Twist (21 page)

Q
uinn and Pearl visited their fourth antique shop of the day. This one was actually a mall, with various dealers renting stalls stuffed with merchandise. It was on Second Avenue, near a diner where they’d stopped for lunch.

Prices here were high, as they’d been at the other three antique shops. In front of Pearl was a set of Fostoria crystal champagne flutes for three hundred dollars per stem. A Stickley chair that looked god-awful uncomfortable had an asking price of a thousand dollars. Pearl thought it would be a good place to sit a suspect down for interrogation. Anyone would confess to anything just to get out of the chair.

“Beautiful stuff,” Quinn said.

“You’re talking about me?”

Quinn smiled. Having Jody and Carlie around had certainly lit some kind of fire under Pearl. As if youth were contagious.

“It should be beautiful,” Pearl said, “at three hundred dollars per stem.”

“I wasn’t talking about your legs. I was talking about the chair.”

“Really something,” said a man’s voice. It belonged to a chubby, balding man in a suit patterned in olive-green plaid. What hair the man had was gray and combed in wings above his ears. The grayness picked up the green in the suit.

The suit itself was outrageous, yet somehow the chubby guy pulled it off. Pearl figured that was because the material was so obviously expensive that the outfit had to be taken seriously despite the ludicrous pattern.

“It looks uncomfortable,” Pearl said.

“I was talking about the Mayan bust,” the chubby guy said. “It’s pre-Columbian.”

Quinn had had enough of this. He showed the man in the absurd suit his ID. “What we’re really in the market for are answers.”

The man handed Quinn a richly embossed white business card with gold printing. “I’m Jacob Thomas,” he said, and the card confirmed that. Thomas smiled. “I sort of thought you were police.”

“So you have an eye for more than antiques,” Pearl said.

As if she’d just requested it, Thomas gave her another of his cards. “I have an eye for what I know about,” he said. “No one has all-encompassing knowledge of antiques and their value.” He pointed. “The Mayan bust, for example, is a museum-quality piece. It’s been verified by an expert in pre-Columbian statuary.”

“Museum quality means expensive,” Quinn said.

“Means desirable, which is pretty much the same thing.” Thomas motioned toward the bust with a well-manicured hand. “Myself, I think it’s rather ugly. But there’s no denying that it’s old and rare.” He looked around the wide area and smiled. “We don’t sell junk.”

“Maybe expensive junk?” Pearl asked.

“Not knowingly.” Thomas frowned. “I have a feeling you might think we have some stolen merchandise here. If we do, it’s quite by accident, I assure you.”

“No,” Quinn said, “we want to ask you questions about somebody you might know.” He grinned in a way that was oddly menacing. “Unless you’d like to unburden a guilty conscience.”

“No, no!” Thomas waved his hand as if swishing away a pesky insect. “It’s just that in this business, there
are
imitations. And sometimes excellent ones. Now and then we get fooled.” He shuffled his feet and looked nervous. “
Have
we been fooled?”

Quinn laughed and rested a huge, rough hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Not that we know of, Mr. Thomas. By the way, how do you obtain your merchandise?”

“We have various sources. We purchase estates, deal with heirs, buy from other dealers, or at auction. There’s a surprisingly fast turnover with items in this price range. They tend to increase in value over time, whatever the economic news. Investors as well as collectors are among our customers. And we do sell to some museums.”

“Your obviously upper-crust inventory,” Pearl said, “suggests you deal with upper-crust sellers and buyers.”

“We run some items through Sotheby’s or Christie’s, if they show well in their catalogs, and if the market is right.”

“Have you heard the name Dred Gant?” Quinn asked.

“Why would you ask that?”

Quinn and Pearl were surprised.

“You’re not supposed to answer a question with a question,” Pearl said. “You’ve seen the TV cop shows and know the rules.”

Thomas smiled, but he looked worried. He made a sweeping motion with his arm, inviting them over to a small, carpeted area where there were two armchairs and a mauve upholstered love seat, a conversation area for hushed negotiations.

Quinn and Pearl sat in the chairs, Jacob Thomas in the love seat. He rested one arm of the extreme suit over the scrolled wooden back, obviously hoping to appear at ease.

“We find it best not to reveal ourselves when we purchase merchandise at auction,” Thomas said. “So we use telephone buyers, sometimes nameless, faceless proxies, to relay their bids to representatives at the auctions. You’ve no doubt seen anonymous bids phoned in at auctions.”

“Only in the movies,” Quinn said. “I don’t hang out at Sotheby’s or Christie’s.”

“Until a year ago Dred Gant was a buyer for us,” Thomas said. “He’d travel to various places and relay our bids.”

“Secret bids?”

“As to the identity of us as the perspective buyer, certainly. The people who ran the auctions knew of course who we were, but none of their clientele knew. When the item would go up for sale in our shops, no one would associate it with the auction—or the auction price.”

“I can see the reasoning,” Quinn said. “When did you hire Gant to do this?”

