Pulse fq-7 Page 2

  EVERYTHING S LASHED.

  Nobody, he thought, had a sense of humor like God.

  4

  Frank Quinn lay sprawled in bed in his brownstone on New York’s Upper West Side. He wasn’t quite all the way awake, listening to the slow rhythm of Pearl’s breathing. She was on her side, one bare leg thrown over him, her forehead burrowed into his chest. The morning wasn’t yet hot. The window air conditioner was silent because Quinn had gotten up at 3:30 to relieve his bladder, and the room was cool. Half awake, he’d switched off the laboring window unit as he tottered back to bed.

  It was getting warm again, as the sun rose beyond the stone and brick buildings and the struggling trees on West Seventy-fifth Street. The morning noises of the city had begun-a distant clanging of trash containers, a growing rush of traffic punctuated by the rumbling and growling of trucks and buses, a faraway police siren, a brief shouted exchange down on the sidewalk. Quinn felt pretty good, there in the dawn of wakefulness, his flesh pressed to Pearl’s, his city shaking off the night and coming to life around him.

  The phone by the bed jangled, making him jump. It was an old landline phone that Quinn had owned for years. He kept it because its jarring ring would rouse him from the soundest sleep. And because… well, it was familiar, well used, and reliable. And it looked like a phone.

  Pearl stirred and said, “Time isht?”

  “Six-thirtyish,” Quinn said, gazing at the glowing digital clock near the phone. The clock actually read 4:37, but that was so early in the morning that Quinn didn’t feel like being precise.

  The phone jangled again. Persistent pest.

  “Let it ring,” Pearl said.

  “We’re cops,” Quinn said. “We don’t let phones ring. We answer them.”

  “We’re private cops.”

  “That’s no different,” Quinn said, as he stretched out an arm and lifted the heavy receiver from its cradle.

  Pearl muttered something he didn’t understand, but it sounded snarky.

  “Quinn,” he said into the cool, hard plastic jammed against the side of his face.

  “I know it is. I’m the guy who called you.”

  Harley Renz. Exactly the last person Quinn wanted to talk to.

  Renz was New York City’s police commissioner, and he didn’t intend to retire from that office. He had bigger plans. He and Quinn had been adversaries for the same positions within the NYPD years ago. Quinn had stayed honest and away from office jobs and unnecessary contact with the higher-ups in the department. Renz was enthusiastically corrupt and ambitious, an unabashed schmoozer and climber. His every move was designed to edge him upward or forward. Quinn was sure he hadn’t called to say howdy.

  He was right.

  “Wanna see a dead body?” Renz asked.

  Quinn couldn’t help glancing down at the nude Pearl, who was awake now and listening to his end of the conversation.

  He took a couple of deep breaths to make sure he was all the way awake. “A homicide victim, I presume.”

  “When you see it you’ll know it’s not just a presumption. I’m looking at it right now.”

  “A woman?”

  “Was.”

  “You know I’ve seen dead women before,” Quinn said, “so there must be something special about this one.”

  “Oh, there is. Come over here and you’ll see why. You’ll also see why the city is going to hire you and your agency.”

  This wouldn’t be the first time Quinn had done work for hire for the city. Renz, the most popular police commissioner in New York’s history, could arrange that with no trouble. He had before. The sleazeball did know how to work the levers of power.

  And he knew not to work them too often, so this murder must be special.

  “You think the killer’s going to be a repeater?” Quinn asked. That was why he often became employed by the city even though he was out of the NYPD. He’d gained a reputation as a unique talent when it came to tracking serial killers. And of course Quinn and Associates, or Q amp;A, had solved other politically sensitive homicides. In a city as large as New York, there was little downtime between investigations.

  “I think we’ve got a serial killer operating in this town,” Renz said. “We both know that’s usually why I call you. But this time there’s something more to it than that.”

  “Where are you?” Quinn asked.

  “In Central Park, but not very far in. Where Seventy-second Street runs into it, but a little north. Walk up Central Park West and look into the park, over the low stone wall. Where there’s this clump of trees, you’ll see some police cars and a lot of yellow crime scene tape. You can’t miss us.”

