Текст книги "Frenzy"

Автор книги: John Lutz

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

“Commissioner Renz spoke very highly of you and your agency,” Alexis said. “Of course, he’s as much a politician as he is a policeman. I would go so far as to say he can’t be completely trusted.”

“I would go so far as to say you might be right.”

Alexis favored him with another predatory smile. “I appreciate the restraint of your reply.” She repositioned herself about five feet to her left, slim hips moving like silk, so she was facing Quinn directly and placing Pearl on the periphery. “Shall we talk fee?”

“I appreciate your directness,” Quinn said.

And fee they talked, as if Pearl didn’t exist.

But Pearl listened, and was astounded by how much Alexis Hoffermuth would pay for the return of the genuine Cardell bracelet.

Pearl didn’t look at Quinn as they were shown back to the private elevator, fearing that they both might break out in grins. As the elevator descended she could imagine Alexis Hoffermuth upstairs cleaning herself with her tongue. She decided not to mention that imagery to Quinn. Men and women saw the Alexis Hof-fermuths of the world differently.

When they’d left the elevator and exited the lobby, both of them did smile.

“I can still smell the money,” Pearl said, as they walked away from the stone and glass tower where Alexis Hoffermuth lived like Rapunzel with a short and stylish do. She glanced over at Quinn. “You weren’t shy about asking for our share.”

“Alexis is the type who isn’t shy about giving.”

“I sensed that about her, too.”

“I was thinking about her charity events.”

“Me, too.”

There was a break in traffic, so they jaywalked.

“You’ve got Jody pissed off now,” Pearl said, as they gained the curb on the other side of the street. “First you put her on the cat case because it wasn’t important, and now you’ve got her back at the office doing paperwork and missing cat research while we go talk with Alexis Hoffermuth.”

“The case got more important,” Quinn said. “I know that because Renz is bugging the hell out of me to get it solved.”

They came to where Quinn’s aging but gleaming Lincoln was parked in a loading zone.

“Back in the real world,” Pearl said, when they were in the old car’s quiet interior and buckled up.

“You sure?” Quinn asked.

“Never.”

She smiled. She liked it when Quinn got all metaphysical.

“Seldom,” she amended, hoping to draw him into a complex, philosophical discussion. That was always good for some smiles.

But he drove in near silence, his usual taciturn self. Complicated yet simple in way and deed. Smart enough to be direct and unerring in his aim.

She wouldn’t love him nearly so much if she could figure him out.

Part Two

May 7, 5:12 p.m.

But what was time to a cat?

It took so little of it to extend a paw and lift the latch on the metal cage wherein Boomerang had been tossed after the ride in the dark car trunk.

Then, of course, a cat could find a window open a crack, or a door slightly ajar. Easy egress for the sleek and the furred.

And underlying it all, the mission.

Boomerang planned to get back home with his find eventually. He was named Boomerang because, when left to roam, he invariably, sooner or later, came back—and with some kind of offering. He seldom left and returned without having accomplished something important. His proffered souvenirs were a point of feline pride. The object clasped in his jaws now was especially prized.

He peered around a corner with cat elasticity, then detoured into a narrow passageway that was one of his favorite haunts. The dim brick and concrete corridor ran between two apartment and commercial buildings, where trash bags were piled like lumpy pillows.

This looked interesting.

Boomerang paused and struck a pose, alert to traffic and voices and the stirring of garbage-sweetened air in the fetid alley. Nothing unusual. Nothing dangerous.

Temporarily losing interest, he dropped his future offering alongside a dented metal trash can and moved smoothly as a miniature panther to the nearest black plastic bag.

With the delicacy of a surgeon, he extended a claw and made an incision in the bag. Ah! He withdrew a foam take-out container with leftovers that contained some sort of sea food. A real find!

He glanced back at his intended offering, to make sure it was safe, then began maneuvering the take-out container so he could lick its interior.

