John Lutz - Serial

“That would be because you stepped on it,” Annette said.

Link grinned. “That’d be because you got your feet mixed up between the second and third steps of my grapevine maneuver.”

“Your what? ” Beth asked.

“Mumbo jumbo,” Annette said. “That’s his escape when he knows he’s wrong, talking mumbo jumbo.”

“I’m hurt,” Link said.

“No, I’m the one with the toe.” Annette looked over at Beth. “Wanna go to lunch tomorrow? Might as well. It’s gonna rain all day.”

“Does most Saturdays,” Link said. “The weatherman knows we don’t work weekends.”

“The weatherman’s a son of a bitch,” Annette said.

“We’ll do it,” Beth said. “I’ll call you.”

“I’m not invited?” Link asked.

“Damned right, you’re not,” Annette said.

“He’s going to Kansas City for a coin show, anyway,” Beth said.

Link’s passion for coin collecting had grown. “Gonna be an auction of antebellum silver coins,” he said. “Some rich guy’s estate is selling his whole collection.”

“I don’t know what you see in that old stuff,” Annette said.

Link took a sip of beer. “It’s history. And art. And a pretty good investment.”

“And an obsession,” Beth said.

Link shrugged. “I guess it is, but a harmless one.”

“I’m more interested in new coins,” Annette said. “The kind you can spend.”

The band was swinging into one of Beth’s favorite tunes. Link gulped down some more beer then stood up. He offered his hand to Beth.

“Wanna dance to this one? Give Annette’s toe a rest?”

Beth smiled. “You bet I do.” Trying to get into the mood. To shake her self-destructive suspicions.

Link led her onto the dance floor and they began a twostep with underarm turns. Within seconds the floor was too crowded for turns, and Beth and Link began close dancing.

He held her loosely and confidently, his wife, his lover, his possession. More beloved than his coins in their velvet-lined display folders.

Not more beloved than his stepson.

Annette had her shoe off and was sitting sideways in her chair, rubbing her toe. Beth saw her smile enviously at her and Link. Annette and her husband Mark had no children, and as far as Beth knew didn’t want any. Still, here was Beth with a husband who loved her and a child they both loved. Beth figured that what she needed in life, what she had -man, child, home-addressed an emotional void that most women had attempted to fill since the human race began. She was one of the winners.

That was how it must seem from the outside.

Link held Beth tighter, drawing her closer. But it seemed to Beth that now there was a limit to how close they could be.

New York, the present

A brief shower had cooled down the city, and the sun, back from behind scudding low clouds, made everything glisten in reflecting dampness. Quinn and Pearl couldn’t resist walking the short distance from the office to have lunch at home (as she lately found herself thinking of the brownstone). Besides, the rehab crew was closing in on finishing off the floor directly above, in what had once been the dining room. Quinn and Pearl could go upstairs and check on how things were going while a pizza heated in the oven.

They strolled down Amsterdam and saw by the faces passing them going the opposite direction that most people felt the way they did. This was one of those rare moments after rain when time seems to pause in order to give people a chance to glance around and really see fresh, wet actuality.

What they saw was a city they loved. Nineteenth-century buildings a short walk from glass and stone and poured concrete climbing toward an indecisive summer sky. Quinn appreciated the sights and smells and sounds around them. Twist-tied plastic trash bags huddled bursting at the curb, low-lying exhaust fumes from stalled traffic, a distant urgent siren, two people arguing about who had hailed a cab first, violin music-hesitant and distant. Quinn and Pearl exchanged a glance, each knowing what the other was thinking.

The inside of the brownstone was quiet until Pearl walked across the living room and switched on the window-unit air conditioner. There was no sound from upstairs. Maybe the workers had gone to lunch early.

Pearl and Quinn decided they’d have lunch first, thinking maybe the workers would return by the time they were finished. Pearl put a frozen pizza with sausage and mushrooms into the oven, then got a bag of pre-cut washed vegetables out of the refrigerator, along with a tomato, some green onions, and vinaigrette dressing. While she put together a salad, Quinn got out silverware, plates, and napkins and set the table.

He sat in one of the wooden chairs and watched Pearl fidget around the kitchen, opening and closing the oven door as if that would hurry the pizza, tossing the salad for a second and third time. Sprinkling ground pepper on the salad, adding bits of cheddar cheese she tore from slices that were meant for sandwiches. Even a pinch of salt. Not a born cook, Pearl.

The phone on the kitchen wall rang, breaking the silence and domestic mood. Quinn scooted his chair a few feet to the side and reached for the receiver.

He saw on the tiny caller-ID screen that the caller was Sal Vitali, from the morgue. He mouthed Vitali’s name silently to Pearl, who was staring at him curiously.

“You weren’t at the office,” Vitali said, “and you had your cell turned off, so I figured you might be there.”

“What’ve you got?” Quinn asked, eyeing the oven timer that was closing in on pizza time and a flurry of activity by Pearl.

“They got a print match on the Ben’s for Men’s victim, Quinn. She’s-she was Verna Pound, thirty-six years old, picked up for shoplifting two years ago.”

“She on our list?”

“Yeah. Back in 2005 she accused a guy named Tyrone Ringo of raping her. Got a conviction. Tyrone spent his time behind the walls and was exonerated and released from prison two years ago.”

“Not that long ago,” Quinn said. “Might seem like yesterday to Tyrone.”

“No,” Vitali said. “He died nine months ago of tuberculosis he contracted in prison.”

“Anything else notable about the postmortem?”

“Nothing other than that she was tortured for over an hour by somebody truly screwed up. Sick bastard with his trick knife made her death even more of a hell than her life was. You wanna read it, the whole report’s been faxed to the office.”

“Actual cause of death?” Quinn asked, not wanting to go back to the office just yet.

“Loss of blood from all the carving he did on her. Damn, Quinn, imagine it, with the cigarette burns and the knife, the bastard taking his time and enjoying himself.”

“At least we got her prints,” Quinn said. “Maybe she’s got family.”

“I doubt she has any family that gives a shit,” Vitali said, “the way she was barely staying alive on the street. Kind of person that made one wrong move after another because she had lousy luck. Tried to steal a coat and was unlucky enough to choose one with a mink collar. Expensive enough to make it a grand larceny charge. Put on probation, disappeared. Now here she is again, in the morgue, after a layover at Ben’s for Men’s. Hell of a life.”

“She tried to lift a coat,” Quinn said.

“Yeah. In January in New York. To survive.”

“Hell of a life,” Quinn agreed. He hung up.

“What were you talking about?” Pearl asked.

“Death.”

The oven timer started its annoying chiming, and Pearl sprang into pizza mode.

After pizza and cold Heineken beers, Quinn and Pearl trudged up the brownstone’s steep wooden steps to the floor above.

The workmen were up there. They’d finished lunch and were back on the job. About half of the carpet was laid. It was light beige. Seeing so much of it down made the space seem surprisingly vast. And sound carried differently. Quinn could understand why the work hadn’t been audible down in the kitchen.