  “It’s still dark out, Harley. And don’t tell me you’ve got lights. The city’s been doing nighttime work in the park. I’m just as likely to be walking toward a midnight-shift maintenance crew.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you right outside the Beymore Arms, opposite the park, and walk you in.”

  “So where exactly is the Beymore Arms?”

  Renz gave him a Central Park West address. “Look for a gray stone building with a green awning out front. It’s down the block from a coffee shop.”

  “Isn’t everything?”

  “Yeah. Even dead people beyond the rejuvenating power of lattes.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Bring Pearl. I know she’s there. I can hear her grinding her teeth.”

  Renz knew Pearl didn’t like him. Nobody really liked Renz except the citizens, who knew only the Renz facade and not Renz.

  “Should we see the victim before or after we eat breakfast?” Quinn asked.

  “Before, I would say. Though on the other hand, she isn’t going anywhere real soon. And when you learn more about the situation, you’ll see why this one will interest Pearl, too.”

  “I’ll check with Pearl,” Quinn said. “But she might wanna sleep in.”

  “It would behoove her to be here.”

  “What exactly does that mean, behoove?” Quinn asked. “It sounds like something a blacksmith might do to a horse.”

  “You wanna discuss blacksmithing and word roots,” Renz asked, “or do you wanna be introduced to the late Miss Macy Collins?”

  “You make it sound like social networking,” Quinn said.

  “In a way it is. You’ll definitely wanna know people who knew the victim. One person in particular.”

  “Now you’re making it sound like a quiz show.”

  “Yeah. Well, it isn’t that. I guarantee you Pearl won’t think so, either.”

  “Okay,” Quinn said. “I’ll wake her up.”

  “I’m awake,” she said, from somewhere beneath Quinn’s unshaven jaw.

  “Renz wants-”

  “I heard him,” Pearl interrupted. “Tell him to go fu-”

  Quinn moved the receiver away as far as he could, then turned his head so he could speak to Renz. “She says she’s on her way.”

  “I thought I heard her talking. She got a message for me?”

  “That was it,” Quinn said. “More or less.”

  5

  Quinn and Pearl found the Beymore Arms with no trouble. Renz was waiting for them beneath the green canopy. He was wearing a well-tailored blue suit, a white shirt, and a red and black striped tie. He looked ready to broadcast the evening news, but the clothes didn’t disguise the fact that he’d put on even more weight since becoming police commissioner.

  The three of them waited for a break in traffic that was already starting to build on Park Avenue West, and then fast-walked across the street. Fat as he was, Renz moved quickly and gracefully. They climbed over the low, age-darkened stone wall that bordered the park. Quinn was curious to see if Renz would go over the wall that way, which involved not much more than boosting up the body, then sitting, and swiveling. Renz clambered over the low wall with impressive nimbleness. Didn’t do his tailored suit much good.

  They walked across dew-damp grass toward a cluster of trees that emitted a faint white glow. T
hen Quinn saw the crime scene tape, and that the glow was coming from a white tent that was eight or ten feet square. Shadow movement on the taut white material indicated a lot of activity inside.

  A tall, poker-faced uniform posted outside the flap entrance to the tent seemed not to pay them any attention. Renz stood to the side of the flap and motioned with an arm for them to enter, but he stayed outside in the interest of giving people in the tent more room to move.

  What was going on inside the tent was nothing like social networking, even with the Napoleonic and twisted little medical examiner, Dr. Julius Nift, smiling from where he stood over the body and saying, “Miss Macy Collins, may I present Frank Quinn and Pearl Kasner.” He made a motion with his hand, palm up. “Pearl, Quinn, this is-”

  “Just shut up,” Pearl said.

  The tent had no floor and was illuminated by brilliant lights on flimsy-looking metal stands. Quinn had to duck his head slightly, but Pearl could stand up straight. Where there was room to move, two CSU guys were using it, carefully tweezering up possible evidence and placing it in plastic evidence bags. They were dressed in white and wearing white gloves and looked as if they’d arrived in a box with the tent.

