John Lutz - Mister X

"The guy warned her not to tell anyone, and she took it seriously. Besides, she was embarrassed as well as terrified. Not all women are like you, Pearl, with a set of balls."

"Aw, that's one of the nicest things you ever said to me, Sal. Should I adjust my protective cup and go talk to this shrinking violet?"

"Pearl, I meant it as a compliment."

"I know, Sal."

"Harold and I were gonna go talk to the victim while there's still time today. I just wanted to keep you guys informed."

"Thanks," Pearl said. "I'll let Quinn know."

"Okay. We'll check with you tomorrow. And Pearl…"

"What?"

"You okay, Pearl?"

"Fine. Very good, in fact. Balls and all."

"I didn't mean about that."

"Then why would you ask?"

"I dunno. You seem distracted."

Pearl almost blushed. Jesus!

"I'm fine, Sal. Just tired from sitting at my computer. Learning some sad facts about Maureen Sanders."

One part of her mind still thinking about calling Yancy, she told Vitali what she'd discovered about Sanders.

"Hell of a life," he said, when she was finished.

"Not unlike a lot of others."

"So true, Pearl. Talk to you tomorrow."

After she'd replaced the receiver, Pearl sat at her desk quietly thinking.

She had been distracted, by thoughts of Yancy Taggart, and shrewd Vitali had sensed it with his cop's finely tuned ear.

Enough of this, she told herself. She'd focus in, do her job. She'd call Quinn and fill him in on what she'd learned about Maureen Sanders, and about the possible earlier intended victim Vitali and Mishkin had uncovered.

She stretched out her arm and reached for the phone. There would still be time enough tonight for the improbable but apparently genuine Yancy Taggart.

Is his middle name actually Rockefeller?

Quinn had left Fedderman and gone home to think. He sat at the desk in his den, a cup of coffee before him. No cigar, though.

Maybe that's what was wrong. Why he couldn't get his mind going. He needed a cigar.

He got one of the Cubans from the mini-humidor in his desk drawer, used his guillotine cutter on it, and fired it up. He sat back and watched the smoke writhe toward the ceiling.

After tapping his fingers on the desk for a while, he sat forward and got his legal pad from the flat drawer. He looked over what he'd written so far, then drew a line beneath it. Beneath the line he wrote: Maureen Sanders dies, wounds unlike those made by the Carver, too shallow, silver spoon in her mouth like Carver's sick humor. Carver older so more hesitant? Mary Bakehouse attacked before Maureen Sanders. Carver frightened away?

Quinn still didn't know a lot about the Bakehouse woman. Sal and Harold would fill him in later. But it wasn't the Carver's style to leave a survivor behind. One slash of the knife was all it would have taken, and then run, run, run. Chrissie still missing. Carver victim?

Quinn stared at the yellow legal pad. Too many question marks. He tossed the pad onto the desk and leaned back in his chair. Clamped the cigar between his teeth.

Watching the smoke's writhing dance toward the ceiling, he thought about where he was, what he was doing. He remembered how May hated for him to smoke inside. May was still here, part of her, even though they'd been divorced for years. May and Lauri, when Lauri was small…good years.

Then the loneliness, and then Pearl.

Then the loneliness again.

Quinn could still remember Pearl here. Her presence still haunted the apartment. He would wake up sometimes thinking about her. She was so vibrant, and could be so loving when she wasn't…pissed off about something. Pissed off about everything, in fact. Pearl was not a contented person. She was a driven and obsessive one.

Quinn had to admit that he was obsessive, too, but in a larger, more comprehensive way. Not minute by minute, like Pearl. Not with a short fuse like Pearl's.

And not with insight like Pearl's. It was almost as if she had little antennae all over her, picking up other people's silent signals. Whatever else she was, she was a hell of a detective.

Quinn leaned back farther in his chair and smiled around his cigar, thinking about their life together here in this apartment. Dinner with friends, taking long walks, going to the theater and then coming back here and making love as pleasurably and slowly as if there were no numbers on the clock and they'd never have to leave the bed. The look in Pearl's eyes after making love, so dark and unimaginably deep. If you could somehow see clearly in those dark depths you might glimpse the far end of the universe.

The truth was, he'd like to return to those days.

The truth was, he didn't see much hope for that to happen.

Pearl saw to that.

He continued watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling and thought about Pearl.

Jesus, she can be a bitch!

The air conditioner was off, and the apartment was miserably hot. Mary Bakehouse sat bent forward on the remaining chair and looked up at Vitali and Mishkin. The sofa remained, along with whatever else had been there when Mary had rented the place furnished. It wasn't much. The rest of what she'd bought to decorate or furnish the living room was gone. Two sweaty guys in identical wrinkled gray pants and white T-shirts huffed and puffed their way out the door carrying a mattress. A cardboard box with a lamp shade and some knickknacks in it sat near the door, almost close enough for the movers to trip over.

Sweat was rolling down Mary's heart-shaped face as she struggled for words. A sweet woman, Harold Mishkin thought. Sweet and under a terrible strain, knowing her ordeal might not be over. The kind of visitor she'd had, sometimes they came back.

"Did he tell you directly he wasn't finished with you?" Mishkin asked.

Mary Bakehouse appeared momentarily thrown by the question. "Not exactly, but he gave the impression he could come back anytime he wanted. That he could do whatever he wanted to me."

"They often give that impression," Mishkin said, "but usually they don't return." Not that we can be sure about that. "They get their kicks knowing you'll worry about them for a long time."

"Sadistic animal!" she said.

"That sums him up. But knowing what he's about, you don't have to worry so much. Scaring their victims is often the object of their sick game. He'll probably move on to some other unsuspecting woman."

"Do you really think so?"

"Absolutely. There's no shortage of potential victims out there. He's probably done with you. Besides, you're moving. He's not gonna go to the trouble of tracing you in a city so full of potential victims."

Vitali waited patiently for Mishkin to finish his comfort patter. His partner seemed compelled to console crime's victims, especially the more vulnerable, and women in particular. In her heart of hearts this woman knew her attacker might very well return and finish what he'd started. Maybe he'd follow her to the gates of hell to torture and kill her. It all depended on what kind of whack job he was, and who knew the answer to that?

When Mishkin had finally run down, Vitali glanced around at the now minimally furnished apartment. "Is that the only reason you're moving, so he can't find you?"

"Yes," Mary said. "At least it will make it more difficult."

"Could you identify him if you saw him again?" Vitali asked.

"I think so, but I can't be sure. I saw him clearly, but it all happened fast, and…my God! I was confused."

"Of course you were," Mishkin said.

"Describe him as best you can," Vitali said.

And she did, obviously growing more afraid as her words caused her to relive what had happened. Watching her, Vitali understood Mishkin's point of view. He felt himself growing angry at the attacker.