A stalwart uniformed cop stood next to an open apartment door about fifty feet down the hall from the elevator. Quinn was sure he hadn’t seen the man before, who looked capable but about twenty pounds overweight. Gained recently, Quinn suspected, noting the cop’s youth, and the taut material stretched over a stomach paunch.
When Quinn flashed his ID the uniform stepped aside so he could enter.
Quinn was directed to the apartment’s one bedroom. Techs and the dance of the white gloves were everywhere except the bedroom. They’d finished in there, interpreting the bloodstains and gathering possibly minute evidence to be examined later. Trying to recreate what was.
Nift, the atrocious little medical examiner, was kneeling beside this victim in the way Quinn had often seen him, more intensely curious than somber. His lips were moving slightly and silently. It was almost as if he and the corpse were getting to know each other on the most intimate terms, which in a way was half true.
As he saw Quinn, Nift said hello, removing from the torso of the dead woman what looked like an indicator to probe for liver temperature, a valuable part of the calculus that would provide time of death.
The victim, Dora Palm, was on the floor, lying in an awkward position that needed a second look to be sure she was real. The observer would see that her arms, legs, and head were about a quarter of an inch from where they should have been attached.
“Skillfully done, isn’t it?” Nift said.
“Strange skill, though. And why in this cramped little room did he put her on the floor instead of the bed?”
Nift looked thoughtful. “Could be he wanted her in the lowest position possible. A measure of her importance compared to his. Gremlin the conqueror, his conquest lying on the floor like a detached and broken doll.”
“Or it could be that it’s difficult to pose a dead woman on a soft mattress, especially with her limbs and head severed.”
“I could think of more interesting poses,” Nift said, looking beyond Quinn.
“I’m sure you could,” said a woman’s voice.
Pearl had walked in. Nift looked instantly interested. Pearl had on a light tan raincoat over a gray pants suit and a white blouse open at the neck. The neckline was low enough to show the swell of her more than ample breasts. Why would she unfasten that top button on her blouse, knowing Nift might be here?
Or had the blouse come unbuttoned and she hadn’t noticed?
The things women did that made men think. But then, he was the one doing that kind of thinking.
“Hello to all three of you,” Nift said.
Quinn considered saying something to Nift, then decided Pearl could speak for herself. She had once punched out an over-amorous police captain when she was in the NYPD. Promotion was difficult for her after that, if not impossible.
Nift began packing his instruments in a container that would keep them separate from the sterile ones. He straightened up slowly, as if his back hurt. Pearl hoped it did.
It occurred to Quinn that Nift was getting up in years to be acting like a nasty lothario who might have a strain of necrophilia in his horror-house mind.
“Unless you have some reason for her not to,” Nift said, “it’s okay now for Dora Palm to leave for our rendezvous in the morgue. I’ll phone you later and give you facts and figures, among them a more accurate time of death.” He glanced around to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.
“By the way,” he said, “there’s a uniformed officer downstairs, a big cop named Vincent something. He can give you the name of the guy who found the body. Lives in Brooklyn and works for the company that’s doing the work now on rehabbing this area.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Quinn said.
“His name’s Stan Gorshin. You’ll recognize him. He’s the only hard hat out there in a suit.”
Quinn said, “Did he have on the hard hat before all the unscheduled demolition?”
Nift thought for longer than a minute. “Yeah. I think so. But I can’t be certain.”
“Seems nothing in life is certain.”
“Or in death,” Nift said.
There Quinn disagreed with him.
52
St. Louis, Missouri, 1999
Fran came in early the morning of a doubleheader that was going to be played because of an earlier rainout. Downtown St. Louis was still snoozing, as were most of the suburbs. But Fran knew that within a few hours, parking space would become a rare commodity, and expensive when you parked anywhere near the stadium.
She’d left the car near the double-wide where she and Willie lived and taken the Metro downtown.
By the time she was walking the short distance from the Metro-link stop to Busch Stadium, the slight drizzle had ceased, as the weather wonders on every TV channel had predicted, and the low gray sky had become blue. Probably, Fran thought, the temperature would reach ninety-five degrees, as predicted, and the sun would be blasting away most of the day. Baseball fans approaching and leaving the stadium would want bratwurst, which would make them want beer or soda, which would make them want bratwurst. A vicious, profitable circle.
Fran picked up her pace and smiled. It was going to be a good day; she could feel it. She could take the register, spelled now and then by Willie or Henry. The new kid, Pablo, could work the kitchen. The Happy Brat was the kind of restaurant where no table service was expected. Alcoholic beverages could be ordered at the counter and would be brought tableside, but customers served everything else to themselves. To eat here or to get food to go. It always impressed Fran to see how many people liked to eat and drink while they walked.
Multitaskers, Fran thought. That was okay with her, as long as they paid and didn’t make a mess of the public sidewalks.
As she rounded the last corner before reaching the Happy Brat, she saw that the lights were on inside, from the fluorescent ceiling fixtures. They cast a ghastly glow, adding age and angst to everyone inside. But it was summer and it wasn’t dark outside now. The night had been chased away, but recently. The diner shouldn’t yet be open. The notion that something might be wrong stirred in Fran, but she dispelled it. Henry had closed the diner last night, and had most likely simply forgotten to switch off the fluorescent overhead fixtures.
She was pleased that the red neon open sign in the window was off.
Fran realized her heart was banging away and told herself to slow down. Nobody was burglarizing the diner. Maybe Pablo had overslept again and Henry was getting a jump on things in the kitchen. It wouldn’t be the first time. She could smell the scent of the bratwurst rotating over the open oven, the special sauce crusting on the meat.
At least she thought she could smell it. She did have a powerful imagination when it came to food.
She saw now that someone, probably Henry, wearing a white shirt, dark pants, and a dark apron, was working in the kitchen, visible through the window and beyond the serving counter pass-through. Henry, all right. Or maybe the kid. Certainly not Willie. He was still home in bed, breaking the sound barrier with his snoring.
Or was he? He might have beaten her to the diner, if he’d left the double-wide right after she had.
The red neon bratwurst sign was still off, and most of the light in the diner was coming from the fixture in the kitchen, directly above the sink.
When Fran opened the door, the figure at the sink had his back to her, wearing the white and black outfit with the apron. He either heard or sensed something.
As Fran stepped inside, he turned.
The kid. Pablo.