  What was left of the victim lay on bent and bloodstained grass. A rectangular flag of gray duct tape clung by a corner to her lower lip. Her bulging brown eyes bespoke horror.

  She was on her back with her arms taped to her sides, her legs together, toes turned down as if frozen that way by painful spasms. Her body was arranged with a symmetry and neatness suggesting she’d been posed after death. She was wearing only blue panties. Both of her breasts had been removed.

  “Her breasts-” Quinn began.

  “Haven’t found them,” Nift said. “Judging by the removal circumference, she must have had quite a rack.”

  Quinn was aware of Pearl stiffening beside him. “Sick necrophiliac,” she said under her breath.

  Nift heard her and smiled. He enjoyed getting under people’s skin, and Pearl was a favorite target.

  “There’s a mathematical formula for everything,” Nift said.

  “Like for how much longer you’ll live with that mouth of yours,” Pearl said.

  Nift seemed not to have heard her.

  The CSU techs said they’d done all they could until the body was removed, and left the tent.

  Quinn nodded toward the victim. “Notice anything about the panties? The way they’re rolled up at the waistband in back?”

  “She didn’t put them on,” Pearl said. “Somebody else did, after she was dead, and while she was lying on her back the way she is now. The panties dragged and rolled in back and didn’t go all the way up.”

  “I was wondering when one of you would notice that,” Nift said. “Very good, Quinn. Now, another question: do you recognize the M.O.?”

  Any cop who’d been involved in a serial killer case, anyone at all interested in serial killers, would recognize the M.O.

  So like the Daniel Danielle murders.

  Quinn nodded. Beside him, Pearl said, “Daniel Wentworth, aka Daniel Danielle.”

  “Or Danielle Daniel,” Nift said. “Depending on which sex he wanted to be at the moment.”

  “There’s not a lot of blood on the scene, either,” Pearl said, “considering what was done to her. Daniel Danielle was good at managing blood flow. Got a guess as to the actual cause of death?”

  Nift grinned at her. “I’d estimate that she was alive when all or most of the butchering was done. He wanted to share that with her. If she was lucky, she died of shock at some point before the abdominal wound.” Nift’s grin widened. “You look down where you’re used to seeing what musta been a huge rack of tits and see your insides instead, it’s probably quite a shock.”

  A cop near the door flap was giving Nift a fish-eyed look. Not much expression. Probably he knew Nift. Almost everyone who dealt with the city’s lower forms of life knew Nift, at least by reputation.

  Pearl moved over to see the newspaper page lying on the floor near Nift’s black leather medical case. There were bloodstains on it, but it was readable. The E VERYTHING S LASHED Macy’s sale with its play on the victim’s name.

  “I saw it,” Quinn said, before she pointed it out. “Sick sense of humor.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Nift said.

  “That’s for damn sure,” Pearl told him. “You don’t have the slightest idea.”

  Nift merely continued grinning at her. “I love getting under your skin,” he said. “No pun intended.”

  Quinn gave him a look, letting him know he’d gone far enough. Knowing dangerous ground when it started to shift on him, Nift stopped grinning.

  “Any sexual interference?” Quinn asked.

  “I’ll have to do the postmortem to know for sure.” Nift was all business now, tired of verbally poking at Pearl. “I can call you later with the details.”

  “Got an estimate as to how long she’s been dead?”

  “Not more than a few hours. But that’s an approximation. We can be more precise later.”

  Quinn looked over at the cop with the scarred eye. “You catch the squeal?”

  “Yeah, but not alone. They directed two radio cars over here. No nine-eleven call. An anonymous call direct to the precinct house. They took it serious.”

  “He must have left here shortly after the murder and made the call,” Quinn said.

  “He might’ve wanted there to be a show for us when we got here,” Pearl said. “Might’ve even watched us arrive. A shared experience. That’s how these sickos think. Ask Nift.”

