Frenzy (29 page)

63

Q
uinn drove hard. He and Pearl made good time out of Manhattan to New Jersey. They were soon in Teaneck, and found Lucille Denner's address on Garritson easily, using the GPS plugged into the Lincoln's cigarette lighter.

Most of the houses on the block were small, built in the flurry of construction not long after the Second World War. Additions had increased the size of some of them as the families within them had grown. Denner's house was one of the smaller ones and well kept, painted a pale beige that was almost cream colored, with dark brown shutters and door. There was a white trellis on one side of the house, in what might have been an effort to make it appear wider. Scarlet roses blossomed wildly on vines that had made it halfway up the trellis. On the opposite side of the house was an attached single-car garage. The grass was thick and green and almost to the point where it needed to be trimmed.

Quinn parked the Lincoln blocking the narrow concrete driveway leading from the closed overhead garage door, just in case.

He and Pearl got out of the car and walked up onto the low wooden porch that was painted the same brown as the shutters. Quinn thought he could smell the nearby roses, but that might have been the power of suggestion.

He knocked on the front door several times, and wasn't surprised when he got no response. Pearl moved over on the porch and tried to peer behind almost-closed drapes but could see nothing inside but darkness. She stayed on the porch while Quinn walked around to the back door and knocked.

Again no response.

He returned through thick grass to the front yard.

“I'm here,” a woman's voice said.

They turned to see a middle-aged woman, obviously once shapely but now with a thickened waist and neck. She had long graying hair combed to hang straight down, like shutters she was peering between. Quinn thought a middle-aged woman had to be beautiful to wear her hair that way. It made this woman look as if gravity had a special hold on her features. She had an outthrust chin and worried gray eyes.

“Jesse?” Pearl asked.

“Yes. I decided to stand down the street behind a tree and see who arrived at my aunt's house.” She gave an embarrassed smile that showed crooked teeth. “You two passed inspection.”

“Did you get away from the house immediately when I told you?” Pearl asked.

“Yes. As soon as we got off the phone.”

“Very good,” Quinn said. He tried the front door and found it locked.

Jesse said she had a key and fitted it to the knob lock. It worked with a low and hesitant clatter, as if it might be as old as the house and hadn't been used often. If there was any other kind of lock on the door, it wasn't fastened.

Quinn used his large body to block her so he could enter first.

He found himself in a small but well-furnished living room.

Pearl gave Jesse a slight, reassuring smile and said, “You better wait here and we'll call you.”

Jesse looked dubious but nodded her assent. Now that there were two more people here, people with authority who would know how to handle things, she wasn't so frightened.

Pearl smelled something all too familiar. Faint, but definitely there.

“Watch where you step and what you touch,” Quinn said.

Pearl could see beyond him a huddled form on a dining room floor.

“Lucille Denner,” Quinn said.

“No doubt,” Pearl said.

“Somebody must have answered her ad.”

“A dissatisfied customer.”

Quinn led the way as he and Pearl entered the dining room. It was dim, but neither of them wanted to open drapes or turn on lights and disturb a crime scene. Besides, there was more than enough light to see the dead woman on the hardwood dining room floor.

“Careful not to step in any blood,” Quinn cautioned.

Pearl moved closer to the body so she could see the dead woman's forehead. The letters
D.O.A.
were there. They looked like the letters found carved on the earlier victims.

Quinn nodded toward the other side of the dining room, beyond a wooden table and chairs that were centered beneath a wrought iron chandelier.

Pearl moved carefully around the perimeter of the room, past a dark mahogany china cabinet, and saw half a dozen jagged pieces of ceramic on the floor. She fitted them together in her mind and came up with what looked like the head and torso of a bare-breasted woman who might have been
Bellezza.

The classified ad in the Teaneck newspaper had obviously sent someone on a futile mission. Quinn could imagine the killer taking one look at the pathetically obvious imitation and hurling it to shatter on the floor before taking out his ire on the unfortunate Lucille Denner. His knife and lit cigarette had been wielded with particular viciousness.

“Do you think she really figured she might sell that thing to some naïf?” Pearl asked.

“Maybe to one out of twenty,” Quinn said. “And to somebody who thought they might be putting one over on
her
by getting a great work of art cheap.”

Pearl could only shake her head.

“What's the percentage of hardcore addicts who get sick or die because of poison they thought was coke or heroin?” Quinn asked.

“Could be one out of twenty,” Pearl said.

“And the one out of twenty here might have been the first caller,” Quinn said.

Which made Pearl glance around uneasily, as if fate were creeping up on her.

“I checked,” Quinn said. “Her phone's a land line. But we still might be able to get a caller log.” Even as he said it, he knew the killer would be too smart to leave a record of his call about the classified ad.

“What strikes me,” Pearl said, “is that he'd be too wily even to inquire about that obviously imitation piece of junk.”

