confessing.”

“I already heard from Renz on the ballistics tests,” Quinn said. He made no effort to get out of the car; reception was good here, and it was a comfortable, quiet place to talk on the phone. “Smith and Wesson twenty-two caliber. Not our gun. Not our serial killer.”

“Another half-ass duel,” Fedderman said, “only this time the winner got overwhelmed by what he did and broke down right there. Motive, gun, opportunity, witnesses, confession. No way not to get a conviction.”

“Ordinarily,” Quinn said.

“Renz is scared of this one, right?”

“You guessed it, Feds. The media’s already casting the killer as a victim, comparing him to an abused dependent wife. Some T-shirt company is probably already printing
FREE BERTY
shirts.”

“Berty?”

“That’s what Bertrand Wrenner goes by.” The sun was blasting down on the parked car, heating up the interior. Quinn was ready for the conversation to be over.

“Mishkin said you gotta feel sorry for the little shit,” Fedderman said.

“Mishkin feels sorry for the world.”

“Well, I guess the world could use it,” Fedderman said. “I got copies on the specifics on this one from him and Vitali, crime scene photos, witness statements, the whole investigation so far. It’s all a nice, neat bundle.”

“Bring it to the office and file it, Feds, even though it’s got nothing to do with our case other than it’s the child of political expediency.”

“Okay. Is Pearl with you?”

“No, I thought she might be with you. Maybe she’s in the office. I just pulled up in front.”

“She still worried about her mole?”

“She had it removed. They sent it away for a biopsy so they can let her know for sure everything’s okay.”

“Or if it’s not.”

“That, too.”

“You think she’s really got something to worry about?”

“Plenty, but not necessarily the mole.” The parked car was really heating up. Quinn noticed that he was beginning to perspire. His shirt was starting to stick to him the way Zoe’s clothes had when she’d dressed right after her shower.

“Funny,” Fedderman said, “that was Wrenner’s nickname at work—Mole.”

“Funny old world,” Quinn said, and pressed
END
. Fedderman was obviously about to get philosophical, and Quinn didn’t think he could abide that.

He climbed out of the uncomfortably warm Lincoln and went up the shallow concrete steps to the office entrance.

The first thing he saw when he went inside was Pearl pacing in the middle of the room, carrying a coffee cup. There were spots on the floor where coffee had sloshed over the rim and dripped. Pearl’s dark eyes were especially vivid in a way that for some reason reminded Quinn of when they’d had sex, and she was nervously flexing and unflexing the fingers of her left hand. Incongruously, she gave him a big white grin.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I think we should take a drive,” she said.

Martin Hawk sat over coffee in the hotel restaurant and stared at his copies of the
Post
and
Times,
along with a copy of a much smaller paper,
City Beat
.

By all accounts, Bertrand Wrenner was nothing more than a common murderer. Certainly not a hunter. The media were referring to Alec Farr’s murder as a duel, but Martin didn’t see how it fit that definition. The victim had simply answered a ring at his door and been shot dead. A homicide. True, he’d been warned, as well as armed. Wrenner had delivered to him a gun with which to defend himself or go on the hunt for his potential killer. Judging by what fellow employees said, it was unlikely that, even afraid and on his guard, Farr could conceive of Bertrand Wrenner—Berty, as the papers called him—constituting a real threat. He hadn’t thought Berty had it in him.

Martin Hawk could have told him that all cornered animals were capable of killing.

Again a server came by his table to make sure Martin didn’t want breakfast today. He reassured her that was the case.

The thought of food made his stomach turn. That he was responsible for the series of murders labeled duels, which were now being cheered on by the media, sickened him and deprived him of appetite.

And filled him with contempt.

Dueling required anger or insult, a face-to-face encounter. A duel was an event brought about by hatred or disdain. But hunting was a pure and sacred tradition, an impulse in the core of all of us. The nearer to the surface it rose, the hungrier we got. Primal? Certainly. That was why it was the stuff of legend and religion. It required danger, a certain respect for one’s prey, a contest of wiliness and wills.

It required stalking.

He set aside
City Beat
and reached for yet another newspaper he’d bought, a
London Times.
He leafed through it and found and opened the financial page.

There would be nothing about New York murders or duels in this paper.

Nothing to worry him.