He was in a secluded place where he wasn’t in any rush to finish his meal. The trophy he was transporting could wait until he was good and ready to continue his journey back to where he’d come from. What was the hurry? It wasn’t as if he had an appointment; and if he had one, he might not bother to keep it. He was, after all, a cat.

And a handsome one at that.

May 8, 2:02 p.m.

Quinn decided that to mollify Jody he’d go with Pearl for an initial interview concerning the missing cat. That they would do this should send the right parental message.

“You reported your cat missing?” Quinn asked Craig Clairmont. At least he assumed it was Craig Clairmont. The guy fit the description Fedderman had given him, but Quinn was to the point where he was taking nothing for granted. If he were a cat, he’d find something jarringly wrong with Clairmont. As it was, he felt only a vague unease.

Quinn was standing. Pearl was seated in a stiffly upholstered chair that looked as if it should be behind a desk rather than in a living room. The apartment was furnished that way, mismatched and mostly functional. An interior decorator would puke.

“We only rent here,” Clairmont said, as if reading Quinn’s mind.

Quinn found that disconcerting. “Your cat,” he reminded Ida French.

“Boomerang,” she said.

Pearl smiled. “Because he always comes back?”

“Yeah. Only this time he didn’t,” Ida French said. She was a sleek dishwater blonde, almost beautiful. But there was something about her blue eyes, an intensity that was unbecoming.

Clairmont seemed embarrassed. “I guess you think it’s foolish, contacting a private investigation agency to search for a missing cat.”

“They can be like part of the family,” Pearl said.

As if on cue, a small child with hair exactly the color of her mother’s sidled into the room. She was wearing blue shorts and a color-keyed blue and white blouse. Blue socks and jogging shoes. About nine years old, Pearl estimated. Cute, cute, cute.

“This is Eloise,” Ida French said. “My daughter.” The girl went to her and clung. She completely ignored Clairmont.

“About nine?” Pearl asked.

“Eight.”

Pearl smiled at Eloise. “A big girl for eight. And so pretty!”

Eloise smiled back.

“Now I understand the urgency about getting Boomerang back,” Quinn said. But he wondered. How many kids must there be in this city with missing cats, and nobody was phoning detective agencies about them?

Pearl must have been thinking the same thing. “If you give us a better description,” she said, “we can put out an ACB.”

The Clairmont-French family appeared puzzled.

“All Cat Bulletin,” Pearl explained, with not a trace of a smile.

Quinn felt like twisting her nose. Maybe he would, in the elevator.

Nobody else seemed to think Pearl was less than serious.

“He’s black with three white boots,” Ida French said to Pearl. “A good-sized cat. Likes to roam, but always returns. Only not this time. And, oh, yeah, he’s wearing a cheap kind of bangle collar. Looks like jewels.”

Pearl thought, Huh?

“You like to dress up your cat?” she asked Eloise.

“Not much,” Eloise said.

“The collar was a gift,” Ida French explained.

Craig Clairmont spread his hands hopelessly. “That’s about all we can give you by way of description.”

“He’s a handsome cat,” Eloise said defensively.

Ida French patted her daughter’s head. “No one says otherwise, dear.”

Quinn pretended to write it down in his notebook. “Handsome cat . . .” Then he looked more seriously at Clairmont and Ida French. “We’ll do what we can, send some people around the neighborhood to talk with folks, keep an eye out for Boomerang.”

“Cats don’t usually go far from home,” Pearl said.

Quinn wondered how she could know. Or if she really did know. He wanted to get out of there before she mouthed off.

“We’ll be getting busy,” he said, and moved toward the door.

Pearl stood up and moved with him.

The Clairmont French family stirred. Craig Clairmont and Ida French thanked them. Eloise said good-bye.

In the elevator Pearl said, “Jesus H. Christ!”

Quinn reached for her nose, but the elevator stopped its descent on the second floor and a woman walking with a metal cane entered.

Pearl started to say something else, but Quinn raised a finger to his lips, cautioning her.

“Renz must have his reasons,” he said.

Pearl said, softly, “And Clairmont must have his reasons for wanting Boomerang back.”

