John Lutz - Mister X

Pearl extended one foot off the curb into the street and waved, kind of with her whole body.

Sure enough, a cab's brake lights flared, and it made a U-turn, causing oncoming traffic to weave and honk, and drove half a block the wrong way in the curb lane to come to a halt near Pearl.

"It might have been Bobbie with an 'I-E,'" Fedderman said, as she was climbing into the back of the cab. "A woman."

Pearl glared at him. "Dream on."

She slammed the cab's door before he could reply.

Fedderman watched the cab make another U-turn to get straight with the traffic. He wondered if Pearl had always been the way she was, born with a burr up her ass. She was so damned smart, but always mouthing off and getting into trouble. What a waste. She'd never had a chance to make it any higher in the NYPD than he had. Fedderman was steady, a plodder, a solid detective, unskilled at departmental politics and wise enough to stay out of them. Staying out of things was another of Pearl's problems. She couldn't.

Another problem was that Pearl was a woman, and she had those looks. Her appearance drew unwanted attention, and she'd always been too hotheaded to handle it. She'd punched an NYPD captain once in a Midtown hotel after he'd touched her where he shouldn't have. That alone would have been enough to sink most careers. It hadn't quite sunk Pearl's, but there was always a hole in her boat, and she'd had to bail constantly just to stay afloat. That was why she'd finally drifted out of the NYPD and into the bank guard job. She could be nice to people ten, twenty seconds at a stretch, so it had worked out okay for her. But she'd never been happy at Sixth National. She missed the challenge, the action, the satisfaction of bringing down the bad guys, even the danger.

The way Fedderman had missed that life while chasing after elusive golf balls down in Florida, or fishing in Gulf waters and pulling from the sea creatures he didn't even recognize as fish.

Like Pearl, he'd been ripe for Quinn's call.

Fedderman smiled in the direction Pearl had gone and then walked away, his right shirt cuff unbuttoned and flapping like a white surrender flag with every stride. If he knew about the cuff, he didn't seem to mind.

He did kind of mind that there would be no more free drinks and appetizers at Sammy's.

The next morning they were sitting in the arrangement of desks that made up Quinn and Associates' office. Quinn was seated behind his desk, Pearl and Fedderman in chairs facing him. Low-angled sunlight invaded through the iron-grilled window and warmed the office. The Mr. Coffee over on the table in the corner was chuggling away, filling the air with the rich scent of fresh-brewed beans.

Fedderman had his suit coat off and was slouched sideways, taking notes. His right shirt cuff was already unbuttoned. That usually happened because of the way he cocked and dragged his wrist over paper as he wrote. A sunbeam alive with dust motes had found Pearl and made her more vividly beautiful than ever. Quinn wished, as he often did, that what they'd shared together hadn't ended. He liked to think that maybe it hadn't. He knew Pearl liked to think that it definitely had, for her, anyway. Could be she was right.

Quinn had made copies of the clippings Chrissie Keller had given him, and he explained the situation. Pearl and Fedderman listened carefully. This was the sort of investigation they all liked-multiple murder rather than credit card pilfering. In the world of catching the bad guys and setting things as right as possible, solving this one could make a person feel useful. If only the case weren't more than five years old. They all knew the odds of rekindling the past and nailing the Carver were long.

"I've read a lot about the mystical link between twins," Pearl said, when Quinn was finished talking. "I'd like to say it's bullshit, but I'm not so sure."

"I don't see how the mystery of twins is in any way relevant to this," Fedderman said. "Other than motivating our client."

"That's enough relevance," Quinn said, "considering we're no longer paid by the city." He looked at Pearl. "Or by a bank."

They had all stuck their necks out to create this investigative agency, and they knew it.

Three people, working without a net. No one said anything for a while.

"That was a pregnant pause if ever I didn't hear one," Pearl finally said.

Fedderman, who'd been adding tooth marks to his dented yellow pencil, glanced over at her. "Does that mean we can expect another, smaller pause?"

"Point is," Quinn said, "however a client's motivated, if it's legal and ethical, we'll gladly accept payment."

"One out of two would be okay," Pearl said.

She was ignored.

"You mentioned our client had won some sorta jackpot," Fedderman said to Quinn.

"Slot machine thing. She hit a kind of tri-state trifecta and got temporarily rich. This is how she feels compelled to spend her money."

"That mysterious twins business," Pearl said. She'd also been taking notes. She tapped her pencil's eraser on a front tooth in tiny bounces. "I remember the Carver murders, how they confounded the hell out of everyone. You looked through this stuff already, Quinn. Do you think we've really got a chance of finding the killer?"

"A chance, sure."

"It'd help if we could get the murder books outta the NYPD cold-case files," Fedderman said.

"Right now," Quinn said, "I don't think the NYPD would be very cooperative. Understandably, they don't want us stirring up something they failed to solve."

"Maybe you could talk to Renz," Pearl said.

Harley Renz was the city's popular police commissioner, and a longtime acquaintance of them all. He was an unashamed, ambitious, and corrupt bureaucratic climber. "Renz would have the most to lose if we came along after five years and solved a serial killer case," Quinn said. "In Harley's eyes, that'd be making the NYPD look like dopes."

"It wouldn't be the first time," Fedderman said. "So what would he lose?"

"Political capital. To Renz, that's like losing his own blood. In fact, it is his blood." Quinn laced his fingers behind his neck and leaned back in his chair. Maybe too far back. Pearl was watching him, waiting to see if this time he'd topple backward. Maybe hoping. "We need to have something solid before we go to Renz," Quinn said. "And some way for him to gain by us solving the case."

"Meanwhile," Pearl said, "we do our jobs, and never mind if our efforts are hopeless."

"I'll miss the free drinks and food at Sammy's," Fedderman said. "But to tell you the truth, I was getting tired of playing the alcoholic businessman. And Pearl was putting on weight."

"I'll come over there and put some weight on your goddamned head," Pearl said.

Quinn thought about settling them down so they could all get to work familiarizing themselves with the five-year-old murder investigation; then he decided against it. He knew Pearl, and she wasn't yet at the point where she would physically attack Fedderman. And experience had taught Fedderman how to tread around Pearl just out of range while sticking her with his barbs. So let them agitate each other, Quinn thought.

It was how they worked best.

It had been a grueling series of hot and dusty bus rides from Bennett, South Dakota, to New York City. You could measure the distance in more than miles. Mary Bakehouse didn't want to make the return trip. Ever.

She'd spent the weekend moving in to her new apartment in the East Village. Mary had enough money that she could afford the place for a while. In the meantime she'd be job hunting.

The apartment was the third-floor east unit of a six-story building. The previous tenant had been a smoker, and the scent of stale tobacco smoke made itself known at unexpected times, when closet doors were opened or summer breezes worked their way in through the window and played across the floor. The window was stuck only two inches open and wouldn't budge, so usually the living room was stale and stuffy. Mary would buy some kind of aerosol air freshener when she got a chance. Or maybe one of those things you plugged into an electrical socket and it hissed every fifteen minutes or so and deodorized the air. Something was needed. She didn't like tobacco smoke and could smell it for what seemed like blocks. She had a nose like a beagle, a boyfriend had told her once, not quite grasping what he'd said. She hadn't gone out with him again, figuring him to be mentally inferior.