Darker Than Night (20 page)

Quinn grinned. “Pearl, Pearl…”

“I can save you,” she said again, and stood high on her toes and kissed him.

He kissed her back and felt her lips part, then the warm strength of her eager tongue.

When they pulled away from each other, she smiled up at him. “I've got another side, you know.”

He did know. He picked her up and carried her into his bedroom.

She seemed to like that.

Their lovemaking qualified as frenzied, Quinn surprising himself. Pearl was on top, grinning down at him, working her hips to a marvelous silent beat, her large breasts swaying with the rhythm. After a while he rolled her off and mounted her, careful to support himself with his elbows and knees. She was so small, yet there was a compact strength to her. He was gentle but took control. She was ready for it and clamped her legs around him, somehow still managing to work her hips in response to his powerful thrusts. Her warm breath was near his ear and she made urgent, throaty sounds that grew louder and louder.

When it was finished, they lay on their backs, side by side, staring at the cracked ceiling and listening to their ragged breathing gradually even out. They'd wanted and enjoyed each other more than either of them had imagined possible. They were both still shocked and, in a way, frightened by what still gripped them. During the past half hour everything had changed for both of them, forever.

After a few minutes the only sounds in the small, warm room were of the city outside the window, the complex stage on which they would continue to act out their lives.

Where the hell
…, Quinn wondered.

…is this going?
Pearl asked herself.

 

Less than a mile from where Quinn and Pearl lay, the Night Prowler was curled in his corner with his benzene and his dreams. These were some of the best times, knowing what he was going to do next, who would be his next victims.

He wasn't completely a slave to his compulsion. He had free will. He knew the actress would be perfect, with the graceful, practiced music of her every move, as if her walk drew energy from the ground. But she wasn't married and so wouldn't do and couldn't do. Living together in sin, delicious sin, that wasn't like marriage, no matter how hard people pretended.

The actress had called to him without knowing. She was unaware of her own silent voice and that she was an actress in more ways than she suspected. Yet she wasn't one of them, one of his, so he'd decided to forget her, as he had so many others. They were like bright coins of little value that he hadn't bothered stooping to pick up.

He closed his eyes and pushed all thoughts of the actress away, and lovely Lisa strode toward him across vistas like a high-fashion model on a celestial runway. She emerged from shadow into light and into focus. Staring inward, he marveled at her beauty.

My God!

Tears tracked down his stiffened cheeks. There was no need for the actress. Not if he had Lisa.

He could see her clearly now in every detail. Such was the power of his mind to re-create beauty and essence. Lisa tucking in her chin and giving him a flirtatious look. Lisa smiling. Lisa whirling. Lisa complete.

He rewound time and there she was, Lisa Ide, manager of the jewelry store she and her husband, Leon Holtzman, owned on West Forty-seventh Street. Lisa working behind the glittering showcases. Lisa in her kitchen,
yellow,
at the big white stove,
hot grease smell,
stretching and reaching to get something from the back of the refrigerator,
white blue,
doing dishes by hand,
suds yellow rubber fingers,
facing away from him, wearing the tight, tight black slacks he'd seen her in,
her flesh, her flesh.
She had her auburn hair swirled high and piled jauntily toward the back of her head, precisely the way she'd worn it when he'd watched her leave the jewelry store and stride along the crowded sidewalk.

Fading…

He raised the folded cloth to his face and inhaled, smiling but still crying.

There she was! In focus, in color…

He could dial in on her much faster now, the way he needed to, the way he needed her. Lisa Ide, with her bright blue eyes so widely spaced,
ocean,
and her wide mouth with its full lips,
wet red,
and slight overbite. Lisa Ide dining at the sidewalk café across from Lincoln Center with her husband Leon, raising her coffee cup to her mouth, pursing her lips so softly. A small woman but so complete, so perfect in so many ways. Her lushness, the endless and wonderful spectrum of her coloring. A man like Leon, a simple merchant whose work was his life, would never in a thousand years understand Lisa. He dealt in precious stones and yet was unaware of what was precious and so near him.

