John Lutz - Mister X

"You think it was the Carver who attacked you in Detroit?"

"It might have been, the way he displayed a knife, waved it around. There had been another woman attacked that way in Detroit, maybe by the same man. He was scared away that time, too. But in all honesty, it's mostly ambition that prompted me to politick for this assignment. I think there could be a book in this. I've already talked to an agent who'd be interested in handling it."

A book…Renz had never considered that. A book about his exploits, his rapid climb from patrolman to the top of the NYPD. Maybe he should consider trying to get an agent, a book contract. He could always find some schmuck to write the thing.

"This sicko who attacked you and this other woman," he said, "if it was the same guy. He was never apprehended?"

"'Fraid not."

She uncrossed, then recrossed her long legs. The swishing sound of nylon on nylon was almost enough to give Renz an erection.

"I think you could use me," she said.

My God, yes!

Renz's reaction didn't show on his saggy features, but he was sure Addie Price was aware of her effect on men.

"Now that you understand me," she said, "why don't you give me a better idea of what to expect if I am assigned to the case?"

Now they were down to it. Trading this for that. The quid pro quo. Renz's favorite part. Renz's world.

"You could expect to report to me and only me," he said. "And secretly."

"I would be your unofficial undercover operative."

"Unofficial is what you need to remember. But let's not forget confidential. This part of our conversation never took place."

The way she smiled and nodded, he could tell she was used to this kind of conniving and in fact enjoyed it. The way he did. He wondered if they might have even more in common than he'd first thought. Who could predict where their relationship might lead? Perhaps it was possible to have a soul mate even without a soul.

"I already have two NYPD detectives working with Quinn and his team," he said to her legs. "They're supposed to report to me the way I'd want you to report."

"And do they?"

"I can't be sure."

"You don't trust them?"

"Can't."

"Why not?"

Renz raised his gaze to meet her eyes. "Frank Quinn can be a very persuasive guy. People tend to fall in behind him. Also, he's not the kind of man you cross. Even hardened cops like my detectives might be afraid to get sideways of him. He locks on to his target like a radar-guided missile fueled by obsession, and he doesn't always operate strictly within the law."

"Is that why you hired Quinn?"

"Yeah. He and I understand each other, go way back."

"Boys' club."

"Sure."

Renz suddenly realized who her voice reminded him of-the young Lauren Bacall, vamping it up with Bogie. She was making Renz feel as if he were in a movie. Nice feeling.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Renz's heartbeat quickened.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Addie Price said.

Soul mates. "Yeah, there is. There's another reason I can trust my two guys on the case-Vitali and Mishkin-only so far. It's because I've moved up in the NYPD and become police commissioner. I'm seen mostly as a politician now, and not so much as a cop. My blood doesn't run completely blue, so I'm no longer a member of the club. Not to guys like Vitali and Mishkin, anyway."

"They good cops?"

"The best. Same way with Quinn and his team. They can be a pain in the ass, even to each other, but they get the job done."

"Any of them bendable?"

"No. They're all dead honest."

"Good. That makes them predictable."

"I wouldn't say that," Renz said. "Honest isn't always legal."

"I'm looking forward to meeting Quinn, if I'm hired."

"You're hired," Renz said. "Same terms as Quinn and his team. They're working out of Quinn's agency over on West Seventy-ninth Street."

"I know where it is."

Renz gave her his hound-dog smile. "I'll bet you do. I'll call Quinn today and tell him you're part of the team. Don't be surprised if they don't welcome you like a long-lost family member."

"I'll win them over," Addie said.

"I don't doubt that for a moment. You'll be the crime psychologist and profiler on the case."

"And your reliable spy," Addie said. "Not being a member of the club."

"You and I have our own club," Renz said, standing up while he didn't have an erection.

Addie unwound herself and stood up from her chair, smoothed down her skirt over those long thighs.

"Okay," she said in her Lauren Bacall voice. "Our own private club. Maybe with a secret handshake. Or something."

Renz sat back down fast and watched her see her own way out.

Joyce House lay in bed and stared up at the cracks in her bedroom ceiling. They were barely visible in the dim light, and through eyes still teared up slightly by the intensity of the sex she'd just experienced with Loren.

The pattern above was familiar to her. The fine network of cracks in the white plaster was like a road map to her future. She imagined the cracks as highways seen from a great distance, with varied destinations and important intersections. She knew precisely where she was now. If she turned left, she'd be traveling toward a dark wood. A right turn would take her to a city on a beach, where everything was bleached clean by the sun. Continuing straight would take her to a city exactly like New York.

Beside her Loren lay breathing evenly, sleeping from the efforts of their sometimes frenetic lovemaking. She'd known during the happy-ending play they'd seen, Manhattan Nocturne, and during dinner afterward, that he expected to leave the restaurant and walk with her to her apartment. She'd done nothing to discourage the idea.

Good thing. She hadn't suspected he was such an expert in bed.

She'd been inebriated from too much wine at dinner. She smiled. No, she'd been drunk, actually. That was the reason why her memory was foggy. Part of the reason, anyway. In her mind, the night had been layer after layer of fantasy, yet she knew it had happened. Loren had used only his tongue on her, sending her into frenzies of passion. A down payment, she thought he'd said. Well, if this was his idea of fore-play, bring it on.

Back to the ceiling road map.

Right now, the New York highway seemed a good one to stay on.

She imagined herself speeding along it toward a wonderful tomorrow. The fine crack in the ceiling was the road to a better world.

The road curved and rose and dipped into darkness, and she was asleep.

She awakened from a dream of bulk and weight pressing her upper body into the soft mattress.

No dream! Real!

She tried to sit up but couldn't.

For an instant she panicked. Then she realized the weight she felt was Loren's body, nude but for his white undershirt. He was seated on her with his knees on her upper arms, his bare buttocks just beneath her breasts. The room had gotten warm, and he was perspiring. The bedroom was no longer dim. He'd switched on the small shaded lamp on her dresser.

He had an erection and was smiling down at her.

One of his games.

Okay, she'd play. Though she wasn't so sure of this game.

But if it's going to be anything like last night…

She let her body go limp and returned his smile. His eyes, his smile, were so wonderful. She uttered his name in near reverence, and he held a forefinger to his lips in a signal for her to be silent. With his other hand he gripped her cheeks between thumb and forefinger and gently forced her mouth open.

He's going to use his tongue again…

Now he was stuffing something into her mouth. Material. Silky.

With a start, she realized it was her panties. He'd knotted them and forced the bulky knot between her parted lips. The instant she tried to turn her head to the side, he stretched the panties and somehow tied them behind her neck. The knotted nylon went deeper into her mouth, behind her teeth. The maneuver was done so deftly that she knew he'd practiced it or done it many times before.