Текст книги "Frenzy"

Автор книги: John Lutz

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

61

Minnie Miner tried from time to time to entice that horrible little ME Dr. Nift to come on her program. There was something about that guy that made people’s skin crawl, but they could no more look away from him than they could ignore a train wreck. Nift always declined, feigning professionalism. Minnie figured he was probably wanted somewhere and didn’t care to have his picture flashed around.

She put Nift out of her mind and continued idly watching a DVD of the B-roll for tomorrow’s piece on the D.O.A. murders. She was in her apartment near the studio, reclining on the sofa and sipping a vodka martini. The sun was at the windows on the wall near where the big TV sat, and from time to time, in synchronization with puffy cumulus clouds blowing past, she had to squint to see the screen clearly.

There was an establishment shot of the Far Castle across the street, the colorful umbrellas over the round white metal tables, the castle-like stone and tile building itself, then the low fence and the garden next to it, the precisely trimmed hedge maze. The sunlight seemed to cleanse while it brightened the place; everything looked picturesque and colorful, like a damned souvenir postcard. Fox hunters in red livery might stream across the scene any second, accompanied by frisky yapping hounds. Stonehenge might be nearby, instead of Bank of America.

Manhattan traffic rather than hounds running to the hunt streamed past, and lunchtime customers lounged and ate at the sidewalk tables.

The camera brought the long shot in, so it seemed the viewer was crossing the street, then it moved into the restaurant.

Minnie was idly wondering if the place served mead, when something on the screen made her sit straighter and lean toward the TV. Servers were circulating among the tables, clearing them or delivering food. Some were men wearing medieval-looking white shirts with overly bloused sleeves. Others were nubile young (reasonably young) serving wenches, with tight skirts and blouses that matched those of the male servers only cut lower in front to allow for glimpses of cleavage.

At first Minnie didn’t realize what had jogged her memory, and she had to stare hard at the TV. She had to run the DVD forward and back twice before she was sure.

One of the serving wenches was familiar. Minnie wasn’t one to forget a face, or all that cleavage. This wench looked particularly ready for a roll in the hay. Minnie smiled. It was the dyed blond hair that had fooled her for a while, the carefully mussed Olde World hairdo.

There was no doubt, though, after running the scene back a few times, then freezing it as the wench leaned farther forward to serve some frosted mugs to two businessman types. More than any of the others, this serving wench seemed to enjoy her work.

Minnie smiled, certain now. She had even, some time back, interviewed the now-blond woman for an ASAP segment on socially transmitted diseases.

Though the name tag pinned to her blouse said her name was Eileen, yon wench was Officer Nancy Weaver.

Minnie sat back and thought about that. No doubt Weaver was working undercover and wouldn’t be in a mood to talk about it.

On the other hand, a word going back beyond the Middle Ages came to mind: Bait.

Surely that word had crossed Weaver’s mind. With her hair dyed blond and the sexy serving-wench outfit, Weaver had to realize that she might be dangling as a potential conquest of the D.O.A. killer. Good cop that she was, Weaver might not be inclined to discuss this matter with Minnie, until Minnie worked on her a bit. Or leaned on her politically ambitious and vulnerable boss.

Blowing Weaver’s cover might put Weaver in danger, Minnie thought, or it might save her life.

Of course, that should be, at least to some extent, Weaver’s decision. Or Renz’s. Or Quinn’s.

But really, it all depended on Minnie, and that B-roll that would be best placed topping the news.

“So here’s how it is,” Renz said. They were in his precinct house office with the door shut. Sounds from the squad room beyond the door filtered in: a man rapidly explaining how he’d gotten to the wrong place at the wrong time; a woman who wailed as if in agony every few minutes; the calm voices of the detectives dealing with incoming calls. Now and then, laughter, some of it cruel.

“Place needs thicker walls,” Renz said.

Quinn sat down on the other side of the desk, facing Renz. The desk was not so much cluttered as carefully arranged so that it seemed cluttered. “You were saying . . .”

