John Lutz - In for the Kill

He let his right arm drop and laid the folded paper on the floor, then adjusted the chair at a lower angle and rested the back of his head against the soft leather headrest. Though he didn't require much sleep, it wasn't unusual for him to nap during the daytime in the recliner. It was because he often worked most of the night.

He glanced at his watch. Not even three o'clock. There was plenty of time before he had to shower and dress for this evening. He settled deeper into the chair, closed his eyes, and thought about Marilyn Nelson. His right hand, the one that had held the folded paper, moved to his crotch.

Pearl's phone was ringing when she entered her apartment that evening, and she made the mistake of picking it up without looking at caller ID.

"Pearl, it's your mother. You're finally home. I've been calling and calling."

Pearl's mood darkened, as it did whenever her mother called from where she lived in the Golden Sunset assisted living apartments in Teaneck.

"Sorry, Mom. Busy working." She stretched the phone cord so she could move halfway across the room and start the window air conditioner. It would soon cool down the apartment and chase away the musty smell that often permeated the place.

Her mother said something she didn't understand, so she moved away from the humming air conditioner. "Say again, Mom."

"The Butcher murders. Why haven't you caught the animal yet?"

"He's smart, Mom, like the papers and TV say."

"Still, you have Captain Quinn."

"He's not exactly a captain anymore." It rankled Pearl, the way her mother was a sucker for phony Irish charm and remained so fond of Quinn. She could still hear her mother's confidential whisper after meeting Quinn the first time: "He's the one. A keeper. A real mensch, that one."

"But the television news-"

"Not a permanent captain, anyway," Pearl interrupted. "He's more a civilian temporarily out of retirement."

"Like yourself, dear?"

"Not unlike."

"I never approved of you in that dangerous occupation."

Or any other. "I know, Mom."

"So why haven't you phoned your apartment from time to time to check your messages? You'd have learned your mother was calling from nursing home hell."

"It's not a nursing home, Mom. It's assisted living."

"I need assistance to breathe?"

"Not for that, thank God." Not yet. Pearl lay awake sweating in bed sometimes, thinking of even more oppressive days to come. "For other things."

"Oh? Such as?"

Pearl remembered the time her mother had warmed up a can of chili by placing it in a pot of water on the stove-neglecting to open the can-and heating it until it exploded, sending boiling water and chili all over her kitchen. Pearl remembered because it was she who'd had to clean up the mess. "I'm thinking about the chili on the ceiling, Mom."

"You mean the cans they don't make like they used to."

"If you say so."

"No, it's not what I say. It's whether they're making paper-thin cans these days, and they are."

Pearl moved over a few feet so she'd be in the flow of cool air from the window unit. "You might be right, Mom." Just let me get off the phone!

"Your mother's always right, dear." Violent coughing. Dramatic pause.

Pearl played along. "Mom?" She was surprised to hear real concern in her voice.

"I'm right about this, too, dear. It's something mothers can feel. God willing, you'll know someday."

Pearl worked her feet out of her shoes and wriggled her toes. "We still talking about the chili?"

"My reference was to Mrs. Kahn's nephew, Milton."

Huh?

Pearl knew Mrs. Kahn, a seventy-six-year-old woman with a walker with tennis balls on it, was in the assisted living unit next to her mother's. "I don't think I know him, Mom."

"But you should, Pearl, which is why I called."

"Nine times," Pearl said, "according to the message count on my answering machine."

"The machine you should have remotely checked to see if you had any messages at all."

"Why would I want to know this nephew Milton?" But Pearl knew why.

"Because he's eligible in every way, and newly single."

"I don't have time right now to search for a husband, Mom, being busy searching for a killer."

"What search? I'm dropping him into your lap."

"I want my lap empty for now."

There was a long silence on the other end of the connection. Then: "Speaking of your lap, so how is that nice Captain-excuse me-Mr. Quinn?"

"Jesus, Mom!"

"Pearl!"

"Sorry for the language. Mr. Quinn's fine."

"You didn't preface his name with 'nice.'"

"No, I didn't. He isn't nice all the time."

"So who is, dear? Did he ever beat you?"

"Never."

"Then he was nice enough to you and would be again. He's quite handsome in a manly way and is a person of substance, Pearl. There will come a time when you won't want to chase criminals, or stand in one spot in a bank developing varicose veins just to earn a small paycheck. There will come a time when you might be in assisted living."

Pearl hated these phone conversations with her mother. They almost always ended in arguments, and this evening Pearl was tired. She'd worked hard. She didn't feel like bickering with anyone, much less her mother. And she especially didn't want to argue about her status as a divorced single woman. It simply was not in her at this time to foster her mother's delusion that her daughter was actively seeking a husband.

"Whether or not you say so, Pearl, Mr. Quinn is a fine man."

"He's an obsessive psychopath."

"They can be good providers, dear."

Pearl hung up.

Hard enough that her mother wouldn't call her back tonight.

But maybe tomorrow.

The Butcher prepared himself to go out. He took a shower, not a bath, then put on clean blue silk boxer shorts. He brushed his teeth with Crest, combed his hair, and leisurely dressed in his new clothes.

All the time he was doing this, somewhere in his layered and partitioned mind he was thinking about Marilyn Nelson; the rhythmic roll of her hips when she walked, the mischievous glitter like dark tinsel in her eye when she turned and ducked her head to glance at him. As if on some level she knew. And maybe she already did know. Like some of the others, maybe from time to time she caught a glimpse of destiny that transcended conscious thought.

His second N woman.

Florence Norton had been a matter of expedience. This one he would take his time with and relish. He owed her that, as he owed himself. They were in this together now, whether she realized it or not. Partners in crime and time and players in the game that could only end one way for Marilyn Nelson.

Finished dressing, he stood before the full-length mirror attached to the closet door and appraised himself. He could smell his expensive spicy aftershave. It was much too strong now, but he'd recently applied it and knew that within a short while it would lose much of its potency.

He turned this way and that, striking poses like a confident and playful catalog model, observing how he looked in the outfit he'd bought that morning at Rough Country in Queens.

Marilyn would be pleased, but it wasn't his usual style. He wasn't crazy about the square-pocket jeans and rough piped cotton shirt with its flap pockets and dull brass snaps instead of buttons. The essence of Rough Country style seemed to lie in the liberal use of metals and coarse material. He preferred tailored conservative suits, custom-made shirts of Egyptian cotton, and silk ties. But since he had on the shirt and jeans, he didn't so much mind the boots. They were surprisingly comfortable.

He did flatly like the hat. It was like a cowboy hat but with a narrower, raked brim. Like something Glenn Ford might have worn. He was partial to Glenn Ford movies, and fancied that he bore some resemblance to the late movie star, which was enhanced by the hat.