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.
He laid the hat on the bed (knowing some people thought doing so brought bad luck, but the hell with superstition if you were smart), then adroitly dusted his dark hair with aerosol spray.
Posing before the full-length mirror again, he placed the hat on his head carefully so as not to muss his hair. He adjusted the hat, touched a finger to the curved brim, and shot himself a smile.
Then he switched off the light and left in something of a hurry.
He had a date.
16
Quinn had finished his impromptu late dinner of hash and eggs, and was enjoying a cigar at his desk in the den, when there was a knock on his apartment door. This didn't surprise him, as the building's security system allowed most anyone with an IQ higher than a rabbit's to find a way to enter without being buzzed in.
He propped the cigar in an ashtray so it wouldn't go out, and made his way into the living room. With a glance at his watch, he saw that it was past nine o'clock. He'd spent most of the evening reading over the murder books on the Butcher's victims, hoping something might snag his attention and open new vistas of investigation. It seldom happened, but happened often enough to warrant tireless scrutiny of file information. It hadn't happened this evening.
Peeking through the round peephole he saw only what appeared to be the shoulder of someone not very big. He opened the door to the hall.
A young woman of about eighteen stood staring in at him. What drew his eye was the glitter of a tiny glass or diamond stud in her left nostril. Then there was the general impression of build, average if a bit fleshy, five-feet-four or so, stuffed into a tight aqua-colored top made of some kind of stretch material. Her dirty, faded jeans were too tight and rode low, revealing between waistband and blouse an expanse of stomach that showcased a navel pierced by a small silver ring. She had brown hair combed in a practical short do, a slightly turned-up nose, wide, generous mouth, a strong chin, and green eyes exactly like Quinn's.
She smiled and said, "Hi, Dad."
Astounded, Quinn actually backed up a step or two. This almost stranger was his daughter Lauri, whose mother May and her present husband, Elliott Franzine, lived in California, where Lauri lived with them.
Should be living with them.
Only Lauri wasn't in California. She was here. Quinn was seeing her for the first time in a little over a year. The change was astounding.
He said, "Lauri?"
Still smiling, she came in and dropped an overstuffed backpack he somehow hadn't noticed on the floor, then glanced around. "Your place is nice."
"You're…here," he said, still stunned. She was so much older, grown-up. A full-sized…person.
"Sure am." She came to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed his cheek, and was gone before he'd had a chance to hug her back.
"May…Your mother…"
"I decided to leave California. Saved up some money. Rode buses all the way. That Port Authority place is like wild. Got anything to eat?"
"Sure." He led the way into the kitchen, his mind atilt. "You're supposed to be in school."
"Summertime, Dad. Graduated anyway. High B average. Coulda done better." She opened the refrigerator. "Hey! New York stuff! That fatty red meat."
"Pastrami," Quinn said. "They have it in California, too."
"Not where I been. You like it?"
"Sure. You graduated from high school?" His guess would have been that she was a junior, maybe a sophomore. Time working its malicious magic.
"Yep."
Drawers opened, twisties were untwisted, jars unlidded; the refrigerator door was worked, and a squeeze bottle of mustard squeeched! A pastrami sandwich with pickles on rye appeared incredibly fast before Quinn. The fridge door opened and closed again. Hisssss! Lauri was seated at the table with a fizzy cold can of Pepsi, attacking the sandwich.
"Does your mother know you're here?" Quinn asked, embarrassed to sound like a character in an old TV family sitcom.
"I think not." Through a huge bite of sandwich.
"What about Elliott?"
"He's a dork."
Quinn remembered her calling him a dork not that many years ago. It had stung. "Elliott's not such a bad guy."
Which was true. Quinn had himself at first thought Elliott a dork, but eventually, when he finally accepted that it was over forever with May, he came to appreciate the home and consistency that real-estate attorney Elliott provided for his family-that used to be Quinn's family. Quinn, who any day or night at work might have been shot, had never been able to provide that kind of security at home. A cop's wife leaves him-who doesn't understand and sympathize?
"Does Elliott know you traveled to New York?" Quinn asked, amazed by how quickly the sandwich was disappearing.
"Nobody but you knows I'm here, Dad. This stuff is great. I'm looking forward to New York. Don't worry. I'm gonna get a place of my own soon as I find work."
"Huh? Place? Work?"
"You got a spare bedroom, Dad, right? Place to crash. Extra bed? I don't snore, most of the time."
"Listen, Lauri…"
She stopped chewing pastrami and looked up at him with those green eyes. Smiled big. Ah, God…May.
Memory was physical pain.
"There's a spare bedroom," he said. "I'll have to move out a few things I've got stored in there."
She took a big bite of sandwich and stood up. "Let's go. I'll help you."
"Doesn't have to be right now," he said. "Finish your sandwich. Make another one if you're hungry."
She settled back down and began eating in earnest again. She said, "I don't have any tattoos."
He smiled. "Fine."
"Do you mind if I get one?"
"Does it matter what I think?"
"Sure. I asked, didn't I?"
"Yeah. Will you not get a tattoo if I say I mind?"
"Wouldn't go that far."
"I've gotta say I don't have an opinion on you getting tattooed," Quinn said honestly. "I never gave it much thought. I mean, I never figured it was a question I'd have to wrestle with."