“How it is,” Renz said. “The unfortunate Beth and Ben Swift were sleeping after sex.”

“How do you know about the sex?”

“Lab people know. They ran a rape kit on Beth Swift even though she was dead. No semen, though. And no sign of a condom, though they can’t be sure about that. It isn’t like on TV.”

“Sometimes I wonder. Birth control pills?”

“We’ll find out about that,” Renz said. “As of now, it doesn’t appear that the killer raped her. Except in his own special way with the knife and cigarette.” He propped his elbows on the desk and tented his fingers. His hands looked pink and extremely clean, nails professionally manicured. “The hypothesis is that they were both asleep. The killer got in with a lock pick or key. Made his way to their bedroom, where they were sleeping deeply.”

“After sex,” Quinn said.

“After sex. The killer sliced Ben’s throat. Poor guy didn’t even have a chance to wake up. Whatever fuss he made was mitigated by the killer, who was at this point nude. Probably slipped out of his clothes in the bedroom, keeping an eye on his soon-to-be victims, listening to their breathing to make sure they both stayed in REM sleep. When Ben was dead, D.O.A. stayed quiet but worked fast. Got out his duct tape and bound and gagged Beth, who probably went into paralyzing shock when she looked across her pillow and saw her husband’s tongue hanging out, but not from his mouth.”

“Poor Beth,” Quinn said, and meant it. He could feel a smoldering rage starting to build in his gut. Or had it been there all along?

“It was just beginning for her,” Renz said. “Looks like the killer straddled her, then went to work with the knife and cigarette. Taking his time now.”

“Anyone find butts?”

“No. He took the butts with him,” Renz said. “Filters, too, if that’s what he was smoking. A very meticulous asshole, this one.”

“How’d he get past whatever security the building has?”

“There’s one doorman or another there till midnight. After that, with a five-number code on a punch pad, anyone can let themselves into the lobby. Carpeted stairs instead of an elevator, so there’s no noise at all involved. Carpeted halls, too, which is where Beth and Ben kept their spare door key hidden—tucked neatly under the carpet near their door. That’s the second place every burglar looks, after under the welcome mat. Once the killer knew where the couple lived, it would only take a little observation to gain whatever knowledge he needed to get at them. This sicko knows his business.”

“What else the techs have to say?”

“Not much, but they’re still learning. Nift said it took the woman over an hour to die.”

Quinn said nothing, thinking, feeling the anger grow.

How disappointed he must have been when she escaped into death.

“Everything points to the D.O.A. killer and not a copycat,” Renz said. “But the techs are still learning. There’ll be more info from them.”

“Two victims,” Quinn said. “A family. Helen said this sicko would up the ante.”

“He’s trying to pressure you,” Renz said.

Not us. You. Renz covering his ass.

“He’s feeling some pressure himself,” Quinn said.

Renz’s desk phone jangled and he picked up. “I said hold my calls.” He stood for a moment with the receiver pressed to his ear. Then: “Go ahead and put her on.” He held his hand over the mouthpiece and said almost silently, “Minnie Miner. Something about Weaver.” He nodded toward the door, signifying that the call was private. Time for Quinn to leave.

Quinn stayed.

PART SIX

Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood.

—WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS, The Land

of Heart’s Desire

62

The way Jerry Lido and Pearl saw it, too many people already knew about the search for Bellezza, and eventually knowledge—and rumor and irrational behavior—would begin spreading exponentially.

It wouldn’t be that way for a short while. If someone really knew about Bellezza, they might well know about everything else. So it would be good to find them before they were supplanted by the crazies.

Lido knew his was an important job, searching the Internet for the lost bust or related material. To save time, he used Pearl to explore promising but secondary leads, while he homed in on the ones most likely to bear fruit. Lido was the undisputed tech genius of Q&A, but Pearl was no slouch and kept learning.

