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  Highest Praise for

  John Lutz

  “John Lutz knows how to make you shiver.”

  —Harlan Coben

  “Lutz offers up a heart-pounding roller coaster

  of a tale.”

  —Jeffery Deaver

  “John Lutz is one of the masters of the police novel.”

  —Ridley Pearson

  “John Lutz is a major talent.”

  —John Lescroart

  “I’ve been a fan for years.”

  —T. Jefferson Parker

  “John Lutz just keeps getting better and better.”

  —Tony Hillerman

  “Lutz ranks with such vintage masters

  of big-city murder

  as Lawrence Block and Ed McBain.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  “Lutz is among the best.”

  —San Diego Union

  “Lutz knows how to seize and hold the

  reader’s imagination.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “It’s easy to see why he’s won an Edgar

  and two Shamuses.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Frenzy

  “The ninth entry in the Quinn series contains all the

  elements fans have come to expect: a painstaking

  procedural investigation, mordant humor, white-

  knuckle suspense, and a three-dimensional villain.”

  —Booklist

  Twist

  “One of the top ten mystery novels of 2013.”

  —The Strand Magazine

  Pulse

  “Grisly murders seen through the eyes of killer

  and victim; crime scenes from which clues slowly

  accumulate; a determined killer . . . compelling.”

  —Booklist

  “One of the ten best books of the year.”

  —The Strand Magazine

  Serial

  “Wow, oh wow, oh wow . . . that’s as simple as I can

  put it. You gotta read this one.”

  —True Crime Book Reviews

  Mister X

  “A page-turner to the nail-biting end . . . twisty,

  creepy whodunit.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  Night Kills

  “Lutz’s skill will keep you glued to this thick thriller.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  Urge to Kill

  “A solid and compelling winner . . . sharp

  characterization, compelling dialogue, and graphic

  depictions of evil.... Lutz knows how to keep

  the pages turning.”

  —BookReporter.com

  In for the Kill

  “Shamus and Edgar award–winner Lutz gives us

  further proof of his enormous talent . . . an

  enthralling page-turner.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Chill of Night

  “The ingenuity of the plot shows that Lutz

  is in rare form.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “A dazzling tour de force . . . compelling, absorbing.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  Fear the Night

  “A tense, fast-moving novel, a plot-driven page-turner

  of the first order . . . a great read!”

  —Book Page

  Darker Than Night

  “Readers will believe that they just stepped off a Tilt-

  A-Whirl after reading this action-packed police

  procedural.”

  —The Midwest Book Review

  Night Victims

  “John Lutz knows how to ratchet up the terror.... He

  propels the story with effective twists and a fast pace.”

  —Sun-Sentinel

  The Night Watcher

  “Compelling . . . a gritty psychological

  thriller.... Lutz draws the reader deep into the

  killer’s troubled psyche.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Final Seconds

  “Lutz always delivers the goods, and this is

  no exception.”

  —Booklist

  ALSO BY JOHN LUTZ

  *Frenzy

  *Carnage: The Prequel to “Frenzy” (e-short)

  *Twist

  *Pulse

  *Switch (e-short)

  *Serial

  *Mister X

  *Urge to Kill

  *Night Kills

  *In for the Kill

  Chill of Night

  Fear the Night

  *Darker Than Night

  Night Victims

  The Night Watcher

  The Night Caller

  Final Seconds (with David August)

  The Ex

  Single White Female

  * featuring Frank Quinn

  Available from Kensington Publishing Corp. and

  Pinnacle Books

  JOHN LUTZ

  SLAUGHTER

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  ALSO BY JOHN LUTZ

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  PART TWO

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  PART THREE

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  PART FOUR

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  Epilogue

  Postscript

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  For The Aardvarkian, Mr. B, Mr. E,

  Ms. El, The Em, Mr. J, Mr. Lucas,

  The Soph, The journey.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable aid of Michaela Hamilton, Dominick Abel, Marilyn Davis, and Barbara Lutz.

  PART ONE

  Still as they run they look behind,

  They hear a voice in every wind,

  And snatch a fearful joy.