  “Set a sicko to catch a sicko,” Nift said, not bothering to glance over at her. “Pearl’s right. The killer might be standing across the street right now, taking it all in. Maybe waiting for the body to be removed.”

  Quinn knew that what Nift said was true in some cases, but this killer was different. Always had been.

  If it was the same killer.

  Nift did a quick visual study of the corpse, head to toe, as if trying to fix everything in his memory. He flashed his nasty little smile. “Just like in the textbook chapter on the Daniel Danielle murders.”

  Quinn nodded. “What do you think? The methodology the same all the way through?”

  “Close enough. Would I swear this is a Daniel Danielle murder? No. I couldn’t call it that close. I never actually saw one of his-or her-victims.” He shrugged without seeming to have moved any part of his hefty little body. “And of course it couldn’t be a Daniel Danielle murder, Daniel Danielle being dead. Killed in a hurricane. Body never recovered.”

  “Tornado,” Quinn said.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Smaller.”

  “Copycat killer?”

  “Well, there’s that same lively sense of humor. Most of that didn’t get into the media. But I couldn’t rule out a copycat. They’re most likely to be inspired by infamous killers.”

  “That would give the killer a motive,” Pearl said.

  “Which is?” Nift asked.

  “He’s nuts. Like you are.”

  Nift chewed on his tongue and seemed to consider that. “No, not like I am.” He leered at Pearl. “Well, maybe a little.” He nodded toward the body. “One thing’s for sure-the killer’s got Daniel Danielle’s taste in women. Macy would have had the second best rack in the room.”

  Pearl took a step toward Nift. “You asshole.”

  Quinn raised a plate-sized hand as a signal for her to stop, which she did. They had more important things to consider than Nift’s bad manners.

  “Take a look at the vic,” Quinn told her. “Imagine her with her hair brushed back off her forehead.”

  “I don’t have to look,” Pearl said. “The resemblance struck me when I walked in the room.”

  In one way or another, the Daniel Danielle victims had all resembled Pearl. Quinn hadn’t liked that ten years ago, during the killer’s rampage of death, even though Daniel had never taken a victim in New York. He didn’t like i
t now.

  Nift stooped, then snapped his rubber gloves and peeled them off. He began arranging his instruments in his bag, preparing to leave. “When you’re done with the beautiful Macy, you can have her removed. She and I have a date for later.”

  When Nift straightened up and moved toward the tent flap, Quinn stood in the way with his arms crossed.

  “Something more?” Nift asked.

  “The missing breasts…”

  “I rolled her over and looked under her, looked all over the place. The CSU had uniforms search the surrounding grounds. They will again tomorrow. But we both know the killer must have taken them with him. Like Daniel Danielle.”

  “Souvenirs,” Pearl said.

  “Or maybe more souvenirs,” Nift said, and strode around Quinn and out of the room.

  That was when Renz entered.

  His suit had taken the night’s strenuous activity pretty well and still looked as if he’d just put it on. The brilliant lights in the tent glittered off his gold accoutrements. Renz looked like what he was-a corrupt politician. Quinn wondered if, when people got older, they began to look more and more like what they were. Renz’s overstuffed features were beginning to resemble a rodent’s.

  “So Nift introduced you to Macy Maria Collins,” he said.

  Pearl made a note of the victim’s full name.

  Renz waited with feigned politeness until she’d finished writing. “College girl living in the Big City, maybe looking for a summer job.”

  “Where’d she go to school?” Quinn asked.

  “Someplace upstate. Wycliffe… Waycliffe. Kinda place where you have to be either rich or smart to get in.”

  “Or both,” Pearl said.

  “Jealous?”

  “Not of Macy Collins. If you look close enough you might notice she’s dead.”

  Renz grinned and looked at Quinn. “She’s still got the mouth, huh?”

  Quinn shrugged.

  Renz flashed a gold cuff link and glanced at his watch. It looked like a gold Rolex. “Gotta run. Late for a meeting.”

  “At this time of night-morning?”

  “Uh-huh. We all sit around with cards and chips. I interrupted the game to come over here. Thought you should see the crime scene. I knew you’d understand why.”