It was Pearl who came up with something. An ad in the classifieds of a local New Jersey weekly, the Teaneck Tattler. A woman had a marble bust for sale said to have been created by Michelangelo. It had been in her family for years, said the ad, and now she needed money and was forced to sell. There was a number to call.

Pearl called it.

A woman identifying herself as Jesse answered the phone. Pearl said she was trying to get in touch with the person who’d placed the ad.

“She’s my aunt,” the woman said, “Lucille Denner. And I’ve been trying since yesterday to get in touch with her myself.”

“Is the number in the ad her phone number?” Pearl asked.

“It is. I tried it but got no answer. Left a message. No reply. I went by her house and it’s locked up tight.”

“Don’t go inside,” Pearl said, getting a queasy feeling.

“It’s not a crime or anything, is it? I mean, something might’ve happened to her. I just got here, in fact. I’ve been thinking about calling the police.” She gave a nervous little chirping laugh that Pearl didn’t like. “And now they’ve called me.”

“Have you looked around?”

“No, but I called Lucille’s name and got no answer. She isn’t here, I’m sure.”

“Give me the address.”

Jesse did. A house on Garritson in Teaneck.

“Don’t touch anything else, and get away from the house,” Pearl said.

“What? Why?”

“No time to discuss it now,” Pearl said. “Just do it. Stay outside and wait. Someone will be along faster than you imagine.”

Jesse was silent, obviously thinking over this instruction from a woman she’d never met.

“Remember not to touch anything,” Pearl said. “Where are you now? Exactly.”

“On the front porch.”

“Leave it, then stand outside the front of the house, out on the sidewalk, and wait. Please hurry so I can make another call.”

“Is my aunt Lucille in trouble?” Her voice was tremulous.

“I think so,” Pearl said. “Please do as I instructed.”

Jesse promised she would, and seemed eager to meet some authority at the house.

After Pearl hung up, she told Lido about Lucille Denner and her classified ad.

“Doesn’t sound like much,” Lido said.

“But better than you know what.”

Pearl called Quinn’s cell.

Quinn walked over to a corner of Renz’s office so he could barely hear Renz’s conversation on his desk phone with Minnie Miner. He figured Renz couldn’t overhear his cell phone call from Pearl.

Pearl stayed on point and kept the conversation brief.

Quinn said, “I’ll pick you up on my way.”

Renz hung up the landline phone at almost the same time Quinn finished his conversation with Pearl.

“Minnie Miner,” Renz said, though he’d already let Quinn know that by using Minnie’s name. He was fishing to see if Quinn would reveal his caller.

“Pearl,” Quinn said, satisfying Renz’s curiosity. “Probably about nothing.”

Renz crossed his arms, waiting, so Quinn told him about his conversation with Pearl.

“You’re right,” Renz said. “Probably some crackpot with a worthless family heirloom. You’ll probably find a bust of Carrie Nation.”

“I might not recognize her,” Quinn said. “Your call?”

“Weaver.”

“You referred to her as Minnie.”

Renz put on his innocent face. “No, I didn’t. Just mentioned Minnie’s name, I’m sure.”

Quinn knew Renz was lying, but arguing would get them nowhere. Renz. You had to watch that bastard every second.

“What did Weaver want?” Quinn asked.

“She said people have told her Minnie Miner mentioned her—though not by name—on Minnie’s ASAP show. “ ‘A new food server at that delicious new restaurant has a secret in her pretty little head,’ I believe were the exact words.”

“You gonna pull Weaver?” Quinn asked.

“She mighta just gotten more valuable right where she is,” Renz said. Knowing Quinn would understand. Weaver was being classified as expendable, though she’d have all the protection the law could muster while she was being dangled as bait before the killer. Would Quinn go for it?

“Make sure she’s covered every second,” Quinn said.

Renz gave him a look. “You know we will. She’s one of ours.”

Quinn knew Renz was sincere. There was no need to mention that leaving Weaver exposed waiting tables while Minnie Miner blabbed away on her TV show might be downright dangerous.

