In for the Kill (12 page)

New York, the present

Startled by how close the man was standing when she opened the door to leave Marilyn Nelson's apartment, Pearl automatically backed up a step.

Quickly regaining her composure, she assessed the man in a cop's glance.

His right hand had been raised shoulder high; he'd been about to knock. He was medium height, dark-haired, good looking. Even features, amiable brown eyes, a nice smile. His clothes told her little--khaki pants, short-sleeved blue shirt with the top button undone, brown loafers. There were no rings on his fingers. His wristwatch looked more expensive than the rest of his clothes. Not unusual these days. People were into watches.

"I was expecting Marilyn," he said, obviously puzzled.

Pearl didn't say anything immediately. Let him stew. She wanted the advantage.

"You a friend?" he asked. Curious and still amiable, as if open to making new friends himself. The heart of a golden retriever.

She flashed her shield and introduced herself as NYPD Homicide.

"Are
you
a friend?" Pearl asked.

He was the one who was slightly rattled now. "Yeah. Yes, I am. Name's Jeb Jones."

Pearl didn't recall the name from Marilyn's address book.

His brown eyes slid to the side, then back. "You said 'homicide.' This yellow tape really what I think it is?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Not a gag?" He seemed deeply upset now, and genuinely surprised. He didn't want to believe.

"No gag. You look at the papers or check the news on TV, Mr. Jones?"

"Not for a couple of days. Tell you the truth, I stay away from the news. It gets me depressed."

"Marilyn Nelson was a victim of the Butcher," Pearl said.

Judging by the stricken expression on his face, Jones had heard of the killer. "Holy Christ!" He raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and trying to adjust to the news that was even worse than he'd thought.

"C'mon inside," Pearl said, stepping back. "Marilyn's...gone."

He entered slowly, looking left and right as if expecting to see bloodstains or other signs of violence. If he noticed the odor of death he gave no sign. He walked unsteadily to the sofa and sat down on it with what Pearl took to be a kind of familiarity.

She took the wing chair opposite and got out her notepad and stub of a pencil. "How good a friend of Marilyn's were you?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose again, the way people do sometimes when they have a bad headache. Closed his eyes again, too, only they were lightly closed and not clenched shut like before. "We dated twice. We got along well, I thought. Last time we parted, about a week ago, I told her I was going to drop by sometime." He lowered his hand, trained his blue gaze on Pearl, and shrugged. "Here I am."

"Your name is really Jones?"

"Of course."

His indignation seemed genuine. "I had to ask," she said.

"I guess you did."

"Where did you and Marilyn meet?"

"In a lounge, a couple of weeks ago."

"Nuts and Bolts?"

"Pardon?"

"It's a lounge on the East Side."

"No. A place called Richard's, near Lincoln Center."

Pearl knew it. A respectable stop for the after-show and concert crowd. Not a pickup parlor like Nuts and Bolts. "Where'd you and Marilyn go on your two dates?"

"We went out once to dinner, the other time to an old Woody Allen movie at the Renaissance Theater over in the next block."

"
Bananas
," Pearl said. She happened to be a big Woody Allen fan and knew what was playing at the Renaissance.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. South American dictators and all. I forgot the title."

"On the other date, where'd you have dinner?"

"The Pepper Tree, right down the street." He looked around. "We talked by phone, and we met where we decided to go. This is the first time I've ever been inside her apartment. And now she's...I mean, Jesus!"

Pearl made a show of folding her notepad and putting it away with her pencil. She sat back and made herself look relaxed; it was time for a friendly off-the-record conversation. She'd seen Quinn use this tactic to lull someone he was interviewing, pretending the
real
interview was over. "I'm interested now not so much in facts as in your impressions. So tell me, what kind of woman was Marilyn?"

Jones gave it some thought before answering. "She was always upbeat, optimistic. At least when I saw her. Also bright and ambitious. She thought she was going someplace in this world, and she probably was. She hadn't been in the city long and was doing some sort of consulting work for a chain of clothing stores."

"Rough Country?"

"I'm not sure. That coulda been it."

Pearl smiled as if slightly embarrassed. "Now I'm sorry to have to ask you an intimate question, Mr. Jones."

He understood. "She and I were never intimate." He looked at Pearl with direct honesty. "Like I said, this is the first time I've ever been in here. And she never came to my place." He glanced down at his shoes, back up. "I did have hopes."

