Fedderman walked over to stand near Quinn, adding his own curious and baleful stare.
Pearl knew the time had come when she had to reveal her relationship with Jeb Jones. If the bloody fingerprint was Jeb's, he'd be arrested for the murder of Marilyn Nelson. And Pearl had been sleeping with him, even confiding to him about the investigation.
Was her luck with men still all bad? Had he been playing her for a fool?
She wanted to believe in Jeb, but now it wasn't so easy. Her cynicism again. It could destroy a relationship, or catch a killer.
Jeb had spent time with Marilyn Nelson, but he claimed he was never actually inside her apartment (except for the brief interview on the sofa), so his prints shouldn't be there, especially with her blood on them.
Pearl wondered, did she trust him enough to assume the print wasn't his? That was the question, the kind of question that had destroyed most of her relationships.
Can I trust him enough?
She couldn't answer right now. She didn't have the clarity of mind. Couldn't stop her thoughts from whirling. She did know that once she spoke up, be he guilty or innocent, her relationship with Jeb was finished.
Not yet, not yet.
"What are you two goons gaping at?" she asked angrily.
Quinn continued to stare for a moment, then busied himself with some papers on his desk. Fedderman turned away and walked over to the machine to get the fax. The image of a bloody fingerprint Pearl didn't want to see.
An hour later, Renz called again. The print hadn't triggered a match, not in the NYPD database, NCIC, VICAP, or the FBI's all-encompassing IAFIS system. Apparently the killer had never been fingerprinted by the police, the military, or by the government for a civilian job.
They couldn't match this print with any of the others in Marilyn Nelson's apartment because the killer wore gloves, except perhaps for the one time when he was cleaning up and got careless. All of the other usable prints in the apartment were obviously women's or had been matched to Marilyn, a previous tenant, an electrical repairman, the super, and three of her neighbors.
So Jeb's prints weren't in the apartment because, just as he'd said, the only time he'd been inside was when he approached the door after her murder. The day Pearl had first questioned him. She was positive he'd never gotten past the living room sofa, and hadn't touched anything other than upholstery material that wouldn't hold a print.
Definitely he hadn't been in the bathroom.
There'd been no need to fingerprint Jeb, so they hadn't. He was a one-time visitor, after Marilyn's death, who hadn't gotten more than ten feet inside the door.
Pearl was sure of that.
She looked at the disappointed expressions of Quinn and Fedderman, her fellow cops.
Sure or not, she owed them something. Owed it to herself.
When they weren't paying attention to her, she picked up her phone and called Ella Oaklie's work number.
When Ella came to the phone, Pearl identified herself and said, "The evening you saw the man who resembled Jeb Jones with Marilyn, are you sure the two of them were coming out of her apartment?"
"Positive," Ella said. "I think they'd just come down the steps to the sidewalk."
Pearl knew how the minds of witnesses could play tricks. "You think? Is it possible they'd just met outside the building?"
"No. Marilyn even told me they were on their way out for drinks and invited me along."
"Maybe she was simply being polite?"
"Well, I suppose that's possible."
Possible. Dangerous word.
"Is it possible the person you saw actually was the same man I was with in the Pepper Tree?"
"Sure. I told you to begin with I thought it was him. You didn't seem to want to believe me."
Pearl cringed when she heard that. She knew Ella was right; she hadn't wanted to believe. She still didn't want to believe.
She thanked Ella Oaklie and hung up the phone. Pearl knew the answer to her question was no, she didn't trust Jeb enough.
Maybe she couldn't trust anyone enough, and maybe that was her problem. But there it was.
She decided she had no choice but to reveal her and Jeb's relationship before the bloody print might be matched to his.
The jackhammer chattered and she waited for silence. She cleared her throat.
"There is someone we should try to match with that print," she said.
Quinn and Fedderman looked over at her as if they hadn't understood.
She repeated what she'd said, and then said so much more.
46
Quinn was obviously angry. When Pearl was finished talking, he stood up and started pacing around, not looking at her, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw muscles were flexing.
Pearl and Fedderman sat watching him. The office was warmer than usual, and humid, and the grit from the construction or destruction outside hung in the air. The jackhammer had let up, and the only sound in the office was the faint shrillness of the dental drill on the other side of the wall.
"Should we pick up this Jeb Jones character and print him?" Fedderman asked.
Quinn stopped pacing and faced them. His features were now calm and thoughtful. If he was going to be furious with Pearl, it could wait. His mind was on his prey. "I don't want to move on the basis of one print," he said. "Let's tail him, find out more about him."
"Give him some line," Fedderman said, "while we set the hook deeper." He made a sudden jerking motion with both hands wrapped around an imaginary rod. Showing some signs of all that Florida retirement fishing.
"You latch on to him first, Feds," Quinn said, spoiling the fish metaphor. "Pearl and I will work the computers to see if Jones's prints are in any of the minor databases around the country, then one of us will spell you. Check in every few hours, let us know what's he's up to." There was, other than the large, official websites that afforded the best possibilities, another layer of smaller, lesser-known sites. There were social services, corporate employee sites, backwater police or sheriff's departments, that hadn't merged their files with larger databases. Combing through them was the computer age equivalent of what used to be known as police legwork. It seldom paid off, but often enough that it had to be done. The only way to do it was relentlessly.
"I don't think searching any more databases will do much good," Fedderman said. "A name like Jones."
Fedderman had a point. They'd wasted a lot of time following up on Jones computer hits that had led nowhere productive. There were plenty of people who simply had never been fingerprinted. Jeb Jones was probably one of them. But considering the time they'd put in, a little more wouldn't hurt. Learning everything possible about Jeb Jones before he was picked up could be essential.
Renz called again and told Quinn the blood on the fingerprint had tested A-positive, same as the victim's, so there was no reason get any hopes up over DNA evidence. Still, if the killer and victim had the same blood type, and it was a common type…
But Quinn doubted if that line of inquiry would lead anywhere. In order to leave a sample of his own blood, the Butcher would have had to cut himself, and he was a killer ever so careful. The fingerprint was almost certainly made with the blood of the victim.
Quinn fixed narrowed eyes on Pearl. "Did he ever act like Jeb Jones was an alias?"
Pearl was losing her fear and getting angry now, at herself mostly, and also at Jeb. But anyone would do to take it out on.
Out of love, back in the real world, back in the shit…
Maybe she should do as her mother suggested and meet Mrs. Kahn's eminently eligible nephew. What was the geek's name…Milton?
"Pearl?"
"When we were having sex and I came and said 'Oh, Jeb!' he didn't seem to think I was talking to somebody else."
Quinn stared deadpan at her. Behind her, Fedderman was trying not to laugh.