Twist (14 page)

“W
e making progress?” Renz asked Quinn.

Quinn decided not to tell Renz that Jody was now also on the case.

“By inches,” he said.

“Anything more on Dora?”

“Not unless you count that everyone who knew her even slightly thought she was angelic, even though she was a cutthroat real estate agent.”

“There’s nothing like dying young and violently to attain instant sainthood,” Renz said.

“What about Carlie?”

“You mean Carlie as bait?”

“If you want to be so crass as to be truthful,” Quinn said.

“I have nothing against the truth if it’s useful.”

“I think someone really is stalking her. It might be our killer, playing games. Or it might be Jesse Trummel.”

“The guy she works with? How do you figure that?”

“He’s kind of acting like her wingman,” Quinn said, “ready to swoop in and save her if anyone actually does go for her. Which will probably result in two dead instead of one.”

“Try telling the Jesse Trummels of the world that.”

“Useless,” Quinn said. “We’re looking out for him. He really does seem ready to lay down his life for his fair maiden. You ever been in love like that?”

“I was always more interested in sex.”

“I don’t think Trummel has made it to that particular base.” Quinn knew that Renz would have a hard time understanding that. But he was wrong.

“The Madonna-whore view of women,” Renz said. “He respects her too much to screw her. My feeling is, find a whore who’s a true believer.”

“You would know where to look.”

“If you’re going to be pejorative I’m going to hang up.”

“I was just starting to be pejora—”

Renz broke the connection. He loved to do that, demonstrate that he and technology were the alpha couple.

As Quinn was replacing the receiver on his desk phone, Jody walked in. It was hot outside. Her hair was a springy jungle and her nose glistened with perspiration. Her blue eyes were red rimmed and swollen, as if she’d been rubbing them, and her freckles were vivid. She was wearing jeans cut off just below the knees, and a faded red T-shirt that proclaimed she was a virgin and wearing a very old shirt.

She plopped down the murder book on Quinn’s desk.

“You could have kept that,” Quinn said.

Jody slumped into one of the chairs angled toward the desk. “I read it thoroughly, then copied everything in it.”

“That should have made it evident that you’ve become involved in something dangerous.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You saw the photographs,” Quinn said.

“And I read everything in the file you gave me.”

“And?”

“It’s always possible what Helen the profiler says about gamesmanship is true. The killer, like so many of them, likes to play games with whoever he sees as leading the pack that’s trying to hunt him down.”

“And I’m the leader of the pack,” Quinn said.

Jody smiled with what looked like tolerance. “If you say so. But it sounds like a teenage song.”

“It should.”

He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. “And I’m smart enough to listen to your mother,” he added.

“What about my mother’s daughter?”

“She has my respect.”

“And you have hers,” Jody said.

“Have you come to some conclusion after sifting through all the material on the Lady Liberty Killer?”

“It isn’t patriotism that motivates him,” Jody said.

“We’d already decided that,” Quinn said.

“And I don’t believe Carlie—or I—are in as much danger as you seem to think. Unless, of course, Helen the profiler is right and he’s playing mind games with
you,
personally.”

Quinn hadn’t been kidding about respecting Jody’s intelligence. Not to mention her intuitive powers. “Helen might be right,” he said. “But I suspect it’s still too early for him to force some kind of end game.”

“Is that how he’d see it?” Jody asked. “An end game?”

“He knows he’s going to be caught. In some ways, he wants it to happen.”

“But on his terms,” Jody said, “so he can claim a kind of victory.”

“Yes.” Quinn had to smile. “Very astute of you.”

“Then you assign some credence to my suggestion that Carlie and I might not be in such grave danger.”

“Some,” Quinn said. “Not enough to be unafraid for you. This kind of killer isn’t predictable. He knows all the rules, too. And he enjoys breaking them. Sometimes making new ones.”

“Still,” Jody said, “compulsion trumps game playing.”

“Usually.”

“What’s even better,” Jody said, “is if the killer can combine the two.”

“True. But compulsion still trumps. That, in the end, is how he gets caught.”

“Then Carlie’s safe because Dora Lane has been murdered. And I’m not slated to be murdered until sometime in the intermediate future.”

Before she’d finished her sentence, Quinn understood what she meant.

“The victims were taken in alphabetical order,” he said.

“Starting with
B
, for Bonnie.” Her eyes bore into Quinn’s. “There must be an
A
out there we don’t yet know about.”

Quinn felt like saying,
That’s my girl!
But he didn’t. After all, he had another daughter, out in California. And a niece, or whatever the hell she was, here in New York with Jody.

Jody was beaming at him. She said, “I understand.”

“It’s time to talk to Jerry Lido,” Quinn said, sounding a little throaty.