"Sure," Pearl said. "What else can you tell me about her? I'm just trying to get a feel for who she was."
And who you are.

"She laughed so easily," Jones said. "I liked that about her more than anything. She had the kind of sense of humor where she didn't say much that was funny, but she enjoyed what other people said." He actually seemed about to tear up. "The truth is, I guess we didn't know each other all that well, but I'm going to miss her, so I guess that's the kind of person she was." He glanced about. "This is such a waste. Such a goddamned shame!"

"It is," Pearl agreed. Two dates and no sack time, and this guy was about to cry. Well, it was possible. Pearl wondered who'd cry over her if she were murdered. It was the kind of question her mother might ask.

She really should call her mother.

"I mean, a woman so wonderful and still young." Jones sniffed. "Well, I guess in your job you see it all the time."

"Too often." She waited a beat, then: "What do you do for a living, Mr. Jones?" Abrupt change of subject. It might cheer him up even if it didn't throw him off balance. His grief did seem real.

"I'm a freelance journalist."

Great!

Her alarm must have shown on her face.

"Not a newshound," he assured her. "I'm in New York working on a book about the intersection of politics and economics and its influence on the functions of each."

"Sounds fascinating."

A faint smile passed across his features. "I try not to make it too dry. I'm still looking for a publisher."

She got out her pad and pencil again. Official cop time. "And your address?"

Pearl dutifully wrote it down, the Waverton, a residential hotel over on the West Side. It was a place that showed its age but was still respectable and had reasonable rates. Pearl thought it was exactly the kind of hotel where a freelance journalist with intermittent income might stay.

She put pad and pencil away again and thanked Jeb Jones for his time; then she stood up, waiting to see how anxious he was to leave.

Not very.

"We finished?" he asked.

Pearl had the impression he might prefer to hang around for a while and chat, as if he were lonely.

"Maybe," she said. "I might be in touch." She smiled. "You've been a help."

"I hope so." He stood slowly and looked around again, almost as if expecting to see Marilyn Nelson. He didn't so much as glance toward the bathroom.

"What do you know about the bastard who did this?" he asked. "Are you going to find him?"

"Not much yet, but we're learning. And you can bet we're gonna find him."

Jones nodded, but he didn't seem satisfied.

When he was gone, Pearl used her cell phone to call the Waverton and ask for Jeb Jones.

She waited while his room phone rang over and over, until finally it stopped and someone Pearl assumed to be the desk clerk came on the line and informed her that Jones wasn't in his room but she could leave a message.

Pearl told him no message, then thanked him and broke the connection.

So Jones was real, what he'd told her was at least true up to a point, and he wasn't in two places at once. Progress?

Who the hell knew?

She glanced at her watch. She was a long way from the Village, but there was still plenty of time to get to where she was having lunch with Lauri Quinn.

Quinn's request that she talk to his daughter nagged at Pearl, but she could understand why he had to ask.

Family!
Pearl thought.
River of blood. Sticky.

Call Mom.

The hell with Mom! Trying to run my life. Trying, for Chrissake, to marry me off like I'm some kind of virgin in
Fiddler on the Roof!

Don't call Mom!

The Hungry U was a bit of a joint, but Pearl had seen worse. And it was in a part of the Village where "joint" was...well, chic.

Inside, the restaurant was one of those places with a decor that tried too hard. Pearl thought it was like a movie director's low-budget idea of how a Pakistani restaurant should look.

Wafting on the aromatic air was repetitious recorded music played on an unfamiliar instrument, maybe a zither. Pearl thought the music might be Pakistani, but how would she know? The cooking scents titillated her appetite but made her eyes water. She was led by an exotic-looking woman to a table next to a wall.

Lauri must have seen her come in and was waiting for her to be seated, because she appeared right away and shook hands with Pearl before sliding onto the chair opposite.

A waiter also appeared. He was a handsome guy in his twenties with a sharply pointed dark goatee. He was wearing cutoff jeans and a baggy-sleeved white shirt. Maybe that was what waiters wore in Pakistan.

He smiled at Lauri. "Can't stay away from the place on your day off?"

"It's the saffron," Lauri said. She looked at Pearl. "That's like this orange-colored spice that's from flowers."

"Ah!"

The waiter took their drink orders, diet Pepsi for Lauri and iced tea for Pearl, then left them.