“It served its purpose,” Quinn said.

“Which is?”

“To get us wasting time standing here talking and thinking about Lucille Denner's murder instead of closing in on him.”

“Not motive enough.”

“Spooking us into thinking he could be going interstate again.”

“Still not enough.”

“And to demonstrate how powerful he is.”

“Motive enough,” Pearl said.

Quinn got out his cell phone and called a sergeant he knew in the Teaneck Police Department.

Then he called Minnie Miner. She might as well waste the time they might have wasted.

Quinn saw Pearl raise an eyebrow at the mention of Minnie's name.

“Might slow her down” Quinn said. “Then she can talk about all those ads for
Bellezza
busts being withdrawn from eBay.”

“Pearl? Detective Quinn? Anyone?”

Jesse's voice. It sounded as if she had her head stuck inside the open front door.

“Better stay where you are, dear,” Quinn said.

But she didn't. Curiosity and concern for her aunt Lucille prompted her to enter the house. Pearl heard her coming and tried to head her off but failed. Jesse saw what was on the dining room floor.

And would have nightmares the rest of her life.

64

T
he killer parked behind a black SUV, diagonally across the street from the Far Castle. He was driving his old gray BMW. The car was a plain four-door model, and because it was a luxury car, so often had its styling been mimicked that it was a vehicle that drew little attention. It looked at a glance like a million other cars in Manhattan. At the same time, it was very fast. The killer valued anonymity and speed. Who knew when one or both would be needed?

He lowered the windows and switched off the engine and air conditioner. The radio was tuned softly to classical music, Holst's “Jupiter.” One of the killer's favorites.

Where he'd parked put him in a perfect position to observe diners at the restaurant's crowded outside tables. He could also see people come and go.

He'd done this kind of surveillance before, but now he knew who he was looking for. The server Minnie Miner had mentioned—though not by name—on her daily TV news show.

The killer was by now familiar with all the food servers, and he was interested in the most recently hired, a blond woman in her forties. Quite attractive. His trained eye had become suspicious the first time he'd seen her. She looked her part as a Medieval serving wench and seemed to play it with gusto. More gusto, in fact, than skill at her job. Serving food wasn't quite her thing, the first couple of times he'd observed her. Then she became more adept, less often accidentally knocking over water glasses, or stepping on diners' toes, a quick study adjusting to her role.
An adjustable wench.

The killer had to smile at his own cleverness. Perhaps he'd share the pun with his victim, at the proper time.

Then there was the evening when he was watching and the blond waitress had spoken briefly with Quinn when he passed her on the way to enter the restaurant. It wasn't much, but it was more than an uninterested hello. They'd moved apart quickly, like magnets with opposite polarity. Too fast and too late. These two people knew each other, and had taken care not to display the body language of even a casual encounter.

So the woman was obviously a plant. The killer didn't jump to that conclusion, but it took only a few more days to erase most of his doubts. The restaurant's owner and wannabe famous chef, the unctuous Winston Castle, treated the blond one differently from the other food servers. He was almost deferential when speaking with her. The suggestion by Minnie Miner that there might be a food server who was some kind of spy cinched it—Blondie was an undercover cop.

With a little more investigation and a pair of binoculars he recognized her. Nancy Weaver. The one who almost got him.

What was she doing at the restaurant? Had she made the connection between Castle and the nutcase family searching for the Unholy Grail? She must be trying to solve the killer's perfect murders. What—if anything—had she found out? Had Quinn, Pearl, and the rest of them made the connection between some of his victims and the search for
Bellezza?
Surely they had by now. That was part of the killer's game. He had chosen Quinn as his adversary because the man was no fool.

At first the killer hadn't been interested in anything but playing out his deadly game with Quinn. But after coming across the search for the missing (if it ever existed) art treasure, he'd become more and more interested because of the pure truths told by his dying victims.

The talkative Grace Geyer had piqued his interest at the museum. Grace had led him to question Andria Bell in the Fairchild Hotel at knifepoint and with fire. Andria couldn't have lied to him. Not deliberately. But how much of what she'd told him was fact, he couldn't be sure. He
could
be sure that
she
believed everything she'd told him.

And he'd be sure Weaver would speak the truth. She would tell him what she knew, what the NYPD knew, what Quinn knew. About the D.O.A. killer, and about
Bellezza.

He could feel the familiar stirring in the very core of his being when he thought about Weaver. Questioning her would be such a pleasure! He simply had to learn a little more about her, so he'd know when she was most vulnerable. Then he'd do what he was best at, and she'd respond as they all did. She'd know who he was, what he was, and resistance would run out of her. They all came to a certain point—and early in the process—when they understood that they were already dead. This time he'd be the victor. Fate couldn't be resisted, so why try? Fate was the trickster and the sly ally of their inquisitor.