“Jeweled collar,” Quinn said. Or maybe a bracelet.

“See it all the time in New York,” Pearl said. “Cats decked out like fashion plates. Accessories aren’t just for people.”

The elevator lurched and continued its controlled fall.

“World like a puzzle,” Quinn said.

The woman with the cane ignored them.

When they got back to the office, Quinn phoned Renz to try to find out more about who and what they were investigating. What was the motivation for this concern about a missing cat?

“I’ve got my reasons,” Commissioner Harley Renz said, when Quinn had finally gotten through on the phone. He recognized Renz’s clipped, official voice.

“I need to know those reasons,” Quinn said, “if I’m going to waste valuable hours and shoe leather because of a missing cat. Even if he is handsome.”

“You need to take this seriously, Quinn. I certainly do.”

“I need to have a reason. Probably it would be the same as yours.”

“No, no . . .”

“Try me, Harley. I do understand that you place some importance in this. It would make it seem more worthwhile if you’d condescend to share.” Quinn also understood that Harley Renz valued information as the currency that bought power. Not to mention more actual currency. “I don’t need to know it all, Harley. Just some of it.”

There was a long silence on the phone. Quinn thought at first that the call had been dropped. Then Renz said, “Craig Clairmont has a sheet. He’s a jewel thief.”

Big surprise.

“And Ida French?”

“Nothing on her. But that just means she hasn’t been caught yet.”

“Eloise?”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Their eight-year-old daughter.”

“Oh, yeah. Ida’s kid.”

“Is Clairmont the father?”

“It’s possible,” Renz said. “Conjugal visits and such.”

“Jewels . . .” Quinn said thoughtfully.

“And we both know some jewels have been stolen,” Renz said.

“Belonging to Alexis Hoffermuth. The Alexis Hoffermuth.”

“What are you getting at, Quinn?”

“The missing cat, Boomerang, was wearing a cheap jeweled collar when he disappeared.”

There was silence except for the gears in Renz’s brain meshing.

“You’re shittin’ me!” he said.

“No,” Quinn said, “and a cat might slip a loose collar off, even back on again. Over and over. They like to play around with things.”

“Like certain people. Mostly of the female persuasion.”

“We got some kinda connection,” Quinn asked, “between Alexis Hoffermuth and Clairmont-French?”

“It looks like we do,” Renz said. “A half-million-dollar jeweled bracelet. And of course, little old me. It’s a connection, but it isn’t proof. You receiving the message?”

“Received,” Quinn said, and hung up the phone.

He wondered if Renz had already known about the cat wearing the bracelet around its neck. Maybe even Alexis Hoffermuth had known. Maybe she’d pressured Renz into using NYPD resources to search for a missing cat, even while she wanted him to pull out all the stops trying to recover a bracelet. Money could addle people’s thinking.

Half a million dollars ...

Pearl was at her desk, staring at him. She knew he’d been talking to Renz.

Quinn looked back at her. Said, “We gotta find that cat.”

May 8, 3:32 p.m.

The cat, the bracelet, Alexis Hoffermuth.

Only one of them could talk.

Quinn and Pearl returned to the palatial penthouse where, with Alexis Hoffermuth, they discussed again the day of the theft.

“I only glimpsed the man,” Alexis Hoffermuth said. “And it all happened so fast, I’m not sure I could identify the woman.”

“You have some sense of their respective sizes?” Quinn asked.

“Average. Both of them.”

“Hair or eye color?”

“The woman had blond hair streaked with dark. Blue eyes. The man’s hair was dark. I think very dark. I seem to recall that he had blue eyes, too.”

“Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos, scars, moles . . .”

“Not that I noticed.” Alexis Hoffermuth shook her head in frustration. “It all went down so fast.”

“Went down?”

“You know—happened. Like on TV cop shows.”

“Ah.” Quinn shifted position in his chair. Leather creaked. “What about another vehicle? What were they driving?”

“If the perps had a car, it was parked out of sight. And to tell you the truth . . .”

“What?”

