“Fine with me.”
Paul collected his jacket from the den and returned to the living room. Pulling it on, he frowned. “There’s something else that just occurred to me. I’ll bet he knows about you.”
“Me? Personally?”
“You and the other investigators.”
“How?”
“I’m thinking he’s been to the crime scenes, checking out the investigation. That means you could be in danger. All of you. You should let everyone on your team know.” He added gravely, “Sooner rather than later.”
Carrera sent a text. “My partner. He’ll tell everybody to keep an eye out. You should be careful too, Paul.”
“Me? I’m just a civilian. I’m sure I don’t have anything to worry about.”
Paul Winslow’s apartment was pitifully easy to break into.
After James Lassiter had seen Paul and Carrera leave the place — it was about two hours ago — he’d had slipped around back and jimmied the basement door. Then up a few flights of stairs to the apartment itself. The lock-pick gun had done the job in five seconds, and he’d slipped inside, pleased to note that the place didn’t have an alarm.
Piece of cake.
He now stood in the bay window of the dim living room, scanning the street. He was wearing latex gloves and a stocking cap. Lassiter had been impressed with the fancy apartment; the opulence worked to his advantage. Having so many nice things in an unalarmed house? Just the place for a robbery. He’d decided that Paul couldn’t be a victim of the Upper East Side Slasher, because then Carrera and the other investigators would know immediately that Paul’s advice — which might lead to Lassiter — was accurate. No, the crime would be your basic break-in, the burglar surprised when Paul stepped into his apartment.
His plan was that if Carrera returned with Paul, he’d slip out the back and wait another day. But if the young man returned alone, Lassiter would throw him to the floor and pistol-whip him. Blind him, shatter his jaw. Put him in the hospital for months and render him useless as a witness. Murder ups the ante exponentially in a crime. Police frankly don’t care so much about a beating, however serious.
Jesus, look at all the books... Lassiter almost felt bad thinking that blinding him would pretty much finish his days as a reader.
But it’s your own fault, Mr. Meddling Winslow.
A half hour later, Lassiter tensed. Yes, there was Paul returning from the direction of Central Park. Alone. The cop wasn’t with him. When the young man stepped into a quick mart, Lassiter drew his gun and hid behind the front door, which opened onto the hallway of Paul’s building.
Three minutes passed, then four. He was awaiting the key in the latch, but instead heard the sound of the buzzer.
Lassiter cautiously peered through the eyehole. He was looking at a fisheye image of a pizza delivery man, holding a box.
He nearly laughed. But then wondered, Wait, how had the guy gotten through the front security door without hitting the intercom from outside?
Oh, shit. Because Paul had given him the key and told him to ring the buzzer, to draw Lassiter’s attention to the front door. Which meant—
The gun muzzle touched the back of Lassiter’s neck, the metal cold. Painfully cold.
“Settle down there, Lassiter,” Paul said in a calm voice. “Drop the gun, put your hands behind your back.”
Lassiter sighed. The pistol bounced noisily on the wood floor.
In an instant, expertly, Paul had cuffed his hands and picked up the gun. Lassiter turned and grimaced. The young man did not, it turned out, have a weapon of his own. He’d bluffed, using a piece of pipe. Paul nodded to the door and said, “I gave him the key outside and told him to let himself in the front door. If you were wondering. But you probably figured.”
The buzzer rang again and Paul eased Lassiter onto the floor.
“Don’t move. All right?” The young man checked the gun to see that it was loaded and ready to fire, which it was. He aimed at Lassiter’s head.
“Yes. Right. I won’t.”
Paul pocketed the gun and turned the apartment lights on. He stepped to the door, opened it.
He took the pizza box and paid. He must’ve left a real nice tip; the young man said an effusive, “Well, thank you, sir! You have a good night! Wow, thanks!”
Paul didn’t care much for pizza. Or for any food really. He’d only placed the order to distract Lassiter and give him the chance to sneak in the back door. He did, however, have a thirst. “I could use a glass of milk. You?”
“Milk?”
“Or water? That’s about all I can offer you. I don’t have any liquor or soda.”
Lassiter didn’t respond. Paul walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of milk. He returned and helped Lassiter onto a chair. He sipped from the tall glass, reflecting on how different he felt, how confident. The depression was gone completely, the anxiety too.
Thank you, Dr. Levine.
Paul regarded the glass. “Did you know milk has a terroir too, just like wine? You can tell, by analysis of the milk, what the cows were eating during the lactation period: the substances in the soil, chemical residues, even insect activity. Why do you wrap your trophies in silk? The fingers? That’s one thing I couldn’t deduce.”
Lassiter gasped and his eyes, wide, cut into Paul’s like a torch.
“I know it wasn’t on the news. The police don’t even know that.” He explained, “There was a single bloody thread at one of the scenes. It couldn’t have come from a silk garment you were wearing. That would be too ostentatious and obvious for a man on a killing mission. Silk is used for cold-weather undergarments, yes, but you wouldn’t have worn anything like that in these temperatures; very bad idea to sweat at a crime scene. Weren’t the days better for people like you when there was no DNA analysis?”
Did a moan issue from Lassiter’s throat? Paul couldn’t be sure. He smiled. “Well, I’m not too concerned about the silk. Merely curious. Not relevant to our purposes here. The more vital question you have surely is how I found you. Understandable. The short answer is that I learned from the newspaper accounts of the murders that you’re an organized offender. I deduced you plan everything out ahead of time. And you plan the sites of the killings and the escape routes meticulously.
“Someone like that would also want to know about the people tracking him down. I decided you’d be at the scene the morning after the killing. I observed everyone who was there. I was suspicious of the man sipping coffee and reading the sports section of the Post. I was pretty sure it was you. I’d known that the clue about the Ferragamo shoe was fake — why take off the booties in the dirt, when you could have walked three feet farther onto the asphalt and pulled them off there, not leaving any impressions for the police? That meant you weren’t rich at all but middle-class — the shoes were to misdirect the cops. I knew you were strong and solidly built. All of those described the Post reader pretty well.
“When I left the scene I was aware that you followed me back here. As soon as I got inside I grabbed a hat and new jacket and sunglasses and went out the back door. I started following you — right back to your apartment in Queens. A few Internet searches and I got your identity.”
Paul enjoyed a long sip of milk. “An average cow in the U.S. produces nearly twenty thousand pounds of milk a year. I find that amazing.” He regarded the unfortunate man for a moment. “I’m a great fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories.” He nodded around the room at his shelves. “As you can probably see.”
“So that’s why the police aren’t here,” his prisoner muttered. “You’re going play the big hero, like Sherlock Holmes, showing up the police with your brilliance. Who’re you going to turn me over to? The mayor? The police commissioner?”