That was what Quinn didn't understand, that fate was the killer's coconspirator. Fate had brought the killer, his pursuer Quinn, the family that was on its possibly quixotic search, and
Bellezza,
together. Fate and the killer, who were as one.

The killer had signaled to Quinn more than once that since Grace Geyer's death, the missing art treasure and the murders were intertwined. The killer had seen to that. He'd even taken two victims, a married couple, to make his point. A subtle but unmistakable message as increasing pressure was applied to Quinn; even as Quinn would sense the intensifying needs of his quarry.

There was little doubt that Helen Iman, the profiler working for Q&A, would be telling Quinn that he, Quinn, was winning, that the killer was becoming more and more desperate and irrational. But what did the big, gawky profiler know about what was rational?

What did she know about fate?

As the killer mused about the events that had led him to where he sat in his parked car, observing his next victim, he marveled again at fate. Fate was responsible for everything that had happened since his return to New York. Fate was the architect of it all.

Maybe Helen the profiler would figure that out using the process of elimination.

If not fate, it had to have been Michelangelo.

The killer laughed so hard he began pounding the steering wheel.

Then he stopped and glanced about. He didn't want people to notice and wonder.

Not that they'd believe the truths that he'd been told.

65

I
f there was anyone on this earth Helen the profiler felt contempt for, it was the actively curious, self-serving, double-crossing, viciously ambitious, aggressively charming Minnie Miner. So Helen wasn't crazy about Quinn and Renz suggesting that she should be a guest on
Minnie Miner ASAP
and discuss the D.O.A. murders.

But here she was.

Not only that, but a certain part of her had actually warmed to the task.

They'd consulted with Helen on what she should say that would increase the pressure on the killer. And they listened closely to her opinions and suggestions. Both men, to their credit, deferred to her expertise.

Helen was sure the killer felt that he was near the precipice. If she could contribute pushing him over into the void, she'd be glad to do so. Even if it meant dealing again with Minnie Miner.

So Helen found herself seated in one of the two comfortable chairs that were angled toward a small table and microphone. The chairs were much more worn and stained than they appeared on TV. Some of it was wear. Some of it was perspiration created when Minnie put her guests on the spot. Minnie was a clever and insistent verbal predator.

A camera moved smoothly closer to Helen, its bulging eye aimed at her face. Another camera glided in for a three-quarter shot of Minnie. Figures moved in the background. The light became brighter, warmer, as Minnie was introduced. The applause from the audience was mildly enthusiastic rather than deafening. It was mostly comprised of people Minnie's minions had managed to drag in from the street. They fell silent while the applause sign was still held high by a Levi's-clad girl who appeared to be in her teens.

Minnie, smiling broadly, quickly held up her hands as if she had signaled for quiet.

When the studio was silent, she said, “My guest today is a famous profiler. When I say that, I don't mean she's a painter or photographer. For those of you left on this planet who don't know what a police profiler does, it's very interesting and necessary work. She's more interested in what goes on in a criminal's mind than in what he looks like. She's a psychological profiler for law enforcement agencies, and she, maybe more than anybody other than his mother—if she's still alive—knows how the D.O.A. killer thinks. She's trained to know what goes on in his sick mind, how to walk with him along the corridors of his madness. What he feels.
Why
he does what he does. What he might do in the future.” Minnie smiled widely and motioned toward Helen. “This is Helen Iman, and she's here to tell us all about the D.O.A. killer.”

The applause was loud, and genuinely enthusiastic this time. Helen had to admit that it made her feel good. Though she'd thought she was immune to the disease of celebrity, so many hands clapping for her brought a smile to her face. She wondered now if she should have worn something more formal than her blue sweats and joggers.

Helen waited for Minnie to open the conversation. Minnie had a reputation for ambushing her guests.

But Minnie also knew how to keep her viewers in suspense.

That was okay. Helen knew how to wait.

“So if Quinn failed to apprehend this killer the first time around,” Minnie finally said, “why was he chosen by the commissioner to head the investigation into these latest murders?”
That one oughta knock the profiler off balance.

“He wasn't chosen by the commissioner. He was chosen by the killer.”

Uh-oh! This one is dangerous.
Instead of being knocked off balance by the opening question, she had counterpunched.

Minnie decided to ask something safe. “So tell me why you're a police profiler, Helen.”

Small talk.
“Corny as it sounds,” Helen said, “I want to fight crime. The way I can best contribute is to bring my knowledge of psychology and irredeemable criminal behavior to bear.”

Minnie put on a wide smile. “You catch killers.”

“Among other sorts of criminals, yes.”

Minnie raised an eyebrow and wore a look of puzzlement. “You said ‘irredeemable.' So you don't think a killer like D.O.A. can find God and be rehabilitated?”