“The alcoholic computer genius?”

“He’s all of that,” Quinn said. “And he has an intimate relationship with Google, not to mention Lexis-Nexis and every search engine on the Net.”

“He’s one up on me, then,” Jody said. “I don’t seek around.”

T
hey sat in comfortable padded chairs with red cushions so brilliant they hurt the eye. They were in the all-purpose room at Golden Sunset Assisted Living. It was a large room, with a chocolate-brown carpet and strategically placed groupings of chairs and tables where various factions and family of the tenants could meet and visit.

Where Jody and her grandmother sat, no one could overhear their conversation. The nearest human ear was forty feet away, where half a dozen gray-haired men sat at a table before a large window. They seemed to be playing an odd kind of game with dollar bills while they enjoyed various non-alcoholic beverages.

Jody’s grandmother, Pearl’s mother, had known Jody was coming and was wearing a satiny blue dress that, with all the jewelry, might have looked more suitable on a younger woman. Her hair was recently done, and had been dyed an entirely different hue of blue, with undertones of the entire color spectrum. She was wearing moderately high-heeled shoes that had brass buckles and looked as if they must be causing distorting injuries to her feet.

She smiled at Jody, seated attentively across from her, and said, “Pearl.” Pronouncing her daughter’s name as if it were an answer on a quiz show.

“You mean Mom?” Jody asked. As if they had other Pearls in common.

“Yes, our own and dearest Pearl who—and I do keep fastidious and accurate count—hasn’t been here in almost a month. I can’t tell you how, being my flesh and blood and not with a tendency to avoid one’s elders, you bring such comfort with your visits.”

Jody, genuinely pleased, smiled wider and said, “Good!”

“Family is God’s way of binding human beings so they are not alone, placed like game pieces put away too early in the closet, in places like, I am sorry to say, this.”

“It seems okay here,” Jody said, glancing around.

“It is my own opinion—and I must say, in most respects, also that of the other inmates—that we here find ourselves with no escape in a way station on the road to hell.”

“Mom says she checked the place out and it was the best available.”

“If the choice is between arsenic and strychnine,
the best
is hardly a matter of consequence.”

“Well, if you put it that way . . .”

“Your mother has lost her perspective, in part due to holding so closely and dearly a job rather than a husband and children.
Her
choices, I am afraid, were not of the wisest and—if I may venture to express my opinion—she had her chances. A blessing such as yourself, for instance—”

“There’s no need to go into that,” Jody interrupted.

“Of course not, dear.” Jody’s grandmother leaned far forward to grip and squeeze her hand. “Often fate steps in and forces people to make the only choice they seem able to make. But I wonder sometimes that, if Pearl had listened to me about a certain
Doctor
Milton Kahn, things might even now be different for her, and perhaps different for you.”

“I think she’s with the right person in Quinn,” Jody said.

Her grandmother threw up her hands. At first Jody thought it was a gesture of protest.

But she was wrong. Her grandmother was rolling her eyes heavenward. “Thank all the powers that be for
that
man, a mensch to the rescue when your poor mother most needed one. I won’t say she was drowning in her troubles and going down for the third time, but sharks were circling. You tell Pearl her mother said, whatever else happens, not to get into one of her uppity moods and walk out on that good man.”

Jody said. “Don’t worry about that, Grandma. But you said—”

“It’s vocation and—let’s be realistic—salary that is the problem. The income of an established and respected dermatologist like
Doctor
Milton Kahn, compared to the meager earnings of a retired policeman and private detective, no matter how much of a mensch he is, determine quite different lifestyles, dear. No one shoots at a dermatologist.”

“You have a point, Grandma.”

Jody’s grandmother smiled. “It’s so nice to hear that word.”

“Point?”

“No, the other. ‘Grandma.’ And it’s so good to have you here with us, where, after tossing on the stormy oceans of life, we have found each other.”

“See?” Jody said, feeling somewhat like driftwood. “None of this would have happened if Mom had married Dr. Whoever. If she’d never met Quinn. Life just works that way sometimes, Grandma. So many things we have no control over simply happen to us.”

“So wise you are beyond your years, dear. Please remind your mother that fate plays its mysterious—not to say it doesn’t now and then need a nudge—role in bringing us together. We are like moths seeking heat and light and then one day finding flame, or one of those loud zapping devices suburbanites place on their patios.”

“I promise to remind Mom,” Jody said. She squirmed in her chair, getting antsy.

“You might want to stay for lunch, dear. It’s Italian wedding soup, and we don’t know what that’s going to be.”

“I wish I could, but I can’t,” Jody said. “I’m working on an important case.”

“Like Perry Mason.”

“I remember him,” Jody said.

“Of course you do, dear.”