“I’ll give Weaver the word,” Renz said. “Make sure she knows what’s going on.”

And reassure her it’s safe, so she won’t back out.

Quinn left the precinct house and climbed in the Lincoln to pick up Pearl for the drive to New Jersey. When he was tooling along on the FDR Drive, he lit a cigar and used his cell phone to call Weaver. No doubt Renz had already talked to her.

Weaver answered on the third ring, and acknowledged that she and Renz had discussed the Minnie Miner problem.

“You okay with this, Nancy?” Quinn asked, gaining ground on a big stake truck hauling a load of gigantic polyvinyl pipes. For a moment the truck’s exhaust fumes smelled stronger than his cigar.

“I’ve been bait before,” Weaver said. “Even did a stint with Vice for a while. And we know this killer already has me in his sights. I wouldn’t mind a chance to get back at him. This might be fun.”

Quinn doubted that. He was sure Weaver did, too.

He told Weaver about the ad in the Teaneck Tattler in New Jersey, and how he and Pearl were going to drive there and check it out. He thought it would be a good idea to keep Weaver clued in from this point on. They owed her that for the odds she was about to accept.

“Could be nothing,” Quinn said.

“Good leads or bad leads, they teach us something even if we don’t always know it,” Weaver said.

Must be scared, if she’s philosophizing.

“I’ll let you know if anything unusual goes on here at the castle,” Weaver said. “Or anything other than the usual unusual.”

“Be careful at that place, Nancy. The play acting could become serious.”

“Surely you joust,” she said. “And don’t forget I’ve got my knights in shining armor.”

Quinn drew on his cigar and jacked the car’s speed up over the limit, all while passing the truck with the PVC pipes on the right. Though he was on the phone, his eyes were more or less fixed on the road. He was thinking of a dozen things other than driving.

“Don’t take any chances,” he reminded Weaver.

The phone pressed to his ear, he listened to nothing. The connection with Weaver was broken.

63

Quinn drove hard. He and Pearl made good time out of Manhattan to New Jersey. They were soon in Teaneck, and found Lucille Denner’s address on Garritson easily, using the GPS plugged into the Lincoln’s cigarette lighter.

Most of the houses on the block were small, built in the flurry of construction not long after the Second World War. Additions had increased the size of some of them as the families within them had grown. Denner’s house was one of the smaller ones and well kept, painted a pale beige that was almost cream colored, with dark brown shutters and door. There was a white trellis on one side of the house, in what might have been an effort to make it appear wider. Scarlet roses blossomed wildly on vines that had made it halfway up the trellis. On the opposite side of the house was an attached single-car garage. The grass was thick and green and almost to the point where it needed to be trimmed.

Quinn parked the Lincoln blocking the narrow concrete driveway leading from the closed overhead garage door, just in case.

He and Pearl got out of the car and walked up onto the low wooden porch that was painted the same brown as the shutters. Quinn thought he could smell the nearby roses, but that might have been the power of suggestion.

He knocked on the front door several times, and wasn’t surprised when he got no response. Pearl moved over on the porch and tried to peer behind almost-closed drapes but could see nothing inside but darkness. She stayed on the porch while Quinn walked around to the back door and knocked.

Again no response.

He returned through thick grass to the front yard.

“I’m here,” a woman’s voice said.

They turned to see a middle-aged woman, obviously once shapely but now with a thickened waist and neck. She had long graying hair combed to hang straight down, like shutters she was peering between. Quinn thought a middle-aged woman had to be beautiful to wear her hair that way. It made this woman look as if gravity had a special hold on her features. She had an outthrust chin and worried gray eyes.

“Jesse?” Pearl asked.

“Yes. I decided to stand down the street behind a tree and see who arrived at my aunt’s house.” She gave an embarrassed smile that showed crooked teeth. “You two passed inspection.”

“Did you get away from the house immediately when I told you?” Pearl asked.

“Yes. As soon as we got off the phone.”

“Very good,” Quinn said. He tried the front door and found it locked.

