Which wouldn't necessarily mean he lives nearby, Pearl thought, only that he traveled by bus, subway, or cab, or that he had the good sense not to park his car near the building where he intended to commit murder.
"Did you notice any lettering or a company logo on his jacket?" Quinn asked.
"No, but I might have been too far away to notice. And it all happened rather fast."
Quinn thanked Ida Altmont for her time and her help, then gave her his card and asked her to call if she remembered anything else about last night.
Now that he was finished with Ida, Pearl spoke to her. "You said the deliveryman wouldn't have parked far away with such a large package. Did it appear heavy to you?"
"Why, yes. Yes, it did. More heavy than large, actually, if that makes sense."
"It does," Pearl said, thinking steel blades and a portable saw.
Quinn was thinking the same thing, and looking at Pearl with approval. It annoyed her that she found herself almost blushing with pleasure at having pleased him. She wasn't a sap like Ida Altmont. Men were such…
"I'm sorry I couldn't have been more help," Ida Altmont said, getting up from the sofa slowly, as if her legs hurt. She did some more eyelash batting, and then stuffed her handkerchief back into a pocket of her skirt.
Quinn smiled and waved for her not to bother letting them out. "We'll find our own way. And don't assume you haven't been a great help to us. You never can tell when some seemingly minor piece of information will turn out to be exactly what we need in a homicide investigation."
"I do hope you catch the animal who did that to Celandra."
"We will, dear. Perpetrators always make a mistake."
"Is that actually true?" Ida Altmont asked seriously.
"Often enough," Quinn said with a grin just for her. "And that one mistake is all we need in order to put them where they belong." Quinn, protector of the city.
"One mistake…" Ida Altmont said thoughtfully. She seemed intrigued by the idea. More eyelash work. "Might I interest you in some tea or milk and cake?" she asked. Pearl could see, with some irritation, that the woman was entirely smitten with Quinn.
"Next time perhaps," he said. "It would be my great pleasure."
He actually gave a little bow, somehow managing not to look foolish. Pearl had to admire how he so skillfully disguised his cynicism. It was something she'd have to work on.
Since Quinn, finding his own way out, had turned away from her, Ida Altmont went to the door of the room where Edgemore was safely locked away, instead of the door to the hall.
As Pearl and Quinn were leaving, Edgemore emitted a low growl, then began yapping frantically and charged at Pearl. His teeth were exposed to the gums. The nails on his tiny paws scratched the polished hardwood floor, seeking traction.
Pearl moved quickly out into the hall, almost bumping into Quinn, and shut the door behind her. On the other side of the door, Edgemore continued to bark. They could hear his nails scraping on the door.
"What the hell's that dog got against me?" Pearl asked.
"Dogs know people," Quinn said.
"They know more than some people."
"Don't be discouraged," Quinn said. "Perpetrators always make a mistake."
And sure enough, this one had made a mistake.
But not one Pearl was going to like.
45
The day got progressively hectic, making Quinn wonder if he was cursed.
When his desk phone jangled that afternoon, he was surprised to hear Renz's voice. It was too early for the postmortem findings on Celandra Thorn.
"You'll have to speak up, Harley," Quinn said. Con Ed had begun tearing up the street right outside, and the intermittent clatter of a jackhammer punctuated everything said in the office. When the jackhammer wasn't chattering, the muted shrill whine of a dental drill from Nothing but the Tooth made its way through the wall.
Pearl was at her desk, rereading witness statements about the Thorn murder. Fedderman was just coming in through the door, no doubt with additional statements. Quinn planned on the three of them sifting hay for the needle the next several hours.
But Renz wasn't calling about autopsy reports.
"We have a print that might prove useful," he said in a loud telephone voice. "Middle finger, right hand. A bloody fingerprint, no less."
The jackhammer chattered. Quinn came hyperalert. One mistake… Maybe the Butcher had made his mistake, just as Quinn had described to Ida Altmont.
Might it really work that way?
"It's the only print that doesn't match any of the seven sets we've found and identified. An obsessive tech discovered it in the bathroom, beneath the front edge of the marble vanity top." Renz gave a satisfied chuckle. "And it couldn't be more clear."
Amazing, Quinn thought. His mind flashed an image of the killer washing up after the murder. He'd removed his latex gloves, or one had torn, and he absently gripped the edge of the vanity while leaning forward studying himself in the mirror, looking for other bloodstains. The kind of small, casual action that could lead straight to hell.
But something was nagging Quinn. "Have you run the print?"
"We're doing that now. I'll fax an enlargement to you when I hang up. If the print's in NCIC or any other data bank, we'll have the name of our killer. He finally got careless. Sickos like him always do, eventually, and they get collared or go out in a blaze of glory. The needle or the gun."
Still…
Quinn suddenly realized what was bothering him. "Harley, there's no marble vanity in Celandra Thorn's bathroom."
"The bloody print wasn't found there. It was found in Marilyn Nelson's bathroom, and the blood was hers. Does it matter which murder this asshole gets nailed for?"
"Not if he gets nailed." Quinn looked across his desk at Pearl and Fedderman, who were staring intently at him. His side of the conversation must have sounded pretty good. Quinn was aware of the fax machine gurgling and clucking over in the corner. Renz sending the fingerprint image even as he was talking on the phone. "Keep me informed, Harley. Once we ID him, he's our meat."
"And mine," Renz said, no doubt keeping in mind the political ramifications of the killer's arrest.
"I want the killer. You get the press conference."
"That was pretty much the deal," Renz said, and hung up.
Quinn replaced the receiver and related to Pearl and Fedderman what Renz had said, pausing whenever the jackhammer blasted off on a riff. Dust was somehow filtering into the building. The grit coated his teeth. He watched the other two detectives as he talked. He could almost feel the heightening of their senses, the increased voltage of their energy. At that moment they knew they were all in the right business, and in it together. If a clue dropped like a feather outside, they would all hear it.
Something primitive here? Hot on the scent? Hunting with the pack?
Whatever, it was a hell of a feeling. One worth living for.
"Asshole like that," Fedderman said, "he's bound to have a sheet somewhere. The print'll be on file."
Quinn knew it wasn't a given that psychosexual killers probably had prior brushes with the law. They weren't like burglars or confidence men; in fact, they tended to be closeted and law-abiding, if you didn't count torture and murder. He didn't mention this to Fedderman, who, after so much time retired, should enjoy the hunt.
"If he was ever fingerprinted anywhere," Quinn said, "including the military, we'll have him."
Quinn picked up on a subtle change. Something wasn't right. He wondered why Pearl suddenly didn't seem as enthusiastic as Fedderman. She was seated back behind her desk, looking despondent. She sensed Quinn staring at her and glanced up to meet his eyes.
"What?" she said.
"You read my mind," he told her. "That's exactly what I was going to ask you."