Helen almost choked. “I think such a killer is evil, and cannot be brought back from the hell where he's put himself and his victims.”

“Surely this isn't true of all killers,” Minnie said.

“Not much is true of all of anything.”

Minnie thought about that. Brightened her all-purpose perky smile. “But you think D.O.A. is evil.”

“Of course I do. He might well have another side that he shows people, but the killer in him is always just below the surface.”

“Satan?” Just a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips.

“If you like,” Helen said.
Let the sick creep think he might be Beelzebub.
She leaned closer to her microphone, not taking over the conversation, but nudging it the way she wanted it to go. “I also think there's something about those killers who
are
genuinely evil. The pressure of what they've done builds and builds in them. Every one of them eventually breaks.”

“So you think this killer is feeling the pressure?”

“Yes. And he's about to break.”

“Break?”

“Come unglued.”

“You sound certain.”

“I am. I've seen this kind of killer before. He's in the powerful grip of a mental illness, and he's wrestling with himself.”

“But hasn't he been from the beginning? What makes you think the killer is about to break now?” Minnie asked.

“Because now he
wants
to break,” Helen said. “He
needs
to be stopped. He knows that, and in an odd kind of way, he'll cooperate in his downfall.”

“And he would do that because . . . ?”

“He knows he's evil. If D.O.A. is who we think he is, he's thirty-five years old, and his parents were murdered when he was fourteen. Every year that passes becomes more of a burden. Denial has become impossible.”

Minnie clasped her hands as if fascinated. And maybe she really was. “What are some of the signs you see pointing to that?”

“Before I answer that question, you should know some things about D.O.A. Things in general that might not be precise but make up the standard profile of such a killer. He's a male, between eighteen and forty-five years of age . . .” Helen went on to give Minnie and her fans the usual profile of a TV-show serial killer. As she spoke, she could see by Minnie's frozen smile that she wanted Helen to get on to something her audience hadn't already heard dozens of times.

That was okay with Helen; she was talking specifically to the killer, not the audience.

Finally Minnie interrupted, to keep the show rolling. “But what makes you think this particular killer is about to break at this particular time? What are the signs?”

“He's getting sloppy. And he's killing more often and with increasing violence, the way serial killers do when they sense they're nearing the end. They become desperate. They begin making small mistakes. They unconsciously attempt to move closer to whatever kind of death awaits them.”

“Can you give our audience an example of the D.O.A. killer's mistakes?”

“Not in the way of clues. That information is closely held by the police.”

“But otherwise?”

“Sure,” Helen said. “Our D.O.A. killer is obviously becoming desperate. He's raised the ante by torturing and murdering a married couple. He's unconsciously signaling that he's ready to surrender to his fate. His mind has become a jungle of conflicts.”

“You make him sound like a hopeless whacko.”

“He is. But one who understands his weakness, and that he's nearing the end.”

“And his weakness is?”

“Himself, of course.”

As she said that, something cold moved in Helen's mind. Somehow—she wasn't sure how—she knew the killer was watching. On his own TV, or on one in a bar or restaurant, somewhere, he was watching.

 

 

Mental case? Nearing the end? His weakness is himself?
The D.O.A. killer felt like throwing his glass through the TV screen.

He put down the glass and sat back in his sofa, his hands flexing, flexing. He glanced down and noticed them. Knew what he wanted to do with them.

He glanced around at the art on his walls, the artists whose work he favored. Bosch, with his visions of horror; Van Gough, who spread madness with his brushes; Manet, who was sexually addicted and died of syphilis. As if anchoring these prints of terror were several large Picassos, nude women observed from different, severed angles simultaneously, as if they'd been butchered by a madman with surgical skills, then reassembled like mismatched puzzles pieces and placed on display. Prints of madness.

Then he realized that this was precisely how they wanted him to feel. To act. Out of weakness and vulnerability.

They'd find out how weak he was.

He understood his nemesis, Quinn, and what the strategy here was. He, the killer, was supposed to “up the ante” by going after somebody close to Quinn. Like Pearl or her daughter Jody.

Or he might go after Helen the profiler. Seeking revenge for what she'd said. A temptation, for sure.

But that kind of revenge wasn't in his plans. Helen wasn't his type at all. And she might put up the kind of a struggle that could get out of hand.

No, he had a better idea.

And it was the same idea.

Weaver.

Weaver would be next.

Weaver, who was also Eileen the food server and undercover cop at the Far Castle. Weaver, who had drawn attention to herself through her clumsiness at table, who held supposedly clandestine brief conversations with Quinn. Weaver, who knew both sides of the story. Weaver, who had eluded him before.

Who knew what Quinn
and
the police knew. Who was the nexus of the D.O.A. killer investigation and the
Bellezza
search.

The killer sipped his cold beer and licked foam from his upper lip.