The group of gray men playing the game with paper money let out hoots and hollers at the table over near the large window.

Sunset Assisted Living wasn’t so bad, Jody decided. Boredom punctuated by periods of elation. And occasionally by tragedy.

Like life in the outside world.

T
he beautiful TV newscaster, Minnie Miner, was on the TV above the shelves of assorted gourmet coffees in the Underwater Brew, an establishment that had nothing to do with water, or with beer. The killer had heard people talking about the owner calling his coffeehouse “Underwater” in reference to his real estate mortgage. The killer doubted the story. People didn’t have a sense of humor about losing money.

“This killer,” Minnie Miner said on the flat-screen TV, “is becoming increasingly vicious.” Her big dark eyes widened beneath her bangs. Her astonished look. “Police say the details of this latest murder are too awful to describe.” Astonishment became anger. “I say we deserve all the facts. We the people are strong enough to endure anything—even a monster in our midst.”

The killer, seated at the coffee bar, thought about being referred to as a monster and decided he didn’t mind. He’d heard great athletes referred to as monsters. Sometimes the word was used to describe people of great talent, with daring and abilities so far beyond those of most mortal beings they were . . . monstrous.

“You’ve got a nice smile,” a woman’s voice said.

He turned and saw an attractive—attractive enough, anyway—woman who’d been sitting at a nearby table. She’d moved to sit next to him while he was absorbed in
Minnie Miner ASAP
. She had a slightly overweight but sexy figure, the top button of her blouse undone to reveal the cleavage of generous breasts. Her eyes were the proper blue, her hair adequately blond, her jaw firm. She was still in her twenties, maybe.

The killer sipped his latte and decided this meeting was fated to occur.

“I wondered what you were smiling about,” she said, her voice revealing a little uncertainty as to how he was going to react to her.

He smiled back. “I was thinking about baseball,” he said, “so I wouldn’t have to listen to any more on the news about that serial killer. I’ve seen and heard so much about him that I’m sick of it. He’s awfully famous.”

“Which team?”

“Huh? Oh. The Yankees.”

Both of them looked again at the TV above the coffee display. Minnie Miner was still discussing the Lady Liberty Killer’s latest victim, the horrible things that had been done to her. Minnie looked slightly ill, but that was probably an act.

“What do you suppose
ASAP
stands for?” the woman asked, as an SUV commercial came on the screen.

The killer thought. “A sudden appearance of a phenomenal person,” he said. “In the Underwater coffeehouse.”

She laughed. “Did somebody come in I don’t know about?”

“I think we both know I’m talking about you.”

She frowned, surprising him, and moved closer. “But see, I know I’m okay, but not phenomenal. So you’re . . . exaggerating. And that means you might exaggerate about other things.”

“I will out and out lie if it means making any progress in getting you to like me,” he said.

“See, there it is again.”

“No. You’re an exceptional beauty. I’m right about that because I’m the beholder. That’s all there is to it. If you and millions of other women wouldn’t finish first in the Miss USA pageant, so what? To the guy here sipping coffee—that’s me—with the speeded-up metabolism and discerning eye—me again—you’re phenomenally beautiful and should have been first in any beauty pageant you ever entered.”

Not quite sure whether she’d been insulted or complimented, she chose, “Phenomenally beautiful?”

“Yes!” he proclaimed, as if he were Professor Higgins and at last she’d gotten it right.

The pimply kid behind the coffee bar might have overheard them. He moved father away, shaking his head. A coffee bean grinder began to growl, but not loud enough to impede their conversation.

“Quite a charmer, you are,” she said. “Like magic coming into my life. You can see why I don’t think any of it is true.”

He made a face, as if she’d injured his feelings. “I wouldn’t say such a thing unless I thought it was all true.”

“But if you would,” she said, “that would be quite dangerous.”

“To you or to me?”

“Me.”

“Then raise your right hand.”

She did. So did he.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Let’s call me Scarlet.”

He looked at her as if trying to read something on her forehead.

“Doesn’t fit,” he said.

She laughed. “Okay, you choose a name.”

“I’ll tell you your real name.”

“You mean the one on my birth certificate?”

“No. Your
real
name.” He placed his forefingers against his temples as if waiting for inspiration. “You’re Eva,” he said.

She couldn’t see why not, if he wanted her to be an Eva. “Amazing that you knew that,” she said.

“Eva and Brad pledge never to lie or even exaggerate to each other, ever again, under penalty of life without each other.”

The new Eva thought about that. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Brad is my actual given, birth certificate name,” he lied.

“And mine is Evelyn.”
True
.
Just in case.

Wonderful!
he thought.
Fate again.

He touched his fingertips to the bare back of her hand, and she felt something pass between them that surprised her.