“It all went down so fast, I’m not even sure if the man was with the woman. At the time I thought she was this ditsy tourist or something who thought the limo might be for hire. I didn’t expect jewel thieves.”

“Or thief, singular.”

“No, wait! On second thought, I’m certain the man was with her. They hurried from the scene together.”

“What about the cat?”

“I saw no cat.” She arched an eyebrow. “Police Commissioner Renz told me a couple called to report that their cat had run away. I thought that odd. Isn’t that what cats do? Run away?”

“My cats always do,” Pearl said. She was seated on the sofa, facing Quinn and taking notes. They were both taking notes, making a bit of a show of it.

“Boomerang,” Quinn said. “That’s what they call this cat, because he roams but he always comes back.”

“A tomcat,” Alexis Hoffermuth said. “Just like the male human species.”

Amen, Pearl thought.

“There’s something else interesting about Boomerang,” Quinn said. “He’s wearing a jeweled collar that might be a bracelet. And he belongs to a professional jewel thief.”

“The man and the woman?”

“Just the man is a pro, as far as we know.”

Alexis Hoffermuth shook her head again. “Men get women to do things . . .”

Quinn nodded. “Keeps us busy.”

May 8, 8:12 p.m.

Otto Berger and Arthur Shoulders, sitting across a table from their boss Willard Ord, listened to Willard sum up what he’d told them: They were in Ord’s garden-level apartment in the Village. The rest of the brick building, upstairs, was vacant except for storage and also owned by Ord.

“So it could be the fake bracelets,” Ord said. “The nonsense with the cat, all or most of it, was to help mislead and convince the insurance company the real bracelet was stolen. It looks like an insurance scam to me, with Alexis Hoffermuth using the Clairmont brother and Craig’s wife. Hoffermuth has probably already filed for a big settlement.”

“The cat didn’t have no bracelet around its neck when we snatched him,” Otto pointed out.

“I take your point,” Arthur said.

Willard stared at him, disgusted. “There is definitely the possibility that no bracelet was ever stolen, and Alexis Hoffermuth still has it.”

“Insurance fraud,” Otto said. “Makes a lotta sense.”

“We need to find out for sure,” Willard said.

“The easiest thing might be to make her talk,” Otto said.

Willard smiled. “Easier than chasing a cat.”

“More fun, too,” Arthur said.

May 9, 10:17 p.m.

“What on earth is the emergency?” Alexis Hoffermuth asked, when her private elevator door slid open and two huge men in cheap suits stepped out. She was wearing blue silk lounging pajamas and a matching top with decorative string ties and a low neckline. Her slippers were fur-lined and matched her outfit. “The doorman phoned up that I should admit you. That it was important.”

“Melman,” one of the men said. “He sent us up here.”

“Yes,” she said, puzzled. But she trusted Melman completely. “Why did he let you in? Are you acquaintances of his? Family?” She found both possibilities highly unlikely.

They said nothing. One of them smiled, displaying horrendous teeth. The other blatantly observed the unfastened top buttons on her pajama top.

Alexis didn’t like this at all. Tomorrow she’d have a serious talk with Melman.

Fearless as ever, she crossed her arms and stared unblinkingly at both men. If it was a fight they wanted, she didn’t mind stepping up out of her weight class. “Well?”

“You actually sleep in that outfit?” asked the slightly smaller man, with good teeth.

“That would be beside the point,” Alexis said.

She’d had enough of this. Her evening had been disturbed, and that made her grumpy. She stalked toward the nearby phone to call the doorman’s desk and set things straight with Melman.

Alexis was amazed that the two men had entered farther into her domain. They’d even moved apart somewhat as if to block her access to her elevator.

She held the receiver down near her waist and could hear the phone down in the lobby ringing.

Then it stopped ringing, but no one spoke.

Alexis pressed the receiver to her ear. “Melman? Melman?”

The man with the horrible teeth grinned and said, “Get her.”

Alexis actually advanced on the man, raising her hand to slap him.

