“Which is?”
“You’re a romantic. The world is shit. You fool yourself into thinking it isn’t and try to clean it up while I recognize it for what it is and happily wallow in it. That’s the difference between us.”
“I’ll stay a romantic,” Quinn said.
Quinn knew what the photos meant, and there was no way to romanticize it. The killer the press had tabbed the Slicer had taken another victim. There was another serial killer in the city.
“On the surface it looks like we’re dealing with two dangerous psychos,” Renz said.
“On the surface?”
Quinn looked at the last photo and slid all of them back in the envelope. Then he reminded Renz of the common thread that seemed to connect the .25-Caliber Killer’s victims. All of them had been hunters.
“And the two Slicer victims,” Renz said, showing that he was a step ahead of Quinn, “were treated like game animals, gutted and strung up like meat put out to cure. Could be we got us one killer using two different MOs to throw us off the scent.”
“Serial killers don’t usually work that way,” Quinn reminded Renz. “They act out of compulsion, and usually follow a ritual set in motion in childhood. These murders have all the earmarks of serial killer crimes, but it’s doubtful they were committed by the same person.”
“But possible.”
“Barely.”
Renz attempted to tuck his errant tie back beneath his buttoned coat, but it flapped right back out, reminding him it was an untidy world. “In this case,” he said, ignoring the tie, “we’re going to assume, publicly at least, that we have one serial killer using two different methods.”
“And what links the murders is the hunting motif.”
“Very good,” Renz said.
“Flimsy.”
“But convenient. Sal Vitali and Harold Mishkin will continue working on the Slicer murders, but under your direction.”
“They won’t like that.”
Renz shrugged and made another futile attempt to tame his tie.
“Have you talked to Helen Iman about this?” Quinn asked. He was interested in what Helen the profiler had to say about tying the two cases together.
“She agrees with you,” Renz said. “It’s not likely the Slicer and the Twenty-five-Caliber Killer is the same person. Their methods aren’t even similar. She thinks the hunting angle is thin, too.”
“Helen’s smart for a profiler,” Quinn said. “You should listen to her.”
“But like you she considered it possible, if not probable, that we’ve got one killer. When we began discussing odds, though, she started talking about a meteor striking us dead.”
Quinn fixed a stare on Renz. “You don’t think it’s one killer either, do you, Harley?”
“I think it’s politically expedient for it to be one killer. You might not like the necessity of handling these cases that way, but there are politics involved. That’s something you should have realized earlier in your career, Quinn. You might have become police commissioner instead of me.”
Quinn knew he was right. Still…
“Have you told all this to Vitali and Mishkin?” Quinn asked.
“An hour ago,” Renz said.
“I’ll bet they were overjoyed.”
“They huffed and puffed, like you. But they took it. Like you. None of us has any real choice in this matter.”
Quinn sighed and jammed his hands deep in his pockets so Renz wouldn’t see that they were clenched in fists. “All of this for political expedience.”
Renz smiled and stuffed his flapping tie inside his shirt between the top two buttons, where finally it remained trapped.
“All of this,” he said, “for that.”
36
Terri Gaddis wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t show up. Handsome guy like Richard, he could have just about any woman he wanted, when he wanted.
How great it must be to be a man, rooting around among the trinkets, choosing then putting back down, instead of being one of the trinkets.
She took a sip of her rum and Coke and tried not to keep looking at the Magic Lounge’s door. Now and then a wave of embarrassment and anger at herself would wash over her.
What am I doing here? Other than waiting to be stood up?
But she knew what she was doing. Trying to relieve the loneliness of working at Office Tech, then going home, sometimes stopping for drinks with one of the other women at the store, watching reality TV (Survivor. Boy, she could identify with that one), going to bed, getting up, and then climbing back on the treadmill. Day after numbing day.
Then all of a sudden there he was, tall enough and certainly dark and handsome, chatting her up among the printers and fax machines in aisle seven.
Lucky aisle seven.
He’d accidentally brushed his arm against her right breast when reaching to turn on a printer—she was sure it was accidental—and it felt as if wires ran from her nipple to the core of her sexual need and another wire ran directly to her heart. Conduits of erotic electricity.
To look at his face you wouldn’t think they’d made any contact at all, while her heart wouldn’t slow down. Terri couldn’t remember when a man had done that to her. If ever. Anyway, it was rare, and something you didn’t just toss away in your life. She’d realized that the moment it had happened.
“This printer,” she’d told him, “will print papers on any kind of photo.”
He’d merely smiled at her awkwardness. “If I were dyslexic,” he’d said, “I wouldn’t have noticed that.”
That was how they’d begun a long and increasingly personal conversation. He’d been so smooth, so obviously deeply interested in her, that she’d been the one to suggest they meet later here at the Magic Lounge for drinks and more talk. And he’d seemed pleased to accept her invitation.
Terri wasn’t naïve. She knew that was a bullshitter’s stock in trade, seeming to be just what people wanted or needed at the time. But if he was pretending, he was so, so good at it. Close enough to be the real thing, when emotion was there to fill in the blanks. What was fake and genuine was difficult enough to discern in this life, even if you looked closely. A person could see glass and throw away a diamond.