“Now we’ve been properly introduced to each other by each other,” he said. “You know what that means?”

“Yeah.” She sounded slightly breathless. “That we want our experimental relationship to work.” As she spoke, she felt a pang of doubt. “We need to go slowly,” she said.

“Agreed. You know where Mon Gourmet Ami is?”

“Yes. On Second Avenue. One of the best French restaurants in New York.”

“Not too good for us,” he said. “Let’s meet there tomorrow at eight o’clock. I’ll make the reservation under Brad. We’re not yet ready for last names, and there’s no need to rush.”

Eva had been stood up before and knew how it felt. “You’re sure about this?”

“No. We could eat Italian.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ll be there, Eva. Please don’t doubt me. Not already.”

She reached over and squeezed his wrist. “I don’t,” she said.

But she did.

 

 

After Eva (as they both thought of her now) left the coffeehouse, the killer waited a minute or two and then followed. He’d watched which way she turned, and it didn’t take long to spot her up ahead, making her way along the crowded sidewalk.

He hung back, easily tailing her to her apartment. It was on the West Side, not far from Columbus Circle.

Traffic was heavy as they negotiated crossing the roundabout, and he imagined that he smelled her perfume as he stayed well out of sight behind her. He was being extra careful, but he needn’t have been. She didn’t once glance back. A sign of a trusting soul, he thought.

She entered a redbrick and stone six-story apartment building, perhaps a converted great mansion of one of the long-ago very rich. He waited, counting slowly to fifty, and then cautiously entered the lobby. Eva either lived on a lower floor, or had safely gone up in the elevator. The floor indicator above the elevator door suggested she’d gotten in and was rising. He watched the tremulous brass arrow to see where the elevator might stop.

On the number three.

And it stayed there.

The killer didn’t follow her up. It was too soon for that. You didn’t long for something so strongly that you ache, and then appease your hunger with huge immediate bites. The experience was to be savored. He walked to the bank of painted-over mailboxes just inside the street door.

Above the mail slot for 3-B was a metal framed window holding a card identifying the box as belonging to one
E. Donavon
. Nothing else was close. The killer did make a mental note that three of the six apartments on the third floor held names revealing only first initials before surnames. Probably they belonged to single women, not revealing their gender. It was a simple, much used precaution. Only one first initial was
E
.

Everything was falling neatly into place. That was because it was meant to happen.

The killer imagined: Upstairs, Eva would be standing in front of her refrigerator, drinking a canned soda or bottled water. Or maybe she was undressing for a cooling shower. Or was slumped on her sofa watching television. Mind turned off. Guard down. Vulnerable.

The way the killer figured it, this kind of building, these units, were potential hunting grounds. The lairs of his prey.

The killer knew that he and Eva were really not that much alike. In fact, in one important way, they were complete opposites.

He was on this earth to take. She was here to be taken.

They did have at least one thing in common: they enjoyed drawing out the pleasures of a burgeoning relationship. Beyond the bright smiles and forced clever patter, deep in the recesses of their brains, where instinct ruled, they both knew their respective roles.

They weren’t thinking about their relationship in the same way, though their hearts knew its true purpose.

The details were immaterial. Eva would become fuel for the fire growing in the killer’s soul. The obsession to possess and then kill, which he’d controlled and ridden as if it were a wild but manageable steed, was becoming stronger within him, almost as if there were no reins.

When he felt that way, the killer began to watch, to search, to assess. He couldn’t get to the woman he yearned so much to destroy. She was in an invulnerable fortress, guarded by a small army behind stone and iron.

Proxies would have to serve his purpose.

Evelyn “Eva” Donavon fit the mold well enough. He would play her, use her, and then take her soul.

But only to sate himself before taking his most desired objective that
was
vulnerable. A woman who
didn’t
fit the mold. Whose obvious death at the hands of the Lady Liberty Killer would throw Quinn’s investigation into a whirlwind of pure speculation and scant actual knowledge.

They would know then that he wasn’t the usual serial killer, that like them he had read the literature, familiarized himself with the canon. He’d know what they were thinking almost before they did. Some of it would be right, and some wrong. They would try to outguess him, comprehending only gradually that he was better equipped to outmaneuver an opponent.

Quinn and his detectives sometimes made the killer smile. When it came to the game they were playing, he knew the same rules they did, the same supposed tendencies. When his mind began to bleed, and to need, he would kill for a purpose as well as to assuage his need.

His was an appetite with claws and fangs. He knew that if he ignored it, it would begin to feed on itself and everything around it.

And
everything
included its host.

But there was no reason to ignore it.

Just as there was no reason for him not to take and use, and make his own, one of Quinn’s women.

The killer was having fun.

The game had barely begun.