Pearl studied Lauri. She definitely had her father's eyes and chin. It was odd how the feminine version of what made Quinn look like a thug was somehow beautiful on his daughter. Her hair was blond and worn short in a don't-give-a-damn cut. There was an obviously fake diamond stud in her nose. She was attractive now, but if she somehow managed to grow up in this crappy world, she might be stunning.

"You know about me," Pearl said. Not a question.

"Yeah. You're the one who was shacked up with my dad."

Pearl sighed. Was this going to be difficult? "That's me, all right. He thought we should have this conversation."

"So he'll understand me better, I suppose."

"I suppose the same thing," Pearl said.

"Think it'll work?"

"Yes. I'm intuitive."

Lauri gave her a frank look. A Quinn look. "You're pretty much what I expected."

"Is that good?"

"Not bad. I'm not predisposed to dislike you."

Predisposed. Girl's got herself a vocabulary.

"I'm glad," Pearl said. "I'm not sure what I'd do if you disliked me."

"You're joking?"

"Not entirely."

"Mom said Dad loved being a cop and he also hated it.

She said you were the same way and you and he deserved each other."

"Mom had it right."

"So what happened between you two?"

"That isn't the conversation your dad wanted us to have," Pearl said. "But I've gotta tell you, that question was so your father."

Lauri laughed. Quinn's rare laugh only without the low thunder.

Pearl smiled and opened a menu, buying time to think, beginning to enjoy this.

"So what's good here?" she asked.

Lauri grinned brightly and shrugged, at the same time glancing around what was just another tired ethnic restaurant in a tired block of the Village. "Everything's wonderful."

Pearl was beginning to see Quinn's problem.

Pearl often thought about why moths were drawn to flame. The problem wasn't that she couldn't figure out the reason. It was that she knew. She wondered if the moths knew, too, and didn't give a damn.

That evening she phoned the Waverton Hotel again and asked for Jeb Jones. This time he was in his room and picked up on the second ring.

"I'm the homicide detective you talked to earlier in Marilyn Nelson's apartment," Pearl said. "I have a few more questions to ask. Is this a good time?"

"I'll make the time for you." His voice was mellower over the phone; he seemed more in control.

Pearl was in her apartment, slouched on the sofa with her bare feet up on a hassock. There was a scotch and water in her left hand. Her second in the last hour. The TV was on mute, showing convincingly wrought animated dinosaurs pursuing people through a phony-looking forest. She didn't need her scotch hand. It wasn't as if she were taking notes.

"Did you ever meet any of Marilyn Nelson's friends?" she asked.

"No. I don't think she had many yet. She'd only been in town a short while."

"Did she ever happen to mention anyone? A name?"

"Not that I can recall."

"Had her behavior changed in any way the last time you saw her? Specifically, did she act afraid, or mention anyone who was in any way threatening?"

"No, she was her usual bright self. She didn't act at all like she thought she might be in any danger. She was the kind of girl--woman--that seemed to trust everyone. What happened to her...I think it must have come as a total surprise."

Pearl found herself without a next question. She knew why she'd really called. There was something about Jeb Jones she couldn't get out of her mind. Maybe it was simply that she felt sorry for him. He did seem genuinely crushed by Marilyn Nelson's death. Pearl knew she was a sucker for a bird with a broken wing. Even one who, when nursed back to health, might peck her eyes out.

But the guy wasn't a suspect. The Butcher wouldn't knock on the apartment door of a woman he'd recently murdered.

Unless he returned to recover something he'd forgotten.

Or was the type with a compulsion to revisit the scene of the crime.

Pearl pushed these possibilities to the far edges of her mind and took a sip of watered-down scotch. This wouldn't be the first time she'd become personally involved with someone on the periphery of an investigation. Flirting with a man and with disaster simultaneously. Once burned, twice shy didn't apply to moths.

She'd been quiet for a while, prompting Jones to speak:

"Officer...Kasner, is it?"

"Pearl Kasner."

"Pearl, listen. I know I was a little emotional yesterday. I'm not usually like that. I mean, such a wimp."

"You didn't come across as a wimp." She wanted to help him, soothe and rebuild his ego. "Anyway, it's not as if you burst out crying. And it isn't against the rules for men to show emotion in front of women. In fact, some women count that in a man's favor."

"Some women say that."

There was a silence that was definitely awkward.

Again, Jeb was the first to speak. "I'm ready for more questions."

"I don't have any right now. But I might have to talk to you again."

"I wish you would."

"Try to get some sleep and you'll feel better."
Dumb thing to say. Shouldn't have called.