But before she could bring the flat of her hand forward, he punched her hard in the stomach. She made a whooshing sound, then panicked and thrashed around when she couldn’t inhale. Her mind was functioning, but not well.

She began a harsh rasping that caught in her throat. The pristine white ceiling with its skylight was in front of her.

How did I get on the floor?

“When she catches her breath, she’s gonna wail like a train whistle,” one of the large men said.

“I’ll find something, Arthur,” said the man with the bad teeth.

He disappeared in the direction of her bedroom.

The one called Arthur began to undress her. He worked a few buttons on her pajama top, then lost patience and ripped the top apart, sending buttons flying. Alexis was now able to breathe in a labored way, but she still couldn’t muster enough strength or will to move of her own accord, enough air to scream. Someone—it must be me!—was whimpering.

Arthur had a wicked looking knife now, and was skillfully slicing material in order to undress her. Except for her pajama bottoms, which he simply yanked off.

Through her terror, Alexis felt a mounting rage. Who are these animals, that they think they can do this to me? I’ll be able to speak in a few minutes. Then I’ll tell them who I am, what’s going to happen to them, how very sorry they’ll be. Damn them! They’ll be so sorry!

Breathing was still a great effort, but she thought that with even more effort she could talk—could scream.

She attempted to scream but heard only a soft croaking sound.

“Here, Arthur,” said the man with the bad teeth. “She’s getting her sea legs. Better stuff this in her mouth before she yelps.”

“We’re not on a ship, Otto.”

“This is no time to be a grammarian,” Otto said, handing something to Arthur.

My favorite Burberry scarf! Oh, damn them! Alexis managed another moan. Louder.

“Better stuff,” Otto said.

But instead of wadding the scarf and stuffing it in her mouth, Arthur wound it tightly around Alexis’s neck. “Help me flip her on her belly,” he said. “She can try to tell us what we wanna know, but whenever she gets spunky and raises her voice, I’ll give the scarf a tug, choke the bitch a little at a time. She can live quite a while that way.”

“That sounds productive, Arthur. We are, after all, here to get information.”

“No point in stuffing the goose that lays the golden egg,” Arthur said.

Alexis felt their hands on her, and her stunned body was rotated onto its stomach. A hand pressed her head against the carpet. The one called Arthur used a pants leg from her pajamas to bind her wrists tightly behind her. Then he made a fist with the hand holding the knife and pressed it painfully into the small of her back. When Alexis cried out, he used his other hand to yank the scarf tight, bending back her neck and choking off any sound other than a strangled gurgle. She kicked hard against the carpeted floor and against Arthur, but he simply ignored her kicks. Seemed, in fact, to enjoy watching her flail around.

“What I’m gonna do,” he said, leaning close to her ear, “is what I done plenty of times, so don’t think it won’t work. I’m gonna ask you a question, then you’re gonna lie to me, then I’m gonna insert the point of my knife between two of your vertebraes—”

“Vertebrae, I think that is, Arthur,” said the one called Otto.

“Wouldn’t that be singular?”

“No. It’s like octopus or medium.”

“What about stadium?”

“You got me there,” Otto said.

Arthur turned his attention back to Alexis Hoffermuth. “Thing is,” he said to her with his foul breath, “I know just where and how to insert the blade between your vertebrae, and believe me, next time I ask a question you’ll be eager to answer it and I’ll know you’ll be telling the truth.”

“I’ll still—” The scarf contracted like a vise against Alexis’s larynx and her words were choked off.

“You’ll be dying to tell the truth,” Otto assured her. “Nobody refuses telling the truth to Arthur. He’s the best at his job.”

“Like a polygram,” Arthur said.

“Polygraph,” Otto corrected.

“Of course!”

“It’s a thousand-to-one chance Arthur’s not gonna eventually kill you when he knows you’ve spilled everything you know or ever knew, but at a certain point, you’ll think that’s a bet worth making. It’ll be all you got left.”

“Making folks speak the truth,” Arthur said, “is a psychological thing. Long time ago, my psychiatrist told me I was the one should be the psychiatrist. He had something there. And I got something here. Show her, Otto.”

