Mister X (11 page)

Quinn and Fedderman were in the field. Pearl spent much of a rainy afternoon alone at the office, working at her computer. The new alliance with the NYPD gave her access to select databases, but so far she hadn’t learned much more that was useful about Maureen Sanders.

Not that she hadn’t learned some things. Sanders’s fingerprints and arrest record led to her connections with various welfare agencies in New York. Slowly her background had come to light on Pearl’s computer monitor. She’d been born in 1966 in Kansas City, Kansas, to parents who’d died within a few months of each other five years ago. Maureen had attended Kansas State University and at age nineteen had been expelled after falsely accusing her history professor of sexually assaulting her. Days later she was arrested for possession of cocaine, but claimed the drug had been planted in her car. Maybe it had been, because the charge was later dropped.

Still, it was easy to read between the lines that Sanders had developed a serious drug problem. After her expulsion from KSU she’d attended the University of Missouri for two months before dropping out. Then she seemed to have given up on higher education. Sanders had worked for three years as a waitress in a Columbia, Missouri, restaurant and then was arrested for stealing from her employer. She moved to San Francisco and worked off and on as an exotic dancer. Eight years ago, after her first arrest for prostitution, she’d left San Francisco for Las Vegas, supposedly for a job as a dealer in a casino.

There the thread of scant information played out. Pearl could find no record of Maureen Sanders in Las Vegas. She seemed to have been in suspended animation somewhere until she was arrested twice for prostitution in Trenton, New Jersey, three years ago. Again a gap after she failed to report to her probation officer. She appeared on New York welfare rolls two years ago, and was arrested twice on drug charges. For whatever reason the charges in New Jersey never followed her to New York, just as the California charge hadn’t followed her to New Jersey, perhaps because she lived on the streets and had no known address. Pearl guessed that until the move to New York Sanders had been able to sustain herself through prostitution. Then her drug habit and lifestyle had taken their physical toll and made that kind of work impossible.

Pearl sat back and watched the summer drizzle running blurrily down the window facing West Seventy-ninth Street. She thought about what a familiar and dreary life Maureen Sanders had lived. Hers was a tragedy too often played out in New York, and doubtless in every big city. She happened to have fallen victim to a killer rather than to a bottle or a needle or a bitterly cold winter.

Pearl got up and started to pour herself a cup of coffee, then decided against it and made a cup of instant hot chocolate instead. It looked so dreary outside that chocolate seemed the better choice to improve her mood.

She returned to her computer and decided to take a break from researching Maureen Sanders. She’d probably learned all she was going to anyway. Besides, simply reading about the woman’s wasted life was depressing as hell and had probably more than the weather resulted in the choice of chocolate over coffee.

Pearl let her fingertips drift idly over the computer’s keyboard, barely touching the hard plastic. The rain continued to fall and began making a steady dripping sound on something metallic outside the window.

Casually—or so she told herself—she keyed in the name Yancy Taggart.

She soon became so engrossed in her search that she’d taken only an initial sip of her chocolate.

Yancy’s full name—apparently his real name—was Yancy Rockefeller Taggart. He’d been born in 1954 in Pasadena, California. (Twelve years older then Maureen Sanders, yet he seemed so much younger.) Pearl was relieved when she was unable to find a police record. He had a business administration degree from Brandon University, served four years in the Coast Guard as something called an information officer, and finished his tour of duty in Norfolk, Virginia. Back in civilian life he’d gone to work in public relations for Philip Morris, then lobbied for the company when it became Altria. He was actually registered in Washington, D.C., as a lobbyist, though he’d lived at the time in North Carolina. Two years ago he’d moved to New York City and shortly thereafter resigned his position at Altria.

Lobbyist. What sort of man would admit to being a lobbyist? And for a tobacco company?

Of course, now he lobbied for some kind of wind power consortium. Curiously apropos.

Pearl worked her keyboard, then the mouse.

Though it didn’t list all its employees, there really was a National Wind Power Coalition.

Pearl let out a long breath and sat back in her chair.