“We never actually
hire
such a person,” Thomas said. “Not only would Dred bid via phone for us, he would appear now and then with a valuable piece that we bought from him to add to our inventory. He was self-employed in that capacity. Then, when we came to know and trust him, we used him as a telephone negotiator assessing merchandise and relaying bids.”

“You said
until a year ago
,” Quinn said.

“Yes. Last summer it seemed he simply disappeared. As if he left the area.”

“Without contacting you?”

“Exactly.”

“Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

“Well, it wasn’t as if he was a nine-to-five employee in an ordinary office job. But still, yes, it was unusual.”

“Did you ever hear from him? In any way? From anywhere?”

“No. We called his cell phone number, but everything went to voice mail and he never replied. And then the number went out of service.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Almost a year.”

“You never reported his disappearance to the police?”

Thomas shrugged. “It wasn’t that kind of business arrangement. He was a freelancer. He came and went. Like some of the others. Usually they pop up again somewhere in the world of antiques, maybe in foreign lands. The antique scene, in this price range, is world-wide.”

“How lucrative is it?” Pearl asked.

“For someone as shrewd and experienced as Dred Gant, it could be very lucrative.”

“Six figures?”

“Maybe seven.”

“What
do
you have concerning him?” Quinn asked. “Surely you had him bonded.”

“No. We looked into him, but couldn’t get back very far. We did a credit check on him, made sure he lived where he said.”

“Which was?”

“In the Village, on Bank Street. He’s moved from there. We checked. No forwarding address.” Thomas looked at both of them. “This isn’t so strange. We didn’t want him bonded because we wanted our private negotiations to stay that way. You’d be surprised how people snoop.”

“Us?” Pearl said, acting surprised.

“But surely you had a file on him,” Quinn said.

“Certainly. We still have it.”

“Does it contain a photograph?”

“Sure,” Thomas said. “Wait right here and I’ll get it for you.”

 

 

Jacob Thomas went to a small cubicle of an office that contained a desk and chair, and a laptop computer lying open on a table. On another, smaller table, sat a combination printer, tax machine, etc. Quinn contemplated the technological smorgasbord and wondered if it also brewed coffee.

Thomas walked over to a bank of square black file cabinets with hidden drawer handles. The entire open and visible modern office, surrounded by all the antiques, looked as if it had dropped there from the future.

Quinn didn’t see what Thomas did, but he’d obviously pressed a button or in some way triggered a signal, because the second drawer on the nearest cabinet slid smoothly open.

It didn’t take Thomas long to find the file on Dred Gant. It was fat and legal sized, contained in a green folder. Thomas laid it on the otherwise bare desk and flipped it open. He withdrew a five-by-eight photograph from the file’s front pocket.

Quinn picked up the photo, and he and Pearl stared at it.

Dred Gant had a neatly trimmed mustache and beard, large black-framed glasses, and longish hair with a part in the middle. It was difficult to know the color of his eyes behind the reflections in the lenses of the oversized glasses. His hair was blond with dark roots.

“He might as well be Elton John,” Pearl said.

“Or Justin Timberlake,” Jacob Thomas said.

Quinn said, “Who the hell is Justin Timberlake?”

F
iona was startled to wake up next to a warm male body. Then remembrance of last night came to her in a rush that made her dizzy. The time in her apartment, here in her bed, the depleting of her supply of vodka.

My God! She shouldn’t have had so much to drink. She would have kicked herself, actually, only she feared waking the nude man next to her in her bed. At least she assumed he was nude. The wrinkled, turned-back sheet came up to his waist.

No, she thought back. She knew he was nude.

Her mind grasped for facts. She had left him alone in the kitchen to put ice in the glasses and pour their drinks. Straight vodka because that was all Fiona had where she kept the liquor in a cabinet above the refrigerator.

Beyond that, Fiona couldn’t recall much.

Demon rum
, she thought. Though she couldn’t remember even tasting rum.

Moving slowly and carefully, listening to the man’s easy breathing, she rubbed an eye that was sore from being mashed into the pillow. What the hell was his name? Brandon? No, Brady! No, Brad. First-name basis. And he knew her only as Fiona. Or as some of the things he’d whispered to her last night, when he wasn’t being rough. Brad liked it rough, but not too rough. She probably didn’t have a bruise on her body. But he’d known how to play her, have her eating out of his hand.

She regarded him through only one eye. His brown hair was barely mussed, and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Almost smiling.

He was no great prize, but a girl could do worse.

Fiona decided not to get up yet and shower. She’d wait for him. She was comfortable enough, with only a light sheet over her and the ceiling fan ticking away and providing a soft breeze.

In fact, she was
very
comfortable.

 

 

The killer knew Fiona was awake, and he was sure she thought he still slept. He maintained a neutral expression, with his eyes lightly closed, carefully regulating his breathing. His sensory perception was on high. He was aware that she was staring at him, but he didn’t mind. He’d practiced feigning sleep. It was a skill that had often proved useful.

He put the woman out of his mind for now and recollected last night. He hadn’t touched much in the apartment, and he remembered precisely where and what he had touched.