“Yuk,” Otto said. He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and drew something from it. He held the object out where Alexis could see it. “Know what that is?”

Alexis stared. The thing he was holding was tubular, darkly splotched, with gray and white showing and red and—a fingernail!

My God, it’s a severed finger!

“She knows, Arthur,” Otto said. “See her eyes?”

“I do, Otto.”

“You need some lubricant?”

“She’s pissed all over the place. I’ll use that. She should feel it go in.”

Alexis did feel it. She struggled to scream, her eyes wide with horror. They were inserting the horrid thing into her! The scarf got so tight she momentarily lost consciousness.

“. . . Like I said, psychological,” she heard Arthur say. “While you’re laying there—”

“—Lying,” Otto said.

“Lying there wishing your back pain would stop, you can also think about that finger. I got nine more of them for you, counting thumbs.”

That last was a lie, but Arthur thought the powers that be would forgive him. He was, after all, seeking the truth.

“I wonder if all those fingers will fit,” Otto said.

“Oh, they will,” Arthur said.

Alexis felt the knife slide into her back, into her spine. The pain traveled everywhere inside her body. It was electric. It was unimaginable.

When the scarf was loosened she was breathing hard from attempting to scream.

“You got a lot more vertebraes—vertebrae,” Arthur said. “So, are we ready to talk about the insurance scam?”

“What insurance scam?” Alexis asked. “What on earth—”

Arthur smiled. She was a good little liar.

He inserted the knife again.

This process might take hours.

He was patient.

May 10, 9:20 a.m.

Melman, the Gladden Tower doorman, was inside his drab studio apartment overlooking a parking lot in Queens, He didn’t know for sure if Otto and Arthur were Alexis Hoffermuth’s cousins, here from California, who wanted to surprise her. Didn’t care, either, once they’d paid him a thousand dollars in tens and twenties to look the other way and let them use the private elevator to the penthouse. As a crooked ex-cop, he’d accepted larger bribes. But considering his present salary, and the state of the economy, this one looked too good to refuse.

Melman saw on TV news this morning that he’d been only half right.

The two men weren’t really Alexis Hoffermuth’s cousins from California, here to surprise her.

But they had surprised her.

That left Melman with two choices—he could run, or he could be implicated as an accessory to murder.

He thought the situation over and decided he’d better not even take time to pack. He phoned in his resignation, leaving it on an answering machine. That might at least slow things down a little. Then he hurriedly grabbed up a few items to take with him in his small carry-on. After a quick glance around, he headed for the door.

He had to get out of here before the police showed up. Or worse still—

Melman had saved time by packing only the carry-on, but there wasn’t much time to save, when it was so rapidly running out.

When he opened his apartment door, the two big guys were standing there, the so-called California cousins.

Melman’s mind raced. This was not good. The resignation, the hurried getaway. He could easily be fitted for Alexis Hoffermuth’s murder.

If the police had been at his door, he at least would know his body wouldn’t be buried in a shallow grave over in New Jersey. That would be some very small, very brief, comfort.

“Going someplace?” the big man asked.

“Oh, he’s going someplace,” the even bigger man said. “He just don’t know where.”

Melman knew the man was wrong. He realized with a certainty glowing like a star, illuminating his entire mind, that from the time he’d taken his first bribe as a rookie cop in Brooklyn, he’d known where he was eventually going.

May 10, 9:21 p.m.

Renz called Quinn’s cell phone that evening when Quinn and Pearl were home in the brownstone watching an early episode of The Good Wife on TV. Jody was upstairs studying for a legal exam. Quinn thought maybe she could learn more down here in front of the television.

Pearl glanced at him, curious about the phone call. Quinn pointed to the TV and she used the remote to freeze and mute the DVD picture.

“I hope this is important, Harley,” Quinn said into the phone. “Like I’m just about to see a case broken and all the bad guys going to jail.”

“Unreality television,” Renz said.

