John Lutz - Pulse

“The girl have a weapon?”

“They were both girls. The one without the marbles let out a scream that attracted attention, so they slipped into the mode of good citizens.” Renz flicked his cigar, holding it well away so ashes wouldn’t drift onto his suit. “They’re at the precinct house making a statement. You can talk to them if you want, but they’re just who they say. I called there and neither one has a sheet. One’s an artist and one isn’t, and they both get money from mom or dad.”

“What kind of artist?” Pearl asked.

“The kind you won’t find in a gallery.” Renz ground out his cigar on the sole of his shoe and flipped away the still-glowing butt. “You two had breakfast?”

“Earlier,” Pearl said. Whatever happened, she didn’t want to wind up having breakfast with Renz.

“Good luck,” Renz said, and led the way to the body.

The victim was hog-tied, like the others, staring up at what would have been a night sky when she was killed. Though obviously beautiful when she was alive, her pale body, nude but for a pair of twisted pink panties, had the waxy sheen of death where it wasn’t smeared with blood. Her well-structured face with its once strong features now wore an expression of fear and distraction, her dark eyes focused on something far above where she lay contorted on planet earth. Her breasts had been neatly removed, leaving only a few jagged rags of flesh.

“God, almighty!” Pearl said, as they stood staring down at the corpse. “You’d think we’d get used to looking at this.”

“They’re individual people,” Nift said. “That’s what makes each one interesting.”

Pearl didn’t know quite how to take that. Had Nift said something compassionate?

“She had a great rack, like the others,” the nasty little M.E. added.

There was the familiar disgusting Nift.

Pearl refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“The panties look like they fit her,” Renz said. “Maybe they’re actually hers.”

Quinn didn’t see how Renz could hazard a guess at that, considering the way the nylon panties were twisted.

“I don’t think they were put on postmortem,” Nift said. “Looks like he either put them on her himself, or made her put them on before she was tied up.”

“Looks like the same kind of rope he used on the others,” Quinn said.

“It is,” Nift confirmed. “The ends cut with a sharp knife, like with the other rope. And she was tied up using simple but effective square knots, same as with the other victims.”

“Same asshole,” Pearl said.

“Without a doubt,” Nift said. “Almost surely the same knife.” He grinned at Pearl. “And of course there’s that other thing.”

Pearl glared at him. “What would that be?”

“She’s a dead ringer for you, Pearl.”

Quinn rested a hand on her shoulder. “He’s pretty much right about that, Pearl.”

“I can’t say I see her that way,” Pearl said. “But then maybe I wouldn’t, being me.”

“Daniel Danielle liked them with dark hair and eyes and big boobs,” Nift said, leering at Pearl.

Quinn gave him a warning look that made him concentrate again on the victim.

Renz had been over talking to the CSU people and a uniformed patrolman. He came back now carrying a black computer case and a purse.

“She has a name,” he said. “Neeve Cooper. And a West Side address within easy walking distance or a short subway ride from here. Purse had some of her business cards in it. They say she was a freelance editor.”

“Worked at home?”

“Or in the park,” Renz said. “There’s a bunch of paper in this case looks like it could be turned into a book. Red and blue pencil writing on some of the pages. Here and there, what might be somebody’s name.” He handed the purse and computer case to Quinn. “See if she knows anybody name of Stet.”

“Could be Steve,” Quinn said.

“Naw. It’s in there half a dozen times.”

Quinn assumed the crime scene unit was finished with the purse, so he put his right hand into it, felt around among wadded tissue, a comb, a Metrocard with an angled corner, and a wallet, and found some keys on a ring. One of them felt like a door key.

When he looked up he saw that Nancy Weaver had joined them and was standing alongside Renz. She and Quinn exchanged nods. Weaver, known among the NYPD as the woman who put the “cop” in “copulate,” had slept her way up the bureaucratic ladder. There were even rumors about her and Quinn, but Pearl had never believed them.

Weaver had been out of town, recovering from serious injuries she’d received during her last case with Q amp;A. She’d been back for several weeks.

Now Weaver acted as the sometimes liaison between Renz and Q amp;A. Another way of saying rat.

“I’ve been filled in,” Weaver said.

Numerous times in numerous ways, Pearl thought.

“We’ll go have a look at Neeve’s apartment, talk to her neighbors,” Quinn said to Renz.

“I already sent a crime scene unit over there,” Renz said.

“We’ll stay out of their way.”

“I’ll go with you,” Weaver said.

“Good idea,” Renz said.

Nobody said anything for a while.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Pearl said.

Her gracious contribution to diplomacy.

“I need to know her panty size,” Quinn said.

“I wrote it down,” Weaver said. “Figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Pearl gnashed her teeth.

Leighton, Wisconsin, 1986

“D aryl Smith told me they found Duffy,” Sherri’s voice said on the phone.

It was Saturday morning and Rory had slept late. He sat up in bed and wiped his eyes. His mother had answered the phone downstairs on the eighth or ninth ring and yelled up the stairs that it was for him and it was past time he got up and what was he going to do, sleep all day? Rory woke up all the way, trying to comprehend what Sherri had just said.

Found Duffy?

“How could they have?” he asked. “And how would Daryl know?”

“He’s working for that construction company that’s widening the county road, and the bulldozer scoop turned over some earth, and there was Duffy. That’s what he said, anyway.”

“So how’d you-”

“Daryl just called me on his car phone. I’ve got no way to get out there, Rory. I need for you to drive us.”

Us. I gotta wake up all the way, learn more about this. Duffy… still making trouble.

“I think my mom’s gonna use the car to go shopping,” he said. “She wants to go to Antoine’s.”

“Can’t you talk her out of it?”

“Talk my mom out of shopping? Are you kidding?”

“For God’s sake, Rory, this is Duffy!”

“Okay. I can try to talk her into staying home,” Rory said.

“You will talk her into it, sweetheart. You can talk anyone into anything. I oughta know.”

“It’s not like I have an actual driver’s license, Sher.”

“There’s no car here, Rory. If you can’t get your mom’s, I’m gonna start walking.”

“That’s miles, Sherri.”

“It’s for Duffy, Rory.”

Goddamnit!

At that moment Rory wished that he could run over Duffy again.

“I’ll go downstairs and talk to her,” he said.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Rory wasn’t used to being called sweetheart-by anyone. He thought it might be nice to get used to it.

“You sound kinda foggy,” Sherri said. “Are you still in bed?”

“I was about to get up.”

“My God, Rory, it’s almost ten-thirty.”

“I’m on my way.” He stood up as he talked and took a few stumbling steps.

“Hurry, please!” he heard Sherri say, just before he hung up.

“So how’d you deal with your mom?” Sherri asked Rory, as she slid into the Impala front seat beside him.