John Lutz - In for the Kill

"Tempting," Pearl told him. She glanced over at where Quinn was seated behind his desk, studying a sheet of paper she figured was the killer's tantalizing note.

Fedderman had been studying the same thing. "The 'gold' in the note might mean blondes," he said, making a sour face after sipping his morning coffee. "Our sicko's been killing brunettes. Maybe he's hinting to us he's gonna start murdering blondes."

"That wouldn't fit the profile," Pearl said. "He wouldn't be set off by blondes the same way he is by brunettes."

Quinn said, "Hmm." She wondered if that was agreement.

"You're assuming it's the hair that's triggering his choice of victims," Fedderman said. "Maybe he's focusing on something else about these women."

"Such as?" Quinn asked.

Fedderman shrugged. "In what other ways are the victims similar? Eyes, legs, the way they dress, their noses, height, boobs? There are lots of possibilities."

Pearl felt somewhat offended but couldn't say why. "A bit of a reach," was what she said.

"It is," Quinn agreed, "but it might be true that his next victim doesn't necessarily have to fit the profile."

Pearl knew how little faith Quinn put in profilers. She didn't quite agree, but now wasn't the time to argue with him.

"He might have read all those books and watched those TV shows about serial killers and he's decided to run counter to type," Quinn said. With his free hand, he absently toyed with a wrapped cigar in his shirt pocket. Pearl knew he didn't dare.

"It's happened before," Fedderman said. "Blondes," he repeated thoughtfully. "Gold…blondes. The time when he displayed the pubic hairs to make sure we knew he'd really killed a brunette, maybe that's when he started to deliberately change his profile. First make-believe blondes, then on to the real thing. He wouldn't be the first."

"What the hell does that mean?" Pearl asked.

Fedderman sipped coffee and shrugged.

"There's enough to what you say about the possibility of some commonality we haven't struck on," Quinn told him, "that I'm going to study the morgue shots and photos of the women while they were alive to see if they might share something other than general type and hair color." He laid the killer's note on the desk. "You and Pearl take another look at where they were killed."

"Their apartments?"

"See if there might be some common denominator there. Their tastes in art, the way the places are furnished. And if it's still possible, look at their wardrobes. Maybe there was something about the way they dressed that turned them into victims."

"I thought I'd talk again to some of the victims' friends or neighbors," Pearl said. "When they get tired enough of us, they might remember something just so we leave them alone."

Quinn thought about it. "Okay. Catch up with Feds later. I'm going to worry over this note a while longer, then go see if Renz has anything new. He's got a meeting this morning with the profiler, so it'll probably be mostly bullshit."

Pearl went into the washroom and waited until Fedderman had left, then returned to where Quinn was still seated behind his desk.

"You check on that Wormy guy?" he asked, organizing the Marilyn Nelson murder book before closing it.

"We don't have a sheet on him. I contacted Buffalo, where he grew up. He's clean there, too. Might as well be an Eagle Scout."

"He looks like a damned junkie. If he's not a known user, he must be on something legal, like glue or gasoline." He bowed his head and gazed thoughtfully at the killer's note lying in the center of his desk. "Some of them just don't get caught."

Pearl didn't know if he meant junkies or serial killers. "I had another talk with Lauri," she said.

He glanced up at her, surprised. "Duty above and beyond. Thanks."

"It was her idea."

Quinn leaned back in his chair so he could see her without craning his neck and began to swivel inches this way and that, as if experiencing the beginning of uneasiness. "Lauri's idea?"

"Yeah. We met at a restaurant near the Hungry U and had sodas, then walked around the Village a while. She's a great kid, got more sense than most her age."

"But not enough sense."

"Well, at that age, no. Even thee and me. If you can remember back that far."

"She told me she likes you," Quinn said. "Really admires you."

"She used those words?"

"Verbatim."

"That's nice to know." Pearl was surprised by how pleased she felt. "It partly explains why she wanted to tag along with me while I work."

Quinn stopped swiveling gently back and forth in his chair. He looked mystified. "Tag along?"

"That's what she wanted. Why she phoned and asked to meet with me."

"You mean she wants to hang out with you, even while you're working?"

"She wants to watch and learn, Quinn. She told me she wants to become a cop."

Quinn sat stunned. Lauri? A cop? His own little girl? She had no idea what that meant. What she'd see and do, and how it would change her.

"She damned well better not tag along with you," he told Pearl.

She smiled. "That's exactly what I told her, Dad. Almost verbatim." She went to the door and looked back at him. "Still, I'm flattered she thinks highly of me."

"I don't want her hurt," he said helplessly.

"Neither of us does, Quinn."

"Jesus, what would May say if she knew?"

"I guess you're gonna find out."

He watched Pearl go out into the already steamy morning.

For a long time he sat staring at the closed door. Being a father-a close-by father-wasn't easy. Nothing seemed to work out as he planned. Lauri didn't act or react the way he imagined she would. Hardly ever. Turning up unexpectedly at his door, the job at the restaurant, going out with that Wormy misfit. What next, a tattoo?

He'd tried to act in her best interests, got Pearl to talk with her, the better to understand her. That had sure as hell backfired. Now his daughter wanted to be like Pearl. A cop.

Like me.

His brief flush of pride became a stab of pain.

A life like mine.

Quinn noticed he was squeezing the desk edge with both hands so hard that his fingers where white.

Daughters!

He could barely contain his frustration.

Pearl sat in the unmarked parked across the street from the Waverton Hotel and watched a sprinkling of raindrops dot the windshield. Rain wasn't in the forecast and she knew it would stop soon. A brief summer spritzing that would juice up the humidity and make the day even hotter.

She wasn't much concerned with the weather. Pearl hadn't yet visited any of the victims' apartments, per Quinn's instructions. She was holding her cell phone loosely in her right hand, hefting it as if contemplating throwing it.

But she didn't throw it. She used it.

Jeb Jones was in his room at the Waverton when Pearl called. When he picked up on the third ring and said hello, she said, "This is Detective Kasner, Mr. Jones."

"Ah, Pearl."

"Detective Kasner," she repeated.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have assumed we were on a first-name basis."

Pearl felt frustrated. Already she'd botched this up. "I didn't mean to sound unfriendly, just professional."

And just distant enough.

"We'll make it professional, then. I'm ready and willing to answer all your questions." He sounded more amused than miffed.

"When can we meet?"

"You don't want to do this by phone?"

"No. I like to see people when I talk to them in the course of an investigation." She sounded like a bureaucratic prig even to herself.

"Suspects, you mean?"

"For God's sake, no."

Too fast. And I shouldn't have told him that.

He laughed, gaining confidence. "I figured you were about to tell me that at this point everyone's a suspect."

"No, it's not like on television."