John Lutz - Night kills

"The weather's getting to you," Fedderman said.

"Screw you and the weather," Pearl said.

Quinn was silent. He knew this was the kind of thinking that made Pearl such a talented detective. He also knew she wouldn't easily turn loose of the idea.

"Are you convinced of this?" he asked her.

"Of course not. I told you it was a theory."

"Did you say crackpot theory?" Fedderman asked.

Pearl ignored him and pointedly addressed only Quinn: "Here's where we are, spinning our wheels: We check the mental hospitals and psycho wards in New York and surrounding states, and there's no one missing who likes to carve up people or animals. No one with those characteristics has been released from prison lately. We check with other cities and there are no similar cases. We use Helen's profile as our guide and it gets us nowhere. That's because her profile's wrong. He's not a nutcase in the conventional sense, and thinking he is throws us off the scent. That's the object of his game."

"He has the earmarks of a genuine psychosexual serial killer," Quinn said. "He kills each time in the same manner, ritualistically dismembers his victims and leaves grisly calling cards we're sure to find, uses the same gun we're sure to match with the bullets, does the sexual mutilation and penetration with the sharpened wooden broomstick-"

"The goddamned furniture oil," Fedderman interrupted.

"It all might be part of his plan," Pearl said calmly. "Don't you see? He's creating a profile for our profiler."

"Jesus," Fedderman said.

"It might be part of a plan," Quinn said, "but so far there isn't any evidence that it is. So we have to proceed on that basis."

"Consider the way everything is too damned pat," Pearl said. "That's its own kind of evidence."

"If it is," Quinn said, "what are we gonna do with it?"

"There's a good question," Fedderman said.

Pearl sighed, knowing they were both right. "Yeah," she said. "What can we do?"

"Keep it in mind, is what," Quinn said. "That's the kind of evidence it is, the kind you keep in mind."

"Sure," Pearl said. "I'll do that."

Quinn knew she would.

Fedderman stood up and wandered over to the coffee brewer. He glanced back at Pearl. It was obvious that he felt he might have been too hard on her.

"It's the weather," he said. "You want some coffee, Pearl?"

"Up your ass with your coffee," she said.

He poured her a cup anyway, then reconsidered, staring at the way it was steaming. It was scalding. She shouldn't have it right now.

He poured it back in the pot and returned to his desk.

"Let's go back to where we found the last one, by the Dumpster, and reinterview anyone who might have seen or heard something," Quinn said.

"In the rain?" Fedderman asked.

Quinn was already putting on his light overcoat.

"In the rain."

"Most of them will probably be at work," Fedderman said.

"So will we," Quinn said.

It wasn't just that Quinn kept Pearl's theory in mind the rest of that day; he couldn't get it out of his mind. Sometimes sitting around drinking coffee, or talking while it was raining outside a precinct house or stakeout car, there'd be a breakthrough in a case.

Maybe today in the office had been one of those times.

By early evening the rain had stopped and a cooling breeze wafted in from the east. The city looked and smelled fresh, disconnected from any sordid past or questionable future.

Quinn and Linda Chavesky met again for coffee and then went for a walk. They were on Broadway, near Columbus Circle. Traffic was heavy, mostly with cabs taking people shopping or to early dinners before the theater. Quinn was on Linda's right, between her and the street. They were strolling casually, taking their time, stringing out the experience of being together. When the lights temporarily stopped traffic on their side of the street, they could hear their footfalls on the damp sidewalk.

"Wanna talk shop?" Quinn asked.

Linda shrugged, bumping her hip against him, maybe accidentally. "You're always a cop, I'm always an M.E."

Quinn told her about Pearl's theory.

"Doesn't sound likely," Linda said after listening closely.

"Pearl's an original thinker."

"So I've heard."

Quinn hoped he'd detected a note of jealousy.

They both veered left automatically to let a couple of chattering kids in gangsta pants bounce past.

"Not being critical," Linda said, "just asking, how the hell do they keep those pants up?"

"I dunno. I guess they enjoy the suspense."

She laughed.

They'd walked another fifty feet before she said, "You run Pearl's theory past Renz?"

"No. I think we should wait till we have something more."

"There might not be any more."

"Might not."

Another five measured steps. Ten. Quinn could sense that Linda hadn't let go of what he'd told her. She was toying with it in her mind, like a cat with a ball of yarn. Here was something about her that intrigued him, and for some reason immensely pleased him.

And something else, he realized; they were comfortable in their silence.

"Maybe you should try it on the profiler, Helen Iman," Linda said.

"According to Pearl, Helen's the one being conned."

"Well, she might at least want to be aware of the possibility."

"Also," Quinn said, "it might be a mistake to plant the idea in Helen's head. Might throw her off her game."

"Uh-huh." They walked a bit farther. "That's one for you to decide."

"I know," Quinn said. "You just examine what's left of the victims."

"Not anymore," Linda said.

They stopped walking and Quinn looked at her.

"Dr. Nift has taken over all duties connected with the Torso Murders."

"He give a reason?"

"To maintain continuity, he said."

"He's a continual asshole," Quinn said.

"He's my boss."

"Which is why I can say it and you can't," Quinn said.

Linda didn't disagree.

Jill and Tony met at Has Beans again. He'd suggested a genuine night out, dinner at an expensive restaurant, maybe a show. Who could tell what might come after? She wasn't ready for that. She'd let him know and he'd smoothly backed off.

They were in the same booth where they'd first met. He was sipping a Honduras again. She'd taken a chance and ordered a Nicaragua.

When she sipped the foamy coffee drink, she decided she liked it.

"Yum," she said, "but do they even grow coffee in Nicaragua?"

"I don't know," Tony said. "They grow revolutions." He sipped and smiled. "On the phone you mentioned there was something you wanted to tell me. Something personal?"

"It's something that's got me kind of rattled," she said. "A little scared."

"About me?"

She rested her hand on his. "God, no!" She didn't know quite where to begin, not wanting to sound paranoid. "There's this woman who seems to be…well, following me."

He sat forward, interested. She was gratified by his obvious concern for her. "You know who she is?" he asked.

"I've never seen her before. I don't think. She does look familiar, but maybe she has one of those faces. She's a street woman, Tony. A homeless person. Dirty clothes, stringy blond hair. And she looks as if she could use a bath and a good meal."

"So maybe she's just panhandling."

"No, she's never asked for anything. It's just that now and then I turn around or glance to the side, and there she is."

"Coincidence?"

"I wish. She's usually staring at me. Once she even started toward me."

"What do you mean, started toward you? In a way that was threatening?"

"I…well, I'm not sure."

"So what did you do?"

"I ran. I mean, that sounds worse than it is. I had on my sweat suit and jogging shoes anyway, and I was sort of running in place, so I just…jogged away from her."