So it’s true. Everything he told me is true. He actually is a lobbyist for something called the National Wind Power Coalition, headquartered in New York City. Windmills on skyscrapers. Maybe it’s possible. At least some people think so. Maybe not Yancy, their lobbyist, but some people.

Pearl closed the windows she’d visited, then clicked on the computer’s history and deleted everything pertaining to Yancy Taggart. He was her own personal business, certainly not Quinn’s or Fedderman’s.

She
had
wronged Yancy. As much as called the poor man a liar. Why did she always treat men’s small talk or compliments as lies or insults? Had she become too cynical?

She decided to call Yancy and suggest they go to dinner tonight. He’d accept her invitation. They’d dine and sip wine in a nice, quiet restaurant, and he’d almost surely find some excuse to try to smooth talk her into going with him to his apartment.

Pearl decided that she’d go. Not without a bit of a hassle, but she’d go.

She was reaching across her desk to call Yancy’s number when Quinn’s desk phone rang.

Pearl punched the glowing button that directed the call to her line. She told the caller he’d reached Quinn and Associates Investigations.

“It’s Sal,” Vitali said in his gravelly voice. “Quinn around?”

“Just me at the moment. You got Quinn’s cell number?”

“Yeah, but you’ll do. I was just being polite. I’d much rather talk to you.”

“You’re so full of bullshit I’m surprised grass doesn’t grow on you.”

Damn it! There I go again!

“Be that as it may,” Vitali said, “you guys need to know something. Harold was working his computer, doing some cross-checking with violent crimes against women in and around New York. He found an interesting one. Woman named Mary Bakehouse, attacked in her Village apartment three nights ago by a guy who was about to work her over with a knife, when he was scared away by something. Could’ve been our guy.”

“Three nights ago, you said?”

“Yeah. The uniforms who took the call said she was scared shitless, had a hard time even telling them what had happened.”

“You’d think she’d have wanted police protection.”

“The guy warned her not to tell anyone, and she took it seriously. Besides, she was embarrassed as well as terrified. Not all women are like you, Pearl, with a set of balls.”

“Aw, that’s one of the nicest things you ever said to me, Sal. Should I adjust my protective cup and go talk to this shrinking violet?”

“Pearl, I meant it as a compliment.”

“I know, Sal.”

“Harold and I were gonna go talk to the victim while there’s still time today. I just wanted to keep you guys informed.”

“Thanks,” Pearl said. “I’ll let Quinn know.”

“Okay. We’ll check with you tomorrow. And Pearl…”

“What?”

“You okay, Pearl?”

“Fine. Very good, in fact. Balls and all.”

“I didn’t mean about that.”

“Then why would you ask?”

“I dunno. You seem distracted.”

Pearl almost blushed.
Jesus!

“I’m fine, Sal. Just tired from sitting at my computer. Learning some sad facts about Maureen Sanders.”

One part of her mind still thinking about calling Yancy, she told Vitali what she’d discovered about Sanders.

“Hell of a life,” he said, when she was finished.

“Not unlike a lot of others.”

“So true, Pearl. Talk to you tomorrow.”

After she’d replaced the receiver, Pearl sat at her desk quietly thinking.

She
had
been distracted, by thoughts of Yancy Taggart, and shrewd Vitali had sensed it with his cop’s finely tuned ear.

Enough of this
, she told herself. She’d focus in, do her job. She’d call Quinn and fill him in on what she’d learned about Maureen Sanders, and about the possible earlier intended victim Vitali and Mishkin had uncovered.

She stretched out her arm and reached for the phone. There would still be time enough tonight for the improbable but apparently genuine Yancy Taggart.

Is his middle name actually Rockefeller?

Quinn had left Fedderman and gone home to think. He sat at the desk in his den, a cup of coffee before him. No cigar, though.

Maybe that’s what was wrong. Why he couldn’t get his mind going. He needed a cigar.

He got one of the Cubans from the mini-humidor in his desk drawer, used his guillotine cutter on it, and fired it