John Lutz - Serial

Sanderson appeared shocked by the conversational swerve. “Follow somebody? No, that’s nutty.”

Quinn smiled. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He held out his hand for Sanderson to shake. “You can get back to work. Thanks for your time.”

“Sure.” Sanderson shook the proffered hand.

But Quinn didn’t let go. He tightened his grip slowly and powerfully. Not as tight as he might. Just letting Sanderson know he could easily crush all his fingers. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with a woman getting beaten up last night, would you?”

Sanderson was too proud to show any sign that his hand hurt. He’d learned in prison not to reveal vulnerability. “It wasn’t that cop, Pearl, that got worked over, was it?”

“Why would you think so?”

“I don’t think so. I’m asking ’cause I don’t know. I kind of liked Pearl, is all. She was nice. I wouldn’t wanna think somebody beat the shit out of her.” He took a deep breath and let it out, but still didn’t change expression. “Say, you wouldn’t mind letting go of my hand, would you?”

Quinn acted surprised that he was still clasping Sanderson’s hand. “Oh, sorry.” He turned the hand loose.

Sanderson grinned. “I need that hand for work.”

“And, since you don’t have any woman trouble right now, not just for that.” Quinn winked and turned to leave.

“Thinking about Pearl,” Sanderson said.

Quinn felt a stab of anger and turned back around.

“You never answered me whether it was Pearl that got beat up last night,” Sanderson said.

“Somebody else,” Quinn said.

“Good. If something happened to Pearl, I’d wanna know myself who had a hand in it.”

Quinn stared at Sanderson, wondering if the little bastard was quicker off the mark than he seemed.

“I better get back to sweeping up,” Sanderson said.

Quinn nodded. “That’d be your best bet.”

As he left the YMCA, Quinn had a better understanding of why Weaver thought Sanderson might be worth watching.

However, Weaver was probably wrong. There was no doubt about Sanderson’s alibi for the night of Judith Blaney’s murder. And for that matter, no doubt that he wasn’t the man who assaulted Weaver. Sanderson was just another smalltime ex-con with a devious streak and a healthy skepticism, probably a fraction as smart as he saw himself.

Weaver had been right in her suspicions but wrong in her conclusion.

Exactly what Quinn had spent much of his life trying to avoid.

Still, Quinn had respect for intuitive reasoning, and Weaver had demonstrated that quality in other investigations.

It might be a good idea to put a tail on Sanderson for a while.

To make sure.

Verna Pound was past the point of waiting until no one was looking. She simply walked up to the wire trash receptacle, which was chained to a light pole at the corner, and began poking through its contents. She saw a roach skitter away from a white foam box. It was the small kind that wouldn’t accommodate much food, but well worth a look.

She scooted the roach farther away with the backs of her fingers, and opened the box.

It contained half a hamburger and another cockroach. This cockroach took its leave even before Verna could brush it away or whisk the chewed hamburger and bun from it.

She was grateful. Even if she found nothing more, this was enough food to hold her until breakfast tomorrow morning at the chapel.

She hunched her body around the foam container and limped away from the trash barrel. Her plan was to find a safe place to sit down, eat her meal along with the third-full bottle of wine she’d bought from a friend, and then walk across town to the shelter. She’d rest a few blocks from the shelter and see if she could beg a few more dollars. It was best to get a jump on her tomorrows, assuming she could hide the money safely from the thieves that came in the night. That was a problem at the shelters. That and sex. Why any of those sickos would want to force sex on the sorts of poor and battered women who slept in such places was beyond Verna’s comprehension. And it was absurd that any of the street women would want anything to do with the homeless and hapless-and bathless-men who bedded down at the shelters. Dirt and desperation were mood breakers. Not to mention hunger.

There were exceptions, of course. On her better days, Verna liked to think of herself as one. And perhaps inside his ragged clothes and dirt-smeared exterior was a man worth knowing. One who could see beyond Verna’s exterior to the beauty inside.

Some women-or maybe all women-never gave up hope.

Verna remembered the man who’d given her a five-dollar bill earlier that evening. That was the money that made possible the shelter bed. He seemed genuinely interested in her. His suit had been old and threadbare, but his scuffed shoes weren’t too worn. A guy maybe just beginning the long and steepening slide. He so obviously couldn’t afford to spare the five dollars he’d given her that Verna for a moment felt like returning it. For only a moment.

She’d watched him as he strode away. Viewed from behind, at a distance, he appeared as if he possessed some wealth. Not prosperous, but maybe a guy with a job.

She was thinking about the generous donor when a black sedan pulled over to the curb slightly ahead of where Verna was walking.

Her heart jumped. Police? I’m not staying in one place, panhandling. I’m not dressed so bad that I look like a street person. What the hell…

She decided the car had nothing to do with her.

But as she walked past it, picking up her pace and staring straight ahead, a man called her name.

She looked over and saw the generous guy standing by the car with the driver’s side door open.

“Verna Pound,” he said again. He was grinning.

“Do I know you?” Verna asked.

“Five dollars’ worth.”

Now she understood what he expected for his money. “I’m not selling,” Verna said. “Only borrowing.”

“I don’t expect to be repaid, Verna. Gifts aren’t meant to be repaid with something of more value. I only want to talk with you.”

Verna had been moving slowly forward, and was now about ten feet away from the man. “How do you even know my name?”

Instead of answering, he slammed the car door and cut across the sidewalk so he could be next to her, walking with her. Casually, he aimed his key fob behind him, and the big car’s lights flashed as its doors locked.

“You do remember me?”

“I remember the five dollars,” Verna said. She didn’t tell him about her cataracts. Now that he was close, the man was something of a blur to her.

He slowed his pace to hers, and they walked together for a while. They were approaching a small stone church next to a boarded-up brick building. There was a dark passageway in between the two buildings. Verna attempted to change her direction a few degrees so she’d be walking away from the dark passage, but the man from the big car didn’t budge and let her bump herself into him. Verna began to be afraid.

“How do you know who I am?” she asked.

“I saw your name in the paper, so I looked you up. Tried to find your address and found that you have no address.”

“What is this? Am I owed some money?”

“With what’s going on, maybe you could get a book contract.”

She gave him a dubious look. “Me? What, am I famous? Am I missing my fifteen minutes?”

“Don’t you read the papers or watch the news on television?”

“Hah! I haven’t read a newspaper in months, and if you see a television set trailing behind me, let me know. Not that I could afford the electric bill.”

“You really should read the newspapers,” the man said. “About the rapist who served time for a crime he didn’t commit.”