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.
25
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."