Jesse said she had a key and fitted it to the knob lock. It worked with a low and hesitant clatter, as if it might be as old as the house and hadn’t been used often. If there was any other kind of lock on the door, it wasn’t fastened.

Quinn used his large body to block her so he could enter first.

He found himself in a small but well-furnished living room.

Pearl gave Jesse a slight, reassuring smile and said, “You better wait here and we’ll call you.”

Jesse looked dubious but nodded her assent. Now that there were two more people here, people with authority who would know how to handle things, she wasn’t so frightened.

Pearl smelled something all too familiar. Faint, but definitely there.

“Watch where you step and what you touch,” Quinn said.

Pearl could see beyond him a huddled form on a dining room floor.

“Lucille Denner,” Quinn said.

“No doubt,” Pearl said.

“Somebody must have answered her ad.”

“A dissatisfied customer.”

Quinn led the way as he and Pearl entered the dining room. It was dim, but neither of them wanted to open drapes or turn on lights and disturb a crime scene. Besides, there was more than enough light to see the dead woman on the hardwood dining room floor.

“Careful not to step in any blood,” Quinn cautioned.

Pearl moved closer to the body so she could see the dead woman’s forehead. The letters D.O.A. were there. They looked like the letters found carved on the earlier victims.

Quinn nodded toward the other side of the dining room, beyond a wooden table and chairs that were centered beneath a wrought iron chandelier.

Pearl moved carefully around the perimeter of the room, past a dark mahogany china cabinet, and saw half a dozen jagged pieces of ceramic on the floor. She fitted them together in her mind and came up with what looked like the head and torso of a bare-breasted woman who might have been Bellezza.

If the bust had been marble instead of ceramic.

Or had ever been touched by Michelangelo.

The classified ad in the Teaneck newspaper had obviously sent someone on a futile mission. Quinn could imagine the killer taking one look at the pathetically obvious imitation and hurling it to shatter on the floor before taking out his ire on the unfortunate Lucille Denner. His knife and lit cigarette had been wielded with particular viciousness.

“Do you think she really figured she might sell that thing to some naïf?” Pearl asked.

“Maybe to one out of twenty,” Quinn said. “And to somebody who thought they might be putting one over on her by getting a great work of art cheap.”

Pearl could only shake her head.

“What’s the percentage of hardcore addicts who get sick or die because of poison they thought was coke or heroin?” Quinn asked.

“Could be one out of twenty,” Pearl said.

“And the one out of twenty here might have been the first caller,” Quinn said.

Which made Pearl glance around uneasily, as if fate were creeping up on her.

“I checked,” Quinn said. “Her phone’s a land line. But we still might be able to get a caller log.” Even as he said it, he knew the killer would be too smart to leave a record of his call about the classified ad.

“What strikes me,” Pearl said, “is that he’d be too wily even to inquire about that obviously imitation piece of junk.”

“It served its purpose,” Quinn said.

“Which is?”

“To get us wasting time standing here talking and thinking about Lucille Denner’s murder instead of closing in on him.”

“Not motive enough.”

“Spooking us into thinking he could be going interstate again.”

“Still not enough.”

“And to demonstrate how powerful he is.”

“Motive enough,” Pearl said.

Quinn got out his cell phone and called a sergeant he knew in the Teaneck Police Department.

Then he called Minnie Miner. She might as well waste the time they might have wasted.

Quinn saw Pearl raise an eyebrow at the mention of Minnie’s name.

“Might slow her down” Quinn said. “Then she can talk about all those ads for Bellezza busts being withdrawn from eBay.”

“Pearl? Detective Quinn? Anyone?”

Jesse’s voice. It sounded as if she had her head stuck inside the open front door.

“Better stay where you are, dear,” Quinn said.

But she didn’t. Curiosity and concern for her aunt Lucille prompted her to enter the house. Pearl heard her coming and tried to head her off but failed. Jesse saw what was on the dining room floor.

And would have nightmares the rest of her life.