John Lutz - Mister X

"Like she was posing for somebody?"

"Yes, sir, like that. But not for me. More like for the guy in her room."

"Then what happened?"

"I saw the guy come over to the window, just his arms and hands, and he closed the drapes."

"You saw his arms. Did you get any idea of what he was wearing? A shirt, a suit coat?"

"I got the impression he wasn't wearing anything, like Ms. Branston wasn't." Stephen moved back and leaned against the balcony's iron railing. Fedderman stood close to him. You never knew what people were going to do, and it was a long drop to the sidewalk. "It all went so fast," Stephen said. "It was impossible to make out exactly what was happening."

"Did you continue to watch?"

"No, sir. After the guy closed the drapes, there was nothing to see. Then after about an hour, I went back to take another look. And the drapes were open again. The window was open, too, like the guy was trying to air out the room." Sal looked over at Quinn without expression.

"The window hadn't been opened before?" Quinn asked.

"No, sir. I'm sure it wasn't. Is that important?"

"Who knows?" Quinn said, thinking the killer might not have wanted the body found right away, might have wanted fresh air in the room so the neighbors wouldn't smell the stench of putrefaction or feces so soon. If so, he'd gotten crossed up. He'd lost a measure of control.

Stephen swallowed several times and continued. "Ms. Branston was still in bed. But something didn't look right, even from this distance. Her face was like…distorted. And I thought she was wearing something red that didn't look right, either. So I really worked at focusing in, and"-Adam's apple time again-"I saw she wasn't wearing something red, that what I was looking at was blood. And her throat…" Stephen's voice became hoarse and cracked. He looked as if he might start to cry.

Quinn could understand why. With the powerful telescope, it must have been as if Stephen was right there in the room with the corpse.

"There, there, son," Quinn said, and gently patted his shoulder.

"That was when I called nine-one-one," Stephen said in a choked voice. Quinn could hear his Adam's apple working.

"Of course you did," Quinn said.

"When I saw the police cars start to arrive, I left here and walked over there, to where she lived. The police asked me who I was, if I was the one who'd called nine-one-one. When I told them I was, they sat me on a bench. That's where I stayed till Detective Vitali came and got my statement. Then you guys came and got me."

"A rough experience," Quinn said. "You did the right thing."

"You really think so, sir?"

"Of course. Say, Stephen, you ever take any photographs through that telescope of yours?"

"No, sir. Why would I do such a thing?"

"I don't know. I just wondered." Quinn smiled. "That's what I do a lot of in my job, Stephen. I wonder."

"I guess you do," Stephen said.

He agreed to come into the precinct house the next morning and sign a statement. Vitali and Mishkin would conduct the interview, and of course furnish transcripts to Quinn and company. It occurred to Quinn that this hybrid investigation was something like the government being in banking. Not always as efficient as it might be. But still in business.

It was raining lightly from a starless night sky when they stepped outside Stephen Elsinger's apartment building. The wet sidewalks shot back reflected light, and the street lamps were low stars in the mist. Sal and Mishkin had a city car. Quinn felt moisture cool on the back of his neck as he and Fedderman moved toward Quinn's Lincoln.

Then Quinn realized there was another reason for the chill he felt. Across the street stood the shadow woman in her usual hip-shot fashion, with her elbows out and her hands propped at her waist. She was in a doorway but up close to the sidewalk, and seemed surprised she'd been noticed. Her body gave a slight jerk, and she turned calmly and started to walk, then run.

All four detectives had seen her, and all realized that by the time they got into a car and got it started, she'd be long gone where a vehicle couldn't follow.

They all began running after her, starting slowly, as she had started, in for the long haul. If this was to be an endurance contest, the law would win it.

She was running downtown on Park, about a hundred yards ahead of them, and they were keeping pace. Everyone on the side of the law was already breathing hard, and this appeared to be a fairly young woman they were pursuing. Quinn heard a leather sole slip on wet concrete, and someone-maybe Vitali-curse. The odds were slim that any of them would be able to catch her. Quinn heard Mishkin use his two-way to ask for help from any radio car in the vicinity. He was difficult to understand between rasping breaths.

Male ego. Quinn wondered if that was what had caused them to begin this pursuit with such high hopes. Cops and ex-cops, no longer young. Flatfeet. For all they knew, the woman ahead of them was an Olympic contender.

There was only sparse traffic at this late hour, and no one driving past paid much attention to the footrace that was going on along Park Avenue. Now and then the participants encountered a pedestrian, usually carrying an umbrella, who stood staring in surprise and curiosity as they plodded past, rooster tails of rain at their heels.

Quinn knew that if the woman managed to flag down a cab, and climb in with enough time and bullshit, she'd soon be out of reach. Bunch of middle-aged creeps chasing her, maybe drunk. Damsel in distress. The cabbie would buy into whatever tale she told him and spirit her blocks away in no time.

She crossed half of the street diagonally and was running now alongside the grass median, staying on pavement where the footing was better. Maybe hoping to be noticed easier by a cab.

Quinn felt his legs weakening, and the familiar throbbing pain in the one that had taken the bullet and was now supposedly healed. His ribs were beginning to ache. Mishkin pulled even with him, as if they were competing with each other, elbows pumping rhythmically as pistons. His droopy wet mustache and the look of determination on his usually mild features made Quinn think of a western gunslinger headed for a showdown.

A showdown, Quinn thought. That's what we need. But he knew the four of them were fading.

Posse of old bastards…

Then he heard a grunt, not so much of pain as of determination, and Fedderman was pulling away, his lanky, mismatched frame suddenly and amazingly graceful at high speed.

Quinn watched with astonishment, forgetting for a moment how difficult it was for him simply to keep running.

Fedderman was loping like a wolf, gaining on the woman, who glanced back in surprise and ran harder.

Fedderman ran harder, too. He was inspired.

Go, Feds!

Damn it! Here came a cab, its service light glowing. The shadow woman was waving an arm desperately as she ran, trading a little speed if she could just catch the cabby's attention.

Quinn watched the cab cross two lanes of traffic and head toward her.

Gonna lose her again!

Gonna lose her!

A siren yodeled, and a radio car turned the corner, roof bar lights flashing in the mist.

The shadow woman saw the police car and changed direction, trying to cross the grass median. She stumbled and fell to her hands and knees. Got up. Ran back out into the street, but away from the police car.

Toward the cab.

Damn it! She was going to make it.

Don't let her get in!

Don't-

She was suddenly on her hands and knees again, staring up at the fast-approaching cab. Its brake lights flared, and its wheels locked. The pavement was too wet for the tires to screech. They made a loud scraping sound, like fingernails clawing over cardboard, as the vehicle slid toward the immobile woman.