Quinn wandered out of the living room, in case Pearl wanted to press Play and watch the conclusion of the Good Wife trial. It was about a crooked international pharmaceutical company. The DVD would retain its position on the disk only so long. If the phone call lasted a little while, the TV screen would go blank and they’d have to go back to the beginning and fast-forward. Or choose scenes. Whatever the hell you did with a DVD.

“Okay,” Quinn said. “Court’s in recess.”

“Preliminary tests show we got no record of the DNA left from that severed finger that was found in Alexis Hoffermuth’s vaginal tract. Got something else, though. A fingerprint. A match turned up right away in the FBI database.”

Quinn waited three or four seconds, knowing Renz was in love with dramatic pauses. “So tell me, Harley.”

“The fingerprint—right forefinger, incidentally—belongs or belonged to John Wayson Clairmont. Goes by Jack. Three arrests in upstate New York for burglarizing jewelry stores. One conviction. Did a three-year stretch behind walls, was released four years ago.”

“Tell me he’s related to Craig Clairmont.”

“His brother,” Renz said.

Quinn paced with the cell phone, wondering about this development.

“You wanna send one of your people to talk to brother Craig?” Renz asked.

“No. Let’s not tell Craig, or Ida French, about the owner of the finger yet. See how this plays out.”

“Jack might not have had anything to do with Craig, and Craig might have nothing to do with Alexis Hoffermuth’s missing bracelet.”

“Or Jack’s missing finger.”

“But it isn’t missing—”

“Jack would disagree.”

“The rest of Jack might be as dead as his finger,” Renz said, “tucked away someplace where it won’t be found.”

“Jack was at one time in that alley where we found his finger,” Quinn said. “Unless somebody transported the finger there.”

“Always a possibility,” Renz said, “somebody running around with a spare finger. Good for counting beyond ten. But where the finger was found is easy walking distance from Craig’s apartment. You believe that much in coincidence?”

“No,” Quinn said. “You got anything else?”

“Ida French. Real Name Ida Beene. From Cincinnati. Used to be a hooker, one conviction, then went to work as a hotel maid in Cleveland. Seems to have cleaned up her act.”

“So many people go to Cleveland to start over,” Quinn said.

“Craig’s real name is Lester,” Renz said. “Not much about that couple is real.”

Quinn waited, then said, “That it for tonight?”

“Not quite. Nift’s postmortem on the Hoffermuth woman is in. She died of a heart attack.”

“I thought the scarf—”

“Probably it was only used to choke off her screams when the knife was applied to her back. There were a lot of knife wounds along her spine, very precise, between the vertebrae. Nift said whoever wielded the knife was skilled. The insertions must have produced incredible pain. She had her heart attack simultaneous with being throttled to keep her quiet.”

“Hell of a way to die.”

“There are a few good ways, but hers wasn’t one of them.”

“Any other cheerful news?”

“That’s it for now,” Renz said. “You can sleep on it.”

“But not very well,” Quinn said, trying to hang up on Renz. But Renz had already broken the connection. Renz liked to do that. Thought it made him the dominant party.

When Quinn returned to the living room, he saw that the DVD had timed out and Pearl was now watching a Yankees game with the TV on mute.

Quinn told her about Renz’s phone call.

“Sounds as if Craig was in on stealing the Hoffermuth bracelet with his brother,” Pearl said.

“And maybe the cat has the bracelet around its neck. Eloise thought it was a collar.”

“Which is why Craig and Ida Bee—French—are so hot to find Boomerang.”

“But what’s the deal with Jack’s finger?” Quinn wondered aloud.

“Maybe Jack told somebody something he shouldn’t have,” Jody said. She had come downstairs and listened at the living room doorway to Quinn’s account of his phone conversation with Renz. Her springy red hair was flat on one side from reading lying down. “He might’ve fingered somebody, and the severed finger’s a mob message to anyone else who might have similar ideas.”

“Sounds plausible, but I’ve never heard of the mob doing that,” Quinn said, “cutting off somebody’s finger because they fingered someone. They usually cut off more than that.”

“But it’s his forefinger,” Jody said. “His pointer.”