John Lutz - Mister X

"Helen's been wrong a few times," Quinn said.

Renz leaned back in his chair, tucking in his chin so his fleshy jowls spilled over his stiff white collar. "If Chrissie didn't commit the other copycat murders, and the real Carver was active again, Chrissie's death and assumed guilt will probably induce him to return to his state of what he considers to be retirement."

"Those sound like Helen's words."

"They are. And with the Carver's last two murders-three, if you count Yancy Taggart-attributed to Chrissie, he'll be safe. And the city is safe, comparatively."

"And your political aspirations are safe."

"Comparatively."

"You are a bastard, Harley."

"Sure. But I said if Chrissie didn't commit the other murders. I think she probably did, and the Carver only had to outsmart us once, a long time ago."

"Sounds like you admire him."

"Well, he beat us," Renz said. "That's the only thing I admire about him."

"So you're satisfied with this outcome," Quinn said.

"Everybody's satisfied with it. Ask them."

"I have."

"And?"

"They're satisfied."

Renz grinned and shrugged. Then his expression abruptly changed, as if he'd suffered some slight pain. Or realized one might not go away. "You're still not satisfied, right?"

"It fits together," Quinn said. "But just."

"Like the killer was shot through the head, just." Renz tilted forward in his chair and propped his elbows on the desk. "Don't poke around at this, Quinn. It's a sleeping dog you'd best let lie."

Quinn smiled. "Because the dog might reveal some inconvenient truths?"

"Because the sonofabitch might have rabies."

Elana Dare twirled before the full-length mirror mounted on the back of her bedroom door, glancing over her shoulder so she could see the action of the silk skirt she'd bought only hours ago. The smooth, lined material draped from her hips as gracefully as it had in the shop's mirrors. It moved just right, was just revealing enough. Any tawdriness that might be suggested by the brief hemline was mitigated by the overlapping panels and dark gray color. The skirt was sensual yet subdued.

Sexy with class, Elana decided.

Perhaps the most momentous thing she'd done in her life was to mention during a conversation with Gerald Lone the date of her birthday. He'd phoned later and asked if he could take her to dinner on that night to celebrate. He'd also promised there would be no strings attached, that he simply liked and admired her and wanted to contribute to her happiness.

No mention of how they'd grown closer on discovering how much they had in common, or of the electricity they could almost see when bare flesh touched bare flesh. And of course there was no mention of how his charm had finally overwhelmed her.

So they had a dinner date. No strings.

And after dinner, though Gerald might not know it yet, they would come here to her apartment-which she'd better start cleaning, since there wouldn't be much time tomorrow.

Elana smiled at her image in the mirror. It was still an attractive image, but no longer a young one. For God's sake, she'd be twenty-seven years old tomorrow! How had it happened?

Time was such a clever thief; she understood that now, and she knew that a person had to anticipate that stealth. Time would have you before you knew it. Well, that wasn't going to happen to Elana. She wasn't going to grow old too fast and smart too slow, while year after lonely year passed faster and faster.

She had her mind made up that tomorrow night things would be different. Those strings Gerald had mentioned would attach themselves, and bind them one to the other.

Elana could be clever, just like time. After a good meal, good wine, it would be easy to make it seem like Gerald's idea to come home with her.

But it was Elana's idea. She'd be the one in control.

She was determined that tomorrow night she would make of Gerald Lone a birthday present for herself.

Quinn left Renz's office in a glum mood. It was true that everyone else who'd been involved in the investigation was satisfied with the outcome. Satisfied enough, anyway. Renz was certainly content with his cemented and powerful political position.

Fedderman was a realist and resigned to a gray world.

Helen the profiler would get a pat on the back and maybe a raise in pay.

Addie Price would have something to chatter about during her TV spots in Detroit, and no doubt her speaking fee would increase.

Vitali and Mishkin were in line for commendations and might be kicked up a notch in rank and pay.

Bribes to let the sleeping dog lie.

Even Pearl seemed comfortable with the result of the investigation. There seemed to be no doubt in her mind that Chrissie had killed Yancy. Pearl had come to the hostage site ready to find any excuse to avenge Yancy's death by killing Chrissie. She'd been burning to kill Chrissie. Only Pearl could have stopped Pearl from squeezing the trigger. And Pearl had.

But that didn't change the way she felt about Chrissie Keller.

Well, maybe they all had it right, Quinn thought. Justice had been served here in a number of ways. Chrissie's death might mark the end of the new incarnation of the Carver, and Chrissie had found her revenge. She'd killed her father, and her mother had to live with her guilt for not speaking up years ago, and with the image of her daughter's head exploding from the impact of a bullet that took brain matter with it as it exited the skull.

Maybe worst of all for her, Erin would always remember that shotgun barrel moving back and forth between her and Quinn, and she'd always wonder who would have been her daughter's choice to die next in the West Side apartment.

With the later murders attributed to Chrissie, the Carver's time of bloody rampage was finally over.

The victims' families would find peace and the much-mentioned closure. Mary Bakehouse would cease to be afraid and have two good and loyal friends in the large golden retrievers she'd bought as her protectors, dogs that would probably never under any circumstances bite anyone.

Maybe Renz was right, and Quinn shouldn't poke and probe.

Quinn believed that.

Sure, he did.

Addie phoned Quinn and told him she was returning to Detroit on a late flight out of Kennedy. He asked to see her one more time. About the case, he assured her. It was already afternoon; could she drop by his apartment to discuss the investigation in private?

"The investigation's over," she said.

"I'm not so sure."

He could hear her breathing into the phone as he sat watching the only thing moving in the quiet office, dust motes swirling in a sun beam that had penetrated the front window.

"Have I made you curious?" he asked.

She laughed. "I'll admit that."

"Because you have doubts, too?"

"Because you're always sure of everything. That's what attracted me to you in the first place."

"So we can talk about it? Maybe we can discuss it over dinner someplace."

"I'm having dinner on the plane."

"What? Peanuts and miniature cookies?"

"I'm flying first class, Quinn. It'll be steak."

"My apartment, then. Afterward we'll stop by your place for your luggage, and I'll drive you to the airport."

"Okay, your apartment," she said. "For a drink and a chat. And we can leave from there for the airport. I only have a couple of carry-ons. I travel light and unburdened by baggage."

"Then you're lucky," Quinn said.

She laughed again. "So philosophical for a cop. That's something else that drew me to you."

"So what's scaring you away?"

"So dark," she said.

When they'd broken the connection, he wondered if she'd been kidding.

She was wearing a light beige blouse with a white scarf knotted loosely at her throat, dark brown slacks with brown high heels that made her legs look longer. A large black leather carry-on was slung by a narrow strap over her shoulder. She smiled at Quinn in a way that wounded him, and he would always remember.