John Lutz - Serial

At the far end of the room was the librarian Fedderman had been told would help him. She was reaching up to replace one of the boxes that held a cartridge when she glanced over and saw him. And smiled.

Penny Noon.

She looked more like a librarian today, wearing light gray slacks, a darker gray blazer, and what looked like a man’s miniature tie over a white blouse. A large white button with red lettering was pinned to her blazer’s lapel. It read Save the Book.

“More questions about Nora’s murder?” she asked.

“You know me,” Fedderman said, though she didn’t know him all that well. “Always working.”

“So it seems.”

“I thought we’d… gotten more trusting of each other. That maybe we should see each other again.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I’m the victim’s half sister. Isn’t there a conflict of interest there?”

“If there is,” Fedderman said, “I don’t care. When certain situations occur, when you meet certain, special people, you should take advantage of them.”

“Of the special people?”

He felt a flicker of annoyance and embarrassment. “Is this what’s known as verbal fencing?”

“No, it’s a way of avoiding the subject. We are the subject. Rather, our relationship, brief as it is. I apologize. I’m being evasive and you’re being direct.”

“There isn’t that much time to say what’s on your mind,” Fedderman said. “For any of us. I know that because of my work. You should know it because of… what’s happened.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Both thinking about Nora. Both knowing that the last thing Fedderman had come here for was to discuss the murder case.

Fedderman began to perspire. He had to break the silence, change the subject. He wasn’t good at this kind of patter, especially in the presence of this woman who made him tongue-tied.

“The book,” he said, nodding toward her lapel button. “Who’s it need saving from?”

“Oh, so many people. Most of them with e-books.”

“Huh?”

“Electronic readers.”

“Those things can’t be much fun,” Fedderman said.

“Someone closer than you imagine might disagree with you.”

“How do you turn pages with them?”

“I’m afraid pages are becoming obsolete. Like librarians.”

“Save the librarians,” Fedderman said.

The guy in the corduroy jacket gave him an annoyed look, like a man on the verge of growling. Instead of growling, he gathered up some papers, and then glanced in Penny’s direction and stood and left the research room. What? Had they been talking too loud?

Penny walked over and switched off the viewer Mr. Corduroy had left on. Fedderman enjoyed watching her do that. Maybe too obviously.

“Did you come here to save this librarian?” she asked.

“Yes. From the electronic book.”

“Is that what you told Ms. Culver?”

“The woman at the desk? No, I told her I wanted to find something in an old newspaper.”

She smiled and moved closer to him. He noticed she was wearing perfume. He couldn’t place the scent, but it smelled better than old books.

“Was that a fib?” she asked.

“Who would fib to Ms. Culver?”

“I bet you would,” she said. She absently buttoned his shirt cuff, then stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

He embraced her and brought her close, held her tight, kissed her on the lips, felt her tongue warm and soft against his own.

Their hands were all over each other, there in the research room.

It was easy to get into Candice Culligan’s apartment. When the doorman was about half a block away, hailing a taxi at the busy intersection for some tenants, the Skinner simply entered the lobby and crossed to the elevators. Even if the doorman returned immediately, the killer wouldn’t be seen, as the elevators were around a corner and out of sight from the building entrance. Not that it mattered, because there was an elevator at lobby level. He stepped inside, pressed the close-door button, then the button for Candice’s floor. He leaned his shoulder blades against the back wall of the elevator and relaxed as he rose.

New York, New York, it’s a vulnerable town.

The Skinner had done his research. It hadn’t been difficult to obtain Candice’s address.

The next step, gaining entry to her unit, turned out to be less of a problem than he’d anticipated. This was the second time he’d been in the building. The first time he’d watched her stretch and reach to the top of the doorframe, where she had a key to her door hidden. Amused, he’d watched her use the same key to unlock a knob lock and a dead bolt set about ten inches above the knob. Two locks, and maybe a chain lock visible only from inside.

Can’t be too careful, he’d thought, as he watched her place the key back dead center on top of the door frame.

And there the key was again today, square in the middle on top of the wooden lintel.

New York, New York…

This time he took the key inside with him and made a wax impression. There was a key shop in another city where he could have a duplicate made.

Knowing Candice was working hard uptown at the offices of Kraft, Holmes, and Deloitte, he leisurely wandered through the condo unit. Since she hadn’t moved in all that long ago, the place still wasn’t completely furnished, so it was easy to find her files and important papers, to get a feel for her life so he wouldn’t be killing a stranger. He hadn’t felt that way at first, but yes, he was beginning to enjoy killing, especially if he knew the woman as a person. That business about seeing women only as interchangeable sex objects didn’t always apply. The feeling of absolute control and power over women he knew, of playing God with the fools who believed in God-that applied.

He was careful not to touch most things and not to leave a fingerprint.

An hour later, he still hadn’t found where Candice kept the password to get online at her desk computer. Her word processor was accessible and contained mostly legal documents or letters. Boooring. And yet they showed a side of Candice that was organized and precise. It was a side that would soon die like all her other sides. She existed now only because he let her.

When he was ready to go, he glanced around. He’d been sufficiently careful. She wouldn’t suspect that anyone had been here in her absence.

But did he want that?

He’d have a key next time he visited, so what did it matter if she had something to think about? To worry about? Something she’d recall, when the time came, as a portent she shouldn’t have ignored?

He returned to the bedroom and flopped down on his back in the middle of the white duvet on her king-size bed. He stayed there a few minutes, not moving, and then got up carefully and looked at the bed, at the impression he’d made in the duvet. Candice would notice it and realize someone had lain there in her absence. Someone larger than herself. Certainly the impression described the outline of a man. In her bedroom. On her otherwise pristine white bed.

Let her think about that.

He’d leave the door unlocked when he left, but replace the key precisely where he’d found it. When she realized the door was unlocked, Candice would assume she’d forgotten to lock it when she’d left for work that morning. She wouldn’t be too concerned. Not until she went into the bedroom and noticed his impression on her bed.

He smiled, picturing the expression on her face, imagining the fear that would lance through her.

He knew what she’d do next. She’d steel herself and search through each room to make sure no one was there. To reassure herself that she was alone.

But she’ll know someone has been here.