  —THOMAS GRAY, “Ode on a Distant

  Prospect of Eton College”

  1

  Rose Darling knew she’d begun jogging too late. Unless she lengthened her stride, she’d be caught in Central Park after dark. Not that she hadn’t been warned, but hadn’t everybody at som
e time or other been warned not to be in Central Park after dark?

  The trouble was, she had a date, and if she turned her daily jog into a track meet with the clock, her long dark hair would become a sweaty, unmanageable mass in the summer heat.

  Rose was an attractive woman, tall and athletic, with shapely legs and a graceful way about her. Men would stare at her when she jogged.

  Like the guy she was approaching on her left, who had a bicycle upside down so it rested on its seat and handlebars. Was he only pretending to work on his bike, so he could stop and watch her pass? Maybe he’d give her a few seconds, make up his mind, and start after her. He could catch her easily on his bike.

  And he did straighten up and give her a direct, leering look from beneath a broad blue sweatband.

  She averted her eyes and stared straight ahead as she jogged past. When she was well beyond him, she risked glancing over her shoulder, half expecting to see him pedaling hard and bearing down on her.

  But he was bent over his upside-down bicycle again, busy trying to repair whatever was wrong with it.

  Big wuss, I am!

  She almost smiled.

  Breathing more freely, she adjusted her pace so she did a minimum of bouncing, preserving her hairdo. She continued telling herself to calm down, she’d make it to the Central Park West and 81st Street exit before the sky became dark. She’d be out of the jungle then, into the bright lights and ceaseless motion of the city. Safe.

  Safer, anyway. A different sort of jungle.

  After about five minutes the trail bent and she looked directly ahead and saw the tall buildings along Central Park West. Their windows were beginning to show lights in uneven patterns, reminding her of a crossword puzzle that was all blanks. Behind the jagged skyline the blue sky had become an endless deepening purple.

  Rose looked around her. There was no one in sight.

  But she could hear the rushing whisper of the traffic now. Ahead of her.

  Getting close. I’ll make it out before dark.

  That was when she heard the cry. It was sharp and distinct, and quickly over. The cry of a wounded or slain animal? A woman?

  It had come from off to the right and slightly ahead of her. There were trees there, and thick foliage. She might have seen some movement, but she couldn’t be sure. She kept her senses tuned for another cry.

  Rose didn’t know the source of the cry, but upon reflection she was sure it hadn’t been a bird. There was too much . . . anguish in it.

  My imagination again.

  She could hear herself breathing hard and fast. Without thinking about it, she’d picked up her pace.

  Another movement! Off the trail and near where she’d seen the first.

  Someone might be over there hurt. Might need her help.

  She’d heard the cry and seen the movement. She could veer off, run over there.

  Don’t be an idiot! If you really saw anything it was probably a dog or cat. Maybe a squirrel. There were about a thousand of them in the park.

  Her legs felt suddenly heavier as she jogged past the spot where, if there was anything in the bushes, predator, human, or otherwise, it would have begun pursuing her.

  She speeded up even more.

  Tomorrow. I’ll jog again in the morning and go over there, make sure I saw nothing important. Make sure nothing happened.

  She thought she heard something behind her, and she stole a glance over her shoulder.

  No one in sight. Almost dark now.

  No one in sight.

  But plenty of places for them to hide.

  Her jog became a dash.

  2

  “They won’t come near me,” Lois Graham said in a puzzled voice. “Not even when I try to feed them popcorn.”

  She demonstrated by dipping her fingers into a small white bag and tossing backhand several still-warm kernels of popcorn.

  “See,” she said, as the half dozen or so pigeons gathered around the bench drew back and away from the popcorn and Lois, as if a silent signal had been received. “It’s almost as if they know something I don’t.”

  “Maybe they know more than most of us, only in different ways. Too bad they can’t talk, like parrots.”

  “I’m not so sure we can’t trust parrots. They have a way of looking at me, as if they know something I should but don’t.”

  Corey smiled. He was a small man, wearing carefully faded jeans and a green polo shirt with the collar turned up in back. He had on a Mets cap, tilted so it made him look a little jaunty. “Haven’t you ever noticed pigeons get that way just before sundown?”