She wished he were here now to pretend, if that’s what he was doing, instead of being sixteen minutes late. She’d pretend right along with him.
Other men in the lounge were getting interested in her, making her uneasy. All of them looked like losers, compared to Richard Crane.
Then the door opened, and there he was. Relief flooded through her and somehow morphed into a wash of desire. He was as handsome as he’d been in the store, wearing light tan slacks, a blue sport coat with brass buttons, a pale blue shirt open at the collar. Several women in the lounge looked at him and couldn’t look away. Terri felt a tingle of excitement and possessiveness as he smiled and walked toward her.
“Been here long?” he asked, sliding onto the bar stool beside hers.
“Not very. Anyway, I had stuff to think about.”
“Such as?” His gentle, hooded eyes held hers. He was truly interested in her thoughts. In everything about her.
“About how my life is going,” she said. “One week after another in the store, stocking electronics, telling people about electronics, now and then selling electronics. It’s…”
“Soul stifling,” he said.
“Exactly.” He does understand.
“Ever thought about quitting and trying something else?”
She had to laugh. “I don’t have the nerve.”
The bartender came over, and they ordered drinks. He a scotch rocks, she another rum and Coke.
“So rum’s your drink. You could be a lady pirate,” he said seriously.
She had to giggle. “Where do I apply?”
“Right here. I can see you in a pirate outfit. You’d look sexy. Boots, three-corner hat, sword…”
“Eye patch?”
He seemed to think about it. “Sure.”
Their drinks arrived. She took a cautious sip of hers, remembering it was her second. If they stayed for a while here, he’d be a drink behind her. Dangerous.
“Boots and a sword,” she said. “Are you a little kinky, Richard Crane?”
“Only if you want me to be.” He tasted his scotch. “What turns me on is you. Just you.”
They drank silently for a while, studying each other.
He said softly, “Take a chance, Terri Gaddis.”
She felt her heart race.
“Have dinner with me tonight,” he said.
“Is that taking a chance?”
“Depends on where we eat.”
She smiled. “That eye patch thing is growing on me. Trouble is, I don’t have one.”
“We could make believe,” he said. “Or you could keep one eye closed. That’d be enough for me.”
Take a chance, Terri Gaddis.
“Let’s finish our drinks,” she said, “then go to my ship, and I’ll make dinner in the galley.”
“Sounds great. I’ll buy the wine on the way there.”
He wants to keep me drinking.
“Maybe we can have a treasure hunt,” he said.
“I think it’d be better if we sailed around a bit first.”
He wounded her with a smile, then sipped his scotch. “You’re the pirate.” He lowered his glass and regarded her. “If you’re worried about the rape and plunder part,” he said, “don’t.”
Terri smiled and rested a hand on his arm. “I would never plunder you,” she said.
He downed his scotch and said, “Damn it!”
John Riley had finally drunk enough wine that the voices were stilled. An hour after it got dark, he made his shambling way into the passageway between the Honeysuckle Restaurant and the Antonian Hotel. There were some black plastic trash bags piled against the hotel’s brick wall. Riley was pretty sure there wouldn’t be much of value in them, but they might make a comfortable enough bed for the night.
He still had half a bottle of the cheap wine he’d bought with what he’d been able to beg on the street. Breakfast had been half a cheeseburger he’d seen someone throw away in the trash receptacle at the busy corner down the block, and he hadn’t eaten since. The truth was, he wasn’t hungry. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe the spot on his lung, the one that doctor had told him about last year, had developed into some kind of disease that was making him thin. Or maybe it was old age. Riley was what…sixty-three? Or four? Whatever, anything over fifty was old for the streets.
Riley stopped halfway down the passageway and grinned. This was good. It looked as if more plastic trash bags had been added since he’d cut through here yesterday. Or was it the day before? Time was losing its traction in John Riley’s life. Why wouldn’t it? Night was often day in this city.
Being in the passageway, the bags probably weren’t part of the regular trash pickup, and the hotel would call now and then to have them taken away. Meanwhile, Riley could make good use of them.
He kicked with his right foot, chasing away two rats. Kicked at the bags again to make sure there weren’t more of the rodents there, out of sight. He didn’t kick so hard that the plastic would split, though, and release fluids or some foul odor that even he couldn’t abide. Carefully, to accommodate arthritic knees, he lowered his aching body and lay back on the mounds of black plastic. He wriggled around so he wasn’t in contact with anything hard, then uncapped his wine bottle and sighed. He was tired. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t dream. He wouldn’t hear the voices again until morning.
Riley took a deep draw on the bottle and felt the acidic liquid course down his throat. There’d been a time when he’d have sent this one back in a restaurant and ordered another vintage. In another life.
Some of the wine dribbled from his mouth and ran down his unshaven chin. Quickly he raised the bottle upright so he wouldn’t lose more of its precious contents, and lowered it to his side. He shrugged a shoulder to wipe his chin against it and looked down at the bottle, about to raise it for another sip.
That’s when he saw the hand.
At first he thought it might be a joke, someone hiding in among the trash bags. Or a fake hand. A mannequin’s, maybe. Something like that.
But he knew it was human, even though it didn’t look quite right.
Then he knew why it didn’t look right. It was dead.
The voices screamed.