John Lutz - Serial

“That’s really something,” Fedderman said in admiration. “I mean, how the hell can we fellas compete with that?”

Pearl switched off the vibrator and handed it to him. “We found out what we wanted to know. The batteries are up and the… accessory is in good working condition. Now put the damned thing back where you found it.”

“There’s no writing of any kind on the envelope it was in,” Fedderman said. “So it wasn’t mailed to her.”

“Not in that envelope, anyway. That one is probably just for storage.”

“It might help if we knew where she bought it.”

“I imagine the first thing she did when she got it was remove the price tag,” Pearl said.

“Or instructions,” Fedderman said. He brightened. “Maybe I should look for instructions.”

“Put the goddamned thing back,” Pearl said. “We’ll tell Quinn about it, and tell him we didn’t find any handcuffs or leather restraints or masks or what have you. Millie was a good girl. Let’s let her stay that way.”

“You know a lot about this stuff, Pearl.”

“I spent a lot of time with Vice.”

“Well, all of us-”

“It’s time to get out of here, Feds.”

He silently agreed. Pearl watched as he replaced the vibrator in its padded envelope. He slid the dresser drawer back onto its tracks and made sure it was closed all the way. They took a long last look around the apartment. Both of them could feel the strange silence and sadness that lingered at scenes of violent death.

They left the apartment, with its neatness and geometric arrangement of Millie Graff’s life, for the landlord and movers to disassemble. Soon every memory or touch of her personality would be gone. Her refrigerator would contain different brands of food. Someone else would be sleeping in her bedroom, soaking in her bath, hurrying to answer the buzz of her intercom. She would be totally gone from the still point and center of her existence. Her home would belong to another.

Pearl thought that if Millie Graff could somehow know about it she’d be horrified.

Quinn rang the bell of the rehabbed brownstone not far from where he lived on the Upper West Side and waited. An intercom crackled and a male voice asked who was at the door. Quinn found the talk button and identified himself.

The same crackly voice told him to come in, and a raspy buzzer sounded. He opened the heavy door with its built-in iron grille and stepped into a small, carpeted vestibule that smelled faintly of cat urine.

A door beside him opened, and a small, stooped man with a wild sprout of curly gray hair stared out at him. Quinn immediately thought of Albert Einstein, but he said, “William Turner?”

“Bill will be fine,” the man told him in a high, phlegmy voice. “You said you were a detective?”

“Yes. Name’s Quinn.”

Watery blue eyes brightened. “Ah, the renowned serial-killer hunter.”

“I’m flattered,” Quinn said.

“I admire your work. Your entire career, in fact.” The hallway’s odor-cat urine-seemed to waft also from the man’s clothing. “You see, I’m kind of a cop groupie. I’ve always admired the police.” He emitted a high, peculiar laugh. If birds could laugh, this was how they’d sound. “Listen, I had a good working relationship with the police in my day.” Suddenly, as if on a whim, he moved back and motioned for Quinn to step inside. “I won’t ask for identification,” he said. “I know you from your many newspaper photographs.”

“You keep a scrapbook?”

The high laugh again, not quite a giggle. “No, I don’t go that far in my idolatry.”

Quinn stepped into what could only be called a parlor, and suddenly it was 1885, about the time the brownstone was built. And the year when Quinnn’s own brownstone was constructed. The ceilings were at least twelve feet high, with intricate crown molding. Long red velvet drapes puddled on the patterned hardwood floor. The walls were a soft cream color, and a large brick and tile fireplace was flanked by floor-to-ceiling shelves full of ceramic pottery.

“I collect the stuff,” Turner said, observing Quinn’s interest. “Nineteenth-century American.”

“Impressive,” Quinn said. He noticed that Turner’s clothes were expensive but threadbare, and one of his shirt buttons was missing. Around his scrawny neck was a red paisley ascot.

“Sit down, please,” Turner said. He motioned toward a flowered beige sofa with wooden inserts in its upholstered arms.

Quinn sat and looked around again. “Nice place. I’ve got an old brownstone myself, trying to bring it back.”

“Great ladies, worth preserving,” Turner said.

Quinn’s gaze fell on an antique Victrola record player with a crank and louvered mahogany doors. “You collect old records, too?”

“Not really. Mostly furniture, when I’m not buying pottery. That’s what the Victrola is to me-quality antique furniture, wood with a patina you can’t find on anything new. But she still plays.” Turner did a little old man’s shuffle in leather moccasins, as if dancing to the musical strains of the Victrola. Quinn saw that the moccasins were actually house slippers with fleece linings. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Nope,” Quinn said, “just some answers.”

Turner smiled with yellowed teeth, but his eyes grew brighter. Not Einstein, maybe, but there was an active intelligence behind those eyes.

“Back in the sixties and seventies, you managed Socrates’s Cavern on the West Side,” Quinn said.

“Sure did. I was manager and part owner.” Turner sat down on the edge of a brown wing chair that looked as if it might engulf him if he leaned back. “Listen, the kind of business we were in, I saw a lot of the cops. But we never stepped over the line. Nothing illegal. Consenting adults only. That was something we diligently checked.”

“Ever see any of your old friends from those days?”

“Naw. We were just in business together. Then the business kind of ran its course. Our business, anyway, not the S and M business.” He gave a hapless shrug with narrow shoulders. “Hell, the way it is now, with the Internet and all, everything’s changed.” Caught in another of his sudden mood swings, he waved his arms exuberantly. “S and M’s gone international!”

“Like the House of Pancakes,” Quinn said. “Anything like your club still operating in the city?”

“Oh, you know how it is. Sex clubs are here and there. Always will be. But nothing as big as we were. In some ways, society was lots more open back then.” He squinted at Quinn. “You look old enough to remember.”

“I do remember. Especially that place over on East Fiftyninth that was doing snuff films.”

Turner raised both hands palms out. “None of that in my end of the business. Not for real, anyway.” He shook his head in disgust. “Jesus!” He sat even farther out on the chair’s large cushion so that it looked as if it might flip up and hit him in the back. “Listen, most of this stuff is with, for, and about grown-ups. You follow me? Alternative lifestyles. We Americans like to exercise our freedom to pursue happiness however we want. Long as we don’t get in the way of somebody else’s parade and there’s no kids or animals involved. Free country, thank God!”

“Amen,” Quinn said.

Turner stared at him to see if he might be joking and seemed to decide he wasn’t.

“I’m here to investigate a murder,” Quinn said, “not find out who was whacking who on the ass in your club back when people were wearing Mao jackets.”

“Yet you ask me about the club.”

“Yet I do. The name Philip Wharkin mean anything to you?”

“No… can’t say it does.”

“He was a registered member of Socrates’s Cavern.”