A man like that deserved nothing but death.

Yes, there was no doubt who was next. The Night Prowler could feel the fatal knowledge stirring in him like a thing aborning that would begin its rapid and relentless growth. It was barely potent now, harmless, but it would grow teeth and claws. And it would have its way.

He pressed the folded cloth hard to his nose and inhaled deeply, but the benzene was losing its effect and he felt himself simply falling asleep.

The buzzing, briefly, but fading away…

And he dreamed, unable now to escape from her: Lisa standing in the bathtub, about to lower herself into the warm water. Lisa pausing nude on the stairs, like Picasso's painting somehow unscrambled and made whole woman. Lisa watering flowers. Lisa in bed asleep and almost smiling. Lisa's hair and eyes and flesh and lips and glance and smile…the music of her colors and her walk. Of her pain to be.
Moana Lisa…

He understood that destiny and dream were one.

Detective Quinn, Lisa Ide. What I know and you don't.

Soon-to-be-famous Lisa.

Quinn awoke to the scent of coffee and frying bacon.

He suddenly recalled last night—Pearl.

Now she was in his kitchen preparing breakfast. Where had this domestic Pearl come from? For that matter, the Pearl she'd displayed last night had been quite a surprise.

He climbed out of bed nude and trod heavily into the bathroom.

“Quinn?” Pearl's voice from the kitchen stopped him.
Must have heard the floor creak.

“Yeah?” His sleep-thickened voice came out as a growl. “Yes?”
Better. Civilized.

“You have time to shower and shave before breakfast.”

“Uh-huh.” He continued on his way to the bathroom.

When he was clean and shaven, he slicked back his wet hair, then returned to the bedroom and rummaged through his dresser drawers until he found an old robe he hadn't worn in over a year.
The gentleman in his dressing gown.
He put on the robe but couldn't locate his slippers, so he padded barefoot into the kitchen.

Pearl was standing at the stove holding a spatula. She'd made a pass at combing her thick hair, but it was still flat where she'd slept on it. She was wearing the clothes she'd had on yesterday. They looked as if she'd been wearing them for a week. Her blouse had wrinkles that might never iron out. This was not a woman who looked as if she belonged in a kitchen, yet she had the table neatly set, crisp bacon already on plates, and eggs sizzling in a frying pan.

“I thought you might want to go out for breakfast,” he said.

The coffeemaker's glass pot was full. Two clean cups sat nearby. He went over and poured himself a cup of the strong black brew. There was no cream in sight.
How did she know I like my bacon crisp, my coffee black? She must have been observing all this time.

Pearl was smiling at him. “Eating at home'll be better.”

Home?
“What I thought,” Quinn said, “was we might have breakfast at the diner down the street, then take a walk. Maybe you could pick up some clothes at one of the shops near there.”

She raised her eyebrows, puzzled. “Why would I want to buy clothes?”

“Fedderman'll be here sooner or later this morning. He'll see you're wearing the same clothes from yesterday. He'll know you spent the night.”

Careful…don't break what happened last night like the eggs.
“Makes no difference to me. Sunny-side up?”

“Over well. It does make a difference to me.”

“If that's how you feel about it…. Break the yellow?”

“No.”

She used the spatula to slide one egg onto a plate with the bacon, then deftly flipped the egg remaining in the skillet.

“I don't think it's such a good idea, Pearl, advertising that we slept together.”

She motioned with her head at the egg. “Hard enough?”

“Sure.”

“Fedderman left a message on my machine at home this morning. He said since I didn't pick up, he assumes I left and took the subway here and we can meet later. He won't be here for another hour. I'll go out after breakfast and find something else to wear.” She transferred his egg from skillet to plate and grinned at him. “Not that Fedderman will be fooled.”

Quinn knew she was right, but he still wanted to maintain deniability. If it was important to presidents, why not to Quinn? “It's possible that someday he might have to testify about our relationship under oath.”

“You have a point there,” Pearl said, but she seemed amused by the idea. Toast sprang to attention from the old toaster with a sound like a sledgehammer striking a sack full of steel springs, startling Quinn. Pearl plopped each slice of hot toast on a saucer and placed the saucers on the table, then sat down to eat.

Quinn sat across from her, watching her carefully butter a piece of toast. He sprinkled salt and pepper on his egg.
What the hell am I doing here? How did this happen?
“Pearl—”

She passed him the butter. “You rather have jelly?”

“Butter'll do.”

“What about last night, Quinn?” Pearl taking the offensive.

“It was fantastic,” Quinn said, and meant it. He found it wonderful watching her smile from across the table.

Easy…don't fish for an answer you don't want
…. “I need to know if it was a onetime thing.”

“I don't see how it can be, Pearl. You're already an addiction.”

She stood up and walked around the table, swallowing a bite of toast, then leaned down and planted a buttery kiss on his cheek.

“This…us…it won't interfere with the job. I promise.” She sat back down.

“I won't let it,” Quinn told her.

After breakfast he fished in his wallet and gave her a hundred-dollar bill from the money Renz had paid him.

“Quinn—”

“Jesus, Pearl, it's for clothes! A change of clothes was my idea, so at least let me buy them for you.”

“Why should you?”

“Because I'm the one worried about Fedderman.”

She was quiet for a while, still not liking even the faintest notion that he was treating her like a hooker. Last night must not be tainted.

“I've got my own money,” she said.

Quinn gave up. He cleaned up the kitchen while she went shopping.

She came back half an hour later carrying a single paper sack, then went into the bedroom to change.

She emerged in the same wrinkled slacks but with a new black T-shirt lettered
GIANTS
across her oversize breasts.

“There aren't any decent places to shop around here; this was all I could find. It's a boy's medium.”

The T-shirt fit fine everywhere other than the chest. A boy, medium, wouldn't have put that kind of strain on the material. The dark blue blazer she'd worn yesterday had been draped over the back of a chair and wasn't so wrinkled. When she put it on over the T-shirt,
GIANTS
was still visible in convex yellow lettering.

“Best I could do on short notice,” she said.

“Was that the only team they had?”

She started to answer, but the intercom interrupted her. Quinn walked over and buzzed Fedderman up.

As soon as Fedderman stepped into the apartment, he stood still and looked at Pearl, then at Quinn. “Pathetic.” Back at Pearl. “Couldn't you find a Yankees shirt?”

“Why Yankees?”

“You know…. ‘Whatever Lola wants…'”

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

“It's a song from a Broadway play.
Damn Yankees.
”

“I can't afford Broadway plays on a cop's salary.”

“I know. I'm rubbing it in.”

“You are such a prick, Fedderman.”

Quinn held out an arm to stop Pearl in case she decided to advance on Fedderman. This was going to be a big problem. He'd really screwed up last night. Complicated things. “Okay, okay! It's time for us to get to work.”

Pearl was glaring at Fedderman, who was smirking.

“Everybody pretend,” Quinn said, and strapped on his shoulder holster. “Please.”

“The whole world pretends,” Pearl muttered as they were walking toward the elevator.

“Keeps us employed,” Fedderman said.

Quinn wondered for how long.

“You seem relaxed today,” Rita Maxwell said to David Blank.

Blank sat back in the recliner's soft leather and closed his eyes. “You seem surprised. Even your most troubled patients must have a good day now and then.”

Rita decided to work with what he'd given her. “What in particular is making you feel good today?”

“Fit and finish.”

“Can you be more specific, or are you talking about your car?”

“I'm talking about the cosmos. Today everything seems to fit together precisely in its proper place.”

“And the finish?”

“The colors are perfect.”

“You refer to colors often.”

“That's because I paint. Landscapes, mostly. Though sometimes figures. Nudes. The different hues on a human body are amazing in their number and subtlety.”

“You mean eyes, hair…?”

“That too. Human flesh, though, if you look closely, if you listen…”

Listen? Color and sound mingled. Cross-sensory perception. Not unusual in a talented artist, though not to such a degree.
“What do you hear if you listen, David?”

“Sometimes beautiful sounds. On bad days, when the colors fade or run together, a gray buzzing. Not today, though. I hear a humming like soft music, different with every woman.”

“Only women?”

“I'm not sure. Are you suggesting I'm a repressed homosexual?”

Huh?
“No, I'm not.” Blank didn't seem angry. More as if he were amused. “Do you have issues concerning your sexuality?”

He opened his eyes and laughed loudly. “Issues…I love that! Isn't that a term for what you've given birth to?”

“It can be.” Rita put a touch of amusement in her voice so he'd know she wasn't serious. He was loose today, all right. In a good enough mood to joke with, and where might that lead? “I think we can assume you haven't given birth.”

“No, not to anything.” He laced his fingers together. “Not in the conventional sense, anyway.”

She was puzzled. “You mean your art?”

“Of course. There was a woman who posed nude for me, a model named Carol. So beautiful. I worked so hard to capture her tension and all her hues.”

“Tension?”

“In a physical sense. Angle and muscle tension. Not everyone can be a good artist's model.”

“I wouldn't think so.”

“An artist and his model are usually in a strictly business relationship. And that's how we started out. Then one day, in my apartment studio in the Village, she fainted. I thought I'd demanded too much of her, trying to use every second of the rare and perfect light…. It was golden; you could hear and touch it.”

He gave Rita a sideways glance to make sure she was paying attention. She nodded and wriggled her pencil.

“I felt guilty,” Blank continued. “I was sorry for her. So I picked her up and carried her to my bed, where she could rest, and as I laid her down, she opened her eyes, and the way she looked at me and smiled, I knew….”

He continued his tale of seduction and sexual adventure while Rita pretended to take notes.

“Two people were never closer than we were,” Blank was saying. “We hardly ever went outside the apartment for the next month, only sending out for…”

Rita moved the pencil steadily, noticing that her squiggling, meaningless marks were for some reason beginning to resemble Arabic script. The session with David Blank had settled into its usual pattern, and she was only half listening to him, thinking
lies, lies, lies….

Except for the first ten minutes.

When he'd gone, she would rewind the tape and listen to the first part of the session carefully. It hadn't been so much what he was talking about, but rather the relieved, buoyant tone of his voice, as if some great pressure were no longer exerting its force on him.

Blank still hadn't revealed the real reason why he was coming to see her, his actual problem. But his wasn't the usual game of diversion and deflection that tentative patients played. She understood what he was doing: He was setting the riddle out there for her to unravel. And a part of him wanted desperately for her to succeed, because he understood the terrible pressure would return and he was afraid. Buzzing. Order and color. Fit and finish. The psychosis as car. And David Blank knew he was speeding toward another collision.

The cross-sensory perception, now
that
was interesting. If true.

He did seem sure that Dr. Rita Maxwell was his answer, that she could and would eventually help him, perhaps save him. But first she had to know what he was concealing.
Who was Carol?

Sooner or later, Rita would know. However and why ever he'd found his way to her, David Blank—whoever he was—whoever Carol was—had chosen the right analyst.

Patience was in order. Progress was being made. Rita was slowly learning, always learning, and would find the answer to the riddle of David Blank.

 

Quinn sat on the hard wood and concrete bench just inside Central Park and watched the joggers and cyclists. An attractive woman in her early twenties pedaled past on a mountain bike, something everyone needed in a city as flat as a Monopoly board. Quinn watched her graceful form recede as she stood high on the pedals to pick up speed, her hips swaying with her effort, her long brown hair catching the sunlight. He wondered about her life. She might be a student at NYU, or a young professional, a wife, a mother, an actress, a musician or artist, a hooker or an off-duty cop. The human mystery.

He decided maybe it was time to use the media.

Dave Everson was a journalist with the
Times
who had long ago given Quinn his direct-line number at the paper. Everson was a journalist Quinn trusted, and he remembered the number. Quinn drew out his cell phone from the pocket of his sport jacket folded on the bench, and for the first time in years he called it.

“I'll be damned,” Everson said when Quinn had identified himself. “It's been a while.”

“Too long,” Quinn said.

Everson was no fool; he knew Quinn had something in mind. “So what do you need?” There was the slightest tremor of excitement in his voice.

“Heat.”

Everson laughed. “You've already got that, Quinn.”

“For somebody else,” Quinn said.

“Ah…. With conditions, I assume.”

“You'll be first in line as things break, Dave.”

“And you want to be an anonymous source.”

“No, I want the bastard to know I'm at his heels.”

“Hey, that'll be a much better story.
Mano a mano.
I do like you, Quinn.”

“I can be a likable sort. We dealing?”

“Proceed.”

 

Claire Briggs frowned and checked again for the chemical reaction.

Blue. Again. No mistake.

She was pregnant. So said her home-testing kit.

She had to tell someone, but not before Jubal. He must be the next to know.

At four o'clock Jubal was back from his two o'clock audition for the role of the sensitive hero in the Lincoln Center production of the Vietnam play
Winding Road,
which was set to open in three months.

“So how'd it go?” she asked, but she knew from his expression how it had gone.

He wore a light blue sweater like a cape, its arms knotted at his chest, though the weather had been too warm for a sweater when he'd left the apartment. Now he unfastened the loose knot and tossed the sweater onto the sofa in a heap.

“It went like shit!” He flung himself down next to the sweater in a similar heap and sat frowning.

“Jubal…” Claire moved toward him as he hung his head and his shoulders began to quake.

Then he looked up at her, grinning. “I got the part!”

Claire stood still and took a deep breath. “Oh, damn, you had me!”

Jubal shrugged, still with the grin. “Well, I can act!” He jumped up and hugged her, lifting her off the floor and spinning her in a dance across the room.

When he put her down, she was almost too dizzy to make her way to a chair and fall into it, gasping and laughing.

“It's a day for good news,” she said when she could talk without choking or coughing.

Jubal was pacing, too excited to sit. “Actually, it's only a callback, but I can be sure of the outcome. Everything fell into place, as if I trained all those years just for the part. I was last to audition. I'm one of three choices and the other two aren't even close. One's Victor Valentino.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He was in
Back Alley
last year. Guy looks like a thug, but he can act. He might wind up playing the tough sergeant.”

“Who's the other guy?”

“Randy Rallison.”

Claire had acted with Rallison. He had difficulty remembering his lines, and many in the cast suspected he had a drug or drinking problem. “A zombie onstage compared to Jubal Day.”

“I'm positive the producer feels the same way. He gave me the wink as I was leaving. I'm sure he gave me the wink.”

Claire sighed and rested a hand on her stomach. She couldn't stop smiling.

“We're going out for dinner and celebrate!” Jubal said.

“We have more than one thing to celebrate.”

“I know we do! The way your career's going. And this apartment is great! We're lucky, Claire. Damned lucky!”

“I'm glad you think so, Jubal. But we're luckier than you know. I'm pregnant.”

He stopped pacing and stood still. His features rearranged themselves into a mask. She had no idea what he was thinking. Doubt flashed through her mind like a lightning bolt.

“I shouldn't have surprised you like that.” She heard the quaver in her voice and hated it. Her stomach began to ache. She knew then what she needed, what she had to have.

“You know this for sure?”

“I've missed two periods and my home test says I'm pregnant. I'm sure. I feel…different. There isn't any doubt.”

Now he was grinning. “My God! You're
pregnant
!”

He came to her, lifted her gently to her feet, and kissed her.

“We can turn the spare room into the baby's room,” he said. “We can spoon-feed the kid and change his diapers—”

“Or hers.”

“Hers. And push him-her in the park in a stroller.”

“We can watch her-him take her-his first step.”

“Teach him-her how to grip a baseball.”

“And how to say
please
and
thank you.
”

“And not spit the spinach.”

“We can get married,” Claire said.