Sometime after midnight, when he was awake and Fiona still slept, he’d gone into the bathroom down the hall. He’d wiped all the fixtures and smooth surfaces down with a damp towel. Being extra careful to make sure there would be no fingerprints for the police to find.

Before returning to bed, he’d gone into the living room and found his briefcase where he remembered placing it at the end of the sofa. He’d withdrawn a pair of tight, flesh-colored rubber gloves, and slipped and snapped them deftly onto both hands as if they were second skins.

He’d be using them shortly. Though he didn’t want to rush. He enjoyed the anticipation almost as much as the act.

He lay there in the dark, in the soft breeze, giving his imagination full play. Waiting for the dawn. This time his victim wasn’t going to be drugged. He wanted her to anticipate and feel every nuance of her torture.

 

 

When he heard her soft voice, he knew he’d dozed off.

That was okay. He was instantly all the way awake and alert, although he hadn’t opened his eyes or moved a muscle. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell it was morning and the room was full of light.

He realized his left hand rested on top of the sheet.

“What’s that on your hand?” she asked again, in a fond and amused whisper. He felt her lips brush his cheek.

“Rubber gloves,” he said.

“What on earth for?”

“I’ll show you,” he said.

Fiona lay face up on the bed. Her arms and legs were lashed to headboard and footboard with ties from a robe and dress the killer had gotten from her closet. A rectangle of gray duct tape was plastered over her mouth. In the center of the tape was an indentation in the shape of a small
O
from her last, futile breath. She had died on the up beat, the killer mused.

He was still nude except for green disposable paper booties of the sort surgeons and OR nurses wore. They fit well enough over his bare feet. He was cleaning up after himself carefully. He dipped the forefinger of his gloved right hand into blood that had pooled in a low spot on the mattress, then he padded into the bathroom. He scrawled his F
REEDOM TO
K
ILL
message on the medicine cabinet mirror and smiled.

For a moment he thought of adding that this time his victim had been fully awake and aware of everything he did to her. Then he thought better of it. Economy was safety. Deviation was danger.

He rinsed the blood from his gloves, then went to his briefcase, which he’d brought into the bedroom so he could have his implements within reach. Fiona’s bulging blue eyes seemed to follow him. He enjoyed that.

Bending over the briefcase, he withdrew a seven-inch-high plastic statuette of the Statue of Liberty. It was like the others that he’d bought at different places, over time.

He propped Lady Liberty in Fiona’s abdominal cavity at an angle so she seemed to be peeking out over the wide flap of stomach skin, her torch held high as if in a signal.

The killer used the bathroom to shower, scrubbing himself carefully. He wore a plastic shower cap from his briefcase and made doubly sure that no hair went down the drain that might be retrieved for DNA purposes. He knew that there might be a hair or two somewhere in the apartment; healthy people lost quite a few individual hairs per day. But his DNA wasn’t in any of the data banks. A match could be made only
after
he was apprehended, and he didn’t plan on that happening.

When he was sure he was leaving behind nothing that would provide an unintended clue, he stood at the foot of the bed, holding his briefcase. He drew a deep breath and took one last long look at Fiona, fixing her in his mind.

She stared back at him, looking appalled.

Well, that was too bad for her.

Murder was actually so easy. Simple as ABC. If everyone knew that, there’d be lots more of it.

He thought about leaving some other taunt for Quinn, maybe something relating to Jody, sweet Carlie. Or Pearl. Quinn’s vulnerabilities.

Then he reconsidered. It didn’t take much to push Quinn’s buttons. Mustn’t overdo it, though.

Wouldn’t want to press the wrong button.

As he left the apartment, the last thing he did was peel off his gloves and wipe down the doorknob. He took the elevator down, knowing he would soon simply be another of New York’s faceless millions. There was such contentment and security in anonymity.

No one took any particular notice of him as he left the building, and within seconds the teeming city enveloped and protected him.

He was one of its own.

 

 

Quinn thought the Fiona crime scene was like another installment in a running nightmare. The killer exercised the usual care not to leave any real clues, and he employed the usual techniques that Nift so admired. The only difference was it looked as if this one might have fought back a little. Not that it mattered.

Quinn went into the bathroom and wasn’t surprised to find the usual message scrawled in blood on the mirror.

He went back and looked down at the usual victim. Yet she wasn’t like any of the other victims. They would all have been different from each other once you got to know them—if they were still alive. Catching sight of his reflection in the dresser mirror, he was startled by the expression on his drawn features and found himself wishing he were anyplace but here.

Nobody ever really gets used to this
.

Quinn strode toward the hall door. He had to get out of there. In a corner of his vision he saw a surprised Fedderman, the pale forms of the techs haunting the scene like curious ghosts,

Nift’s voice: “Leaving so soon? I’m just getting to the good part.”

The killer Quinn couldn’t stop had done this. A killer who had to be aware that the torture went on long after he’d left his victims. He knew the heartbreak and broken lives he was leaving in his wake. The years of furious impotence.

Rage rose in Quinn like an angry sea. He knew it would never completely recede.