John Lutz - Mister X

"We won't quibble over it," Quinn said.

"But then I ran. I'm not very brave lately."

"But you came back."

"When I saw in the news that the Carver had killed that woman down in Chelsea, Maureen Sanders, and then attacked that other woman, I couldn't stay away. I had to find out what you'd learned."

"It's pretty much all in the news."

She stared at him. "You're playing it closed-mouthed. Now you don't trust me." Her contriteness had disappeared to be replaced by anger.

He had to grin. "Should I trust you?"

"Maybe not. But I am your client. Don't you have some kind of legal obligation to tell me everything you know?"

"Legal and ethical. Unless there are special circumstances."

"Such as?"

"The client disappearing."

She tucked her fingertips into her jeans pockets and looked glum as well as bedraggled. The blond hairdo he couldn't get used to looked damp and stuck to her head.

"You know the police are actively involved now," he said.

"Yeah. I didn't want that to happen. They'll screw things up, don't you think?"

"Possibly they will." He toyed with the ballpoint pen he'd been holding during his assault on the checkbook and bank statement. "But we didn't have a choice. When Maureen Sanders was killed and sliced up using the Carver's M.O., the police naturally made the connection and reopened the investigation. And that includes all the Carver murders, including your sister's."

"They couldn't catch the Carver the first time around, so I don't have much hope they'll do any better this time. They should have stayed out of it."

"Politics are involved," Quinn said. "As well as that pesky thing called the law."

"Well, I don't see much point to it. Maybe you can explain to me all that's happened, tell me what my money's bought."

Quinn studied her, not wanting to be taken in again. Her sudden mood changes and apparent ignorance of the law didn't fool him. He knew she wasn't nearly as naive as she appeared.

He put down the pen and pointed to the nearest desk chair, Pearl's. "Roll that chair over here and sit down."

She did, and he brought her up to date on the investigation.

"So who's this mystery woman who's been shadowing the investigation?" Chrissie asked, when he was finished. "Any ideas?"

Quinn had deliberately mentioned Pearl's shadow woman. "One theory is that she's you."

Chrissie seemed surprised, but she might be good at that. She appeared to think about what he'd said, absently rubbing her chin. It might have been a feigned gesture, but he'd seen her do it before, unconsciously. Quinn noticed that she wore no rings on either hand-no jewelry at all, at least that he could see.

"Well, I can understand why you might have thought it was me," she said, "since you couldn't get in touch with me for a while. But I can tell you honestly it wasn't me."

"It also occurred to us that something bad might have happened to you and you couldn't contact us."

Now she seemed embarrassed, and not a little bit pleased. "I hadn't thought of that, truly. It didn't occur to me that my disappearance might alarm you. But I am touched by your concern."

She wasn't being sarcastic. She'd meant it, he was sure.

Don't be sure. Don't take for granted that anything this woman says is true.

"So where were you?" Quinn asked.

"Oh, nowhere or not doing anything that has anything to do with any of this," Chrissie said.

While Quinn was mentally diagramming her sentence, Chrissie stood up from Pearl's chair and tapped the side of the small brown leather purse she was carrying.

"I've got my cell phone turned on again," she said. "You have my number."

"Where are you staying?"

"I'm looking for a new place now. I'll let you know." She exhaled loudly and smiled. "I'm glad we're on the same page again. Do you need any more money?"

He shook his head no. "We're fine for now." He tapped a knuckle on the checkbook and statement spread out before him on the desk. "I think we are, anyway."

She took a step closer to the desk. "I do want, more than anything, for my sister's killer to be brought to hard justice."

"We all do."

She nodded, shifted her weight awkwardly, and made for the door.

"By the way," Quinn said, "you needn't have worried. We had it figured that you were a fraternal twin."

"I should have known," she said. "You do have a reputation."

"Pearl suggested it."

"Cherchez la femme."

She was smiling as she went out.

A woman who lived in the building where Mary Bakehouse had been attacked contacted the police. She claimed to have remembered something that might be important. Her name was Ida Frost. Mishkin had interviewed her before and was skeptical.

Still, any lead might be worth following.

Vitali knocked on the apartment door. Mishkin moved closer so if she was looking through the peephole Ida Frost might recognize him.

She opened the door almost immediately. She was a small, stooped woman close to eighty, with gnarled teeth that didn't spoil a bright smile. As she peered up at Vitali and Mishkin, her eyes were bright and alert.

She stood back so they could enter. It was warm in the apartment but not uncomfortable.

"I made brownies," she said.

She left them abruptly and scurried toward what they assumed was the kitchen.

Vitali and Mishkin exchanged glances.

Then Ida Frost was back, using two hot pads to hold a large rectangular pan of brownies generously dusted with powdered sugar. They smelled delicious.

"Hot from the oven," she said. "My mother's recipe and her mother's before her." She offered the pan.

"Can't say no to all that history," Mishkin said. He delicately lifted one of the end brownies.

Vitali, thinking that for all they knew the brownies could be poisoned, smiled and shook his head no. Ida Frost moved in on him with the brownies. He raised a hand, still smiling. The edge of the hot pan was almost touching his tie. She was smiling up at him insistently, still advancing. If he didn't back up he'd have a brownie pan scar on his stomach.

"These are great, Sal," Mishkin said. There were brownie crumbs and powdered sugar in his bushy mustache, on his tie. "You oughta try one."

Vitali gave in and helped himself to a brownie. Ida Frost withdrew from his personal space.

"You said on the phone that you recalled something," Mishkin said, and took another bite of brownie.

"Did I? Oh, yes." Ida Frost looked at Vitali and at the half a brownie in his hand. "Do they meet with your approval, Detective?"

Vitali growled around a mouthful of brownie that they did.

"What was it you recalled?" Mishkin asked.

Ida Frost appeared puzzled.

"You called the precinct house and asked for Detective Mishkin," Vitali reminded her. "You left a message saying you remembered something about the Mary Bakehouse case and were calling as we'd requested."

"I liked Mary," Ida Frost said. "I wish she hadn't moved away."

"Probably it's better for her that she went somewhere else," Vitali said.

Ida Frost seemed to consider that; then she smiled. "Yes, she's probably safer if she moved out of the city. People in these big apartment buildings don't seem to know each other, don't have the time. Everyone's always rushing around wrapped up in their own thoughts, busy, busy. I'm afraid we lead very insulated and uncaring lives."

"We should all take better care of each other," Mishkin said.

"Yes. We all share the guilt, in a way."

"We all agree that's true," Vitali said dismissively, trying to keep the Frost woman and Mishkin on point and hurry things along. What was it with Harold sometimes? "About your phone call, ma'am…"

Ida Frost's smile widened. "Am I a suspect?"

"Gosh, no!" Mishkin said, helping himself to another brownie.