"You, too, Pearl. You must be awfully busy these days."

"Busier than I'd like," she said. "Good night, Jeb."

"'Night, Pearl."

She hung up the phone but kept her hand on it. She wasn't trembling. Not quite. And she was a little angry with herself.

No, more than a little.

What an idiot you are!

Idiot full of scotch!

The phone sprang to life beneath her hand and jangled, starling her. She didn't pick up, didn't feel like talking to anyone else. She'd already made an ass of herself on the phone. Let the machine take it.

"Pearl?" inquired her mother's voice from the machine.

God! There was no one she felt less like talking to now.

"Pearl, are you there? Of course you aren't. Busy making the world safe when you gave up a steady job to put yourself in danger. I thought you were finished with the police and were planning on a normal life. Speaking of which, I talked to Mrs. Kahn, and it's true her nephew Milton is at the moment between relationships after his regrettable divorce from a woman who didn't deserve him. What she put him through you wouldn't believe. Mrs. Kahn says the divorce was a long time coming and, if you'll excuse the expression, financial rape. Of Milton, not the hellion wife. Mrs. Kahn says Milton says he would like to meet you, and I can tell you he's a presentable and kind person and with prospects. I saw him when he came here to visit his aunt, and I will confirm to you that he's a hunka-hunka. There'd be no harm in you two getting together to break bread and break the ice and see what's beneath it even. You should consider, dear. The clock is ticking, and faster than you think. Your mother knows, Pearl. Call your mother."

The machine clicked off.

Maybe not such an idiot.

When Quinn arrived at the office the next morning Pearl was already there, perched on her desk with her arms crossed. Fedderman hadn't yet arrived. The coffee was on and smelled fresh and pungent. Someone thumped three times, hard, on the dividing wall between the office and the dental clinic, possibly a patient attempting escape.

Quinn touched his chin where he'd nicked himself with his razor. This thing with Lauri and Wormy...

"I met Lauri for lunch yesterday," Pearl said.

Quinn sat down behind his desk, the chair cushion hissing beneath him as a reminder that he should lose some weight. "And?"

"We had a long talk. She really is an exceptional girl."

Quinn smiled, then became more serious and began lightly tapping a pencil on the desk. "What I'd like is for her to give herself a chance."

"She's trying to do that," Pearl said. "Her workplace seems okay except for the food."

"And the music."

"What I heard was recorded," Pearl said.

"A mercy."

"I don't know, Quinn. I'm not a parent. But I'd feel okay about Lauri. Life teaches its lessons gradually, and I can see why a father would be impatient, especially if he's...impatient. My advice to you is to stop worrying so much."

"What about that musical geek she's been dating?"

"Wormy? Him I didn't see. Does he have a real name?"

"If he did, no one would use it. Wormy's too apropos. Or maybe it's his show business name, for when he sings and fronts his band at the restaurant."

"Have we got a sheet on him?"

"I'm going to check on that," Quinn said. "I need for you to find out his name nobody uses."

"Me?"

"It might be too obvious if I ask Lauri. And if I ask at the restaurant, somebody, some worm, might recognize me and mention it to her. You could go by the Hungry U when she's not there and ask around in an unofficial capacity."

Pearl stood up from her perch on the desk. "Get hold of yourself, Quinn. You're liable to get that boy fired."

"What if he has a sheet? Deals in drugs, steals cars, or assaults women?"

"You suspect any of that?"

"All of it."

Pearl stared at him and shook her head. "You're overplaying your role as a father, Quinn. I was glad to talk with Lauri, but I'll be damned if I'm going to spy on her or delve into her personal life."

"Personal life?"

"Sex life."

"Damn it, Pearl!"

"Damn what?" Fedderman asked. He'd just come in. The morning was heating up and he already had his suit coat slung over his shoulder, holding it Frank Sinatra-style, hooked on one finger. His tie was crooked and there were crescents of perspiration beneath his arms on his white shirt that was partly untucked.

"Nothing," Quinn said. "I want you to call a restaurant in the Village, the Hungry U, and tell them you're a journalist for
Spin
magazine. Ask for the real name of a guy whose band is playing there, goes by Wormy."

"That French?

Quinn explained and spelled it for him.

Fedderman had played journalist before and didn't find the request all that unusual. "What's the band called?"

"The Defendants."

"Cute," Fedderman said. "What're we gonna do when we find out who this Wormy is?"

"We're gonna find out who he
really
is," Quinn said.