John Lutz - Serial

As he was hustled toward the door, Fedderman tossed the white paper sack. “The doughnuts are right here on my desk. Anybody can help themselves.”

The sound of the car doors slamming on Quinn’s big Lincoln filtered in from outside. He left the Renz-supplied unmarked Ford for Vitali and Mishkin to use when they had enough Philip Wharkins to interview.

With Quinn and Fedderman gone, the office seemed suddenly and unnaturally hushed, as if there were no air in it to sustain sound.

Pearl, Vitali, and Mishkin looked at each other.

Pearl made sure her computer was still signing on, then got up from behind her desk and walked over to Fedderman’s. She rummaged delicately through the grease-stained white bag and found a chocolate-iced doughnut with cream filling.

She carried the bag over and placed it where Vitali and Mishkin could reach it, along with their cache of doughnuts.

Time for teamwork.

And time to wonder if, this time, teamwork would be enough.

Quinn and Fedderman split up. Quinn knocked on the door of the apartment adjoining Millie Graff’s, while Fedderman went upstairs. Millie’s apartment was a corner unit, so there was no one on the other side of her. The apartment directly beneath her was vacant.

The woman who lived next to Millie was in her sixties, dressed as if she were young and living in the sixties. She had on faded jeans with the knees fashionably ripped, a red, blue, and green tie-dyed T-shirt, and rings of every kind on every finger. No makeup. No shoes, either. Her thinning gray hair was straight and hung almost to her waist. Her toenails were painted white with intricate red designs on each one. Quinn considered giving her the peace sign and then decided against it.

He explained why he was there and then double-checked his notes. “Margaret Freeman, is it?”

“My friends call me Free,” she said, with a Mary Travers kind of smile.

“Okay, Free,” Quinn said, thinking, Oh, wow.

She stood aside so he could enter, and he was surprised. The apartment was furnished traditionally, even with a sofa and chairs that matched. The floor was polished wood, with woven throw rugs scattered about. A flat-screen TV reposed placidly in a corner like a god. No beaded room dividers, no rock-star posters, no whiff of incense, no sign or sound of high-tech stereo equipment.

She motioned for Quinn to sit on the sofa, which he did. Free asked him if he’d like anything to drink, and he declined. She settled across from him in one of the matching gray chairs. “I’ve already talked-”

“Yes,” Quinn said. “I read your statement.”

“Then you know I use my largest bedroom for an office, so Millie’s bedroom is right on the other side of the wall.”

She sat back and knitted her fingers over one bare knee, as if waiting for him to ask questions.

“Why don’t you tell me what, if anything, you saw or heard?”

Free drew a deep breath. Her breasts were surprisingly bulky beneath her kaleidoscope shirt. “Around ten o’clock, when I was working late, I came in here to lock up and thought I heard someone knocking on Millie’s door. Then I heard male and female voices, like when she answered the door and they talked, and then nothing. It seemed to me she let in whoever it was.”

“Why would you assume that?”

“I would have heard him walking away in the hall if she hadn’t let him in. That’s just the way this building is.”

“Did it sound as if they were arguing?” Quinn asked.

“No, nothing like that. I went back to my office but didn’t go back to work. Instead I stretched out in my recliner to read. I wasn’t too surprised to hear the same voices, at lower volume, coming from her bedroom on the other side of the wall.”

Quinn wondered if she’d stayed in the office hoping to overhear pillow talk.

“Still friendly voices?” he asked.

“I really couldn’t say, they were so faint.” She looked off and up to the right, the way people do when they’re trying to remember. “I sat there reading my Sara Paretsky novel, only halfway aware of the voices, and after about twenty minutes I heard something I recalled after I gave my original statement to the police.”

Quinn looked up sharply and felt his blood quicken. But probably this would be something inane and of no help at all. They weren’t in a mystery novel.

Free reined in her gaze to include Quinn. “There were no voices, and no other sounds for about twenty minutes. No-more than that. Then, just past ten-thirty, the man said something loud enough that I heard. His voice seemed raised, but not necessarily because he was mad. More like he was trying to make a point. It wasn’t until this morning that I went over again in my mind what I’d heard and it became intelligible.”

“And what did he say?” Quinn asked, realizing Free was drawing this out for dramatic effect.

“He said quite clearly, now that I recall it vividly: ‘You deserve it.’ ”

“But he didn’t seem angry?”

“No, not even upset. It was as if Millie had asked a question and he was answering her.”

Quinn knew Millie would have had to ask the question with her eyes. The wadded panties would have been in her mouth.

“And then?” he asked.

Free shrugged. “No more voices. No sound of any kind. I carried my book into my bedroom and went to bed and read myself to sleep.”

“You weren’t curious or concerned about what you’d heard?”

“Not at the time. Like I said, the man didn’t seem angry. He might even have been telling Millie she deserved something good that had happened to her.”

Quinn doubted that.

“Can you show me your office?”

“Of course.” Free unwove her meshed fingers from her knee and stood up. Quinn followed her down a short hall and into a room about ten by twelve. The word organized sprang to mind. A computer was set up on a wooden stand. Broad wooden shelves supported a printer/copier/fax machine, and neat stacks of books and magazines. Most of the books were mysteries, and some were on forensics and blood analysis. Several were on firearms. On a wall was a framed paper target with six bullet holes clustered around the bull’s-eye.

“That’s my score from the police target range out on Rodman’s Neck.”

“You’re a gun enthusiast?” Quinn asked, somewhat surprised.

“I’m a gun writer and editor of Firearms Today magazine and blog. I’ve given expert testimony in court.”

Quinn didn’t know quite what to say, and it showed.

“That’s okay,” Free said. “It often takes people a while to process that.”

Quinn grinned. “Yeah. To be honest, I was more prepared to see a gun with a violet sticking out of the barrel.”

“Oh, that’s not a bad idea, either,” Free said.

“Are you the renowned sixties liberal who got mugged?”

“No, I grew up on a farm in Iowa. My dad hunted and plinked and got me interested in guns when I was a kid. I stayed interested. Simple as that.”

Quinn walked over and laid his hand on the back of a leather recliner set precisely in a corner. “Is this where you were when you heard the voices between ten and ten-fortyfive?”

Free nodded.

He glanced at the apartments’ common wall. There was a small louvered vent near the baseboard, painted the same light beige as the wall.

“Were you picking up sound through that vent?” he asked.

“Mostly.”

Quinn gave a final glance around.

“Anything else you recall?” he asked. “Sometimes talking about one thing triggers another.”

“I’m afraid not this time.”

Quinn wandered back into the living room and Free followed. He thanked her for her time.

At the door, he paused and turned. “You’re sure of his words.”