  “No. But I’ll take your word for it. What do you think? Some protective instinct?”

  “Sure.” The pigeons around them fluttered but went nowhere, as if on cue. “They know it’s almost bedtime.”

  Actually Corey had no idea how pigeons thought. Especially New York pigeons. You didn’t notice them for a while, then some days they seemed to be everywhere. Dumb birds, skittering around and almost getting stepped on or run over, but never quite. He knew they were prey to the peregrine falcons that roosted on some of the tall buildings along Central Park West, almost directly across from where he and Lois were. Beautiful, deadly creatures. Corey thought it would be great if one of the large falcons swooped in and made off with one of the pigeons. Apropos, though Lois didn’t yet know that.

  “What’s in the bag?” she asked, pointing to the large canvas bag at his feet. It was dark blue with black straps and handles and doubled as a backpack.

  “Sweaty clothes and exercise equipment,” he lied. “I was working out at the gym before I came here.”

  “The one on Amsterdam?”

  “Seventy-second Street,” Corey said, figuring there must be a gym somewhere on Seventy-second. Not that it mattered, unless Lois happened to go to a gym in that neighborhood. Corey hadn’t been to a gym in years. There were so many much more interesting things to do without breaking a sweat.

  He prodded the bag with the toe of his shoe and glanced around. Shadows were longer and more defined. It would be dark soon.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” he said, picking up the bag, then slinging it over one shoulder by one padded strap.

  “Where?”

  “Out of the park. It’s a dangerous place after dark. Full of predators.”

  She smiled. “I’m not afraid when I’m with you.”

  He returned the smile with his own. Ever wonder why that is? He wished sometimes for a victim whose intellect he could respect.

  She stood up from the bench, brushed popcorn from her blouse and jeans, and turned to go. The pigeons that had ventured nearer fluttered, cooed, and closed in on the discarded popcorn. It must seem tastier to them now that Lois was leaving.

  “This way,” Corey said, motioning toward a stand of trees and thick foliage.

  “This is the way out,” Lois said, starting in another direction.

  “I know a better way,” Corey said, and folded her hand gently in his.

  He thought about the jogger, wondering if she was back on the crowded streets by now, or even home, if she lived nearby. A woman like that would explore every nuance of her pain. It was part of the instinct to attempt escape, or to find some hoped-for measure of mercy in her predator.

  He felt Lois squeeze his hand three times, like some kind of secret signal.

  He signaled back. There would be plenty of time later for the jogger, if that was what he decided. It would be up to him.

  A soft breeze kicked up, breaking the heat and swaying the upper limbs of the trees they were walking toward. Lois shifted her weight and walked alongside him, and he was glad he didn’t have to tell her yet that for her there was no way out of the park.

  Not that it mattered.

  She’d soon find out she was going somewhere much more interesting.

  3

  It was dawn when Patti LuPone’s vibrant voice began imploring Argentina not to cry for her. Frank Quinn lay on his stomach, still half asleep
, musing that he could never hear enough of the score from Evita. Usually he was awake and out of bed before the CD player’s timer turned the bedroom of the brownstone on West Seventy-fifth into Argentina. This morning he clung to sleep, as if for some reason he knew he shouldn’t get out of bed. If only he had a note from his mother for his teacher, he thought with a smile. He realized he’d been dreaming about algebra, and his math teacher in school in Brooklyn. He could hear her voice telling him that once he conquered algebra he would have no trouble with geometry. You can always find an angle, Francis.

  And that’s what he was doing in life, only looking for other people’s angles.

  “Turn shong off,” a voice muttered beside him.

  Pearl, lying close with one arm slung over him, her face half buried in her wadded pillow.

  “Shong off!”

  Quinn worked his way out from beneath her arm, propped himself up on one elbow, and sat on the edge of the bed. With thick fingers he fumbled the digital controls on the combination CD player, clock radio, alarm, phone. Finally he touched the right button and the bedroom was silent except for the background noise of the city outside the brownstone.

  “Thanksh,” Pearl said into her pillow.