John Lutz - Mister X

"You do have your computers networked, don't you?" Nyler asked.

Quinn shrugged. "I, uh-"

"We don't think so," Pearl said.

Nyler looked at her strangely, then must have seen something in her eyes and looked away. "No matter. I can check after I'm done here and we can deal with it." He grinned hugely, and Hitler disappeared. "Whatever issues you might have, we can deal with them."

Quinn wondered if anyone had problems anymore instead of issues.

With what looked like a surgeon's pale fingers, Nyler worked his laptop's cursor and keyboard, and up popped thumbnail shots of about twenty male C and C clients. "I used certain protocols to zero in on the clients most likely to get in touch with the victim; then I further honed the list by pinpointing those clients the victim herself might have initially contacted in hopes of a prospective romance."

Pearl thought, You little old matchmaker.

"To hone the list even more, we factored in geography," Nyler said. "Then came the hard part. It was tedious and time consuming, but we obtained most of the remaining clients' addresses. Sometimes we had to rely on Homeland Security; sometimes the names and addresses were simply in the phone book."

"You should have been a detective," Fedderman said.

Nyler glanced over at him. "I am."

My God, Pearl thought, the new breed.

Nyler brushed back his fuehrer lock of dark hair from his forehead and got back to business. "I overlaid a city map marked with the addresses and sites where the murders occurred." He right-clicked his computer's mouse, and a detailed map of Manhattan came on screen. The image grew larger as he zoomed in to Midtown and South Manhattan.

"There are seven suspect C and C clients living in near juxtaposition to the murder sites," he said. The cursor danced and blinked over one flagged address after another, and information, names, and addresses of seven men came on the screen.

"Are you saying one of these men is probably the Carver?" Quinn asked.

"No. I'm saying that of the C and C clients on the final list, the circumstances of personality, compatibility with the victim, appearance, age, and geography make these men the most logical for you to contact first."

"Does it make sense that they'd kill close to home?" Pearl asked.

"Close, no. But it also doesn't make sense that they'd kill farther from home than necessary. Everyone, even serial killers, tends to fall into patterns. Even a cautious killer will leave their house or apartment and turn either right or left most often, take a subway or cab or bus or not. Eat and shop at some of the same places. If they're driving, they'll avoid certain one-way or narrow streets, heavy traffic, or predictable long-term construction delays. In short, we all unconsciously choose the easiest route to wherever we're going. We seldom unnecessarily go out of our way, even while going somewhere to commit murder." He looked at each of his listeners in turn. "Remember, we're only discussing probabilities here."

"Possibilities," Pearl said.

"Okay," Nyler said. Again the un-Hitler smile that made him look like a mischievous child. Had the real Hitler smiled like that? "Odds," he said.

"We don't even know for sure it was a C and C client who killed Branston," Quinn said.

"Well, it's an imperfect world," Nyler said. "And difficult to predict. I'm just trying to chart you the easiest possible way to get where you want to be."

"Like the killer choosing a victim," Fedderman said.

"Or the victim moving toward her killer. Starting at any of those seven addresses, and the victim's address, my computerized victim and killer should think and act somewhat in conjunction, whether they know it or not."

"And you came to this conclusion by starting at the crime scenes and working backward," Pearl said.

"Er, not exactly. But yes, that's pretty much how it works."

"That's how we work," Quinn said.

"There you go," Nyler said.

"Whaddya think?" Pearl asked when Nyler had gone.

"I think it's mostly bullshit," Quinn said, "but we oughta go to those seven addresses and talk to those seven guys."

"Funny if they turn out to be seven brothers looking for brides," Fedderman said. "Or three feet tall, like in Snow White. Hey, maybe I'll get Dopey."

"I get him all the time," Pearl said.

Quinn gave her his warning look.

"If they have something else in common," Pearl said, "it'll give me more confidence in Nyler and his computer program." She gave Quinn a look to let him know she was dubious about this turn in the case. "It seems to me this is a good job for Vitali and Mishkin."

"No," Quinn said, "I'd rather have them looking for the real Chrissie Keller. Besides, you're the closest thing we've got to Snow White."

Pearl drew a guy named Fred Levin who lived on Fifth Avenue near the park. It was an impressive address. Everything in the lobby was drastically oversized, as if to make smaller and intimidate anyone who happened in uninvited. She showed the six-foot-plus doorman one of the badges given out by Renz, and he called up and explained to Levin that she was a detective.

Levin told the doorman to send Pearl up, and after signing in to the building she rode the big elevator to the big seventeenth floor.

The hall was carpeted in rich brown that felt a foot thick under Pearl's feet. The apartment doors were cream colored and gilded, with gleaming curled brass handles rather than knobs. One of the doors down the hall was open, and a medium-height, slender, dark-haired guy was standing just outside it smiling at Pearl. He was wearing tight designer jeans and a white golf shirt with a turned-up collar. From this distance, he appeared quite handsome.

Fred Levin wasn't a disappointment close up. He had chiseled features with full lips for a man, and a head of wavy black hair. His dark eyes took in Pearl with obvious interest. She saw that he was wearing leather deck shoes without socks. He was thirty-five, according to Pearl's information, but he might have passed for twenty-five. Pearl thought smoldering would describe him pretty well. Maybe there was something to this C and C operation.

She introduced herself, and they shook hands.

"You're a detective?" he asked, as she approached. "Like on Law and Order?"

"Uh-huh. Just like."

Levin stepped aside so she could enter, then closed the door and motioned for her to sit on a light tan leather sofa. There were matching chairs and a low coffee table the size of a small airport. Works of modern art hung on the walls. They were mostly prints, but a few were definitely oils, and something about them suggested they'd been carefully chosen.

Pearl sat. "Nice apartment."

"I hired a decorator," Levin said. "A few years ago, when things were going well."

"Things aren't going well now?" Pearl asked.

Levin shrugged. "You know, Wall Street. I worked for Lehman Brothers, and then a smaller firm after Lehman went under. Five months ago the smaller firm went under."

"So you're unemployed?"

He smiled. "'Fraid so. But the smaller firm ran hedge funds and I walked away with scads of money, so unemployment doesn't stop me from offering you something to drink."

"These hedge funds were legal?"

"Barely. Coffee? Something stronger?"

"Water would be good," Pearl said.

She watched him walk into the kitchen. So slender and athletic. On a tall bookcase near a window was what looked like a skiing trophy.

"You ski competitively?" she asked, when he returned with a tumbler of water with crushed ice in it.

"Used to," Levin said. "Downhill slalom. Till I tore up one of my knees a few years ago."

"That's too bad." Pearl sipped her ice water. She remained on the sofa. Levin remained standing. "Do you recognize this woman?" she asked, and stretched out an arm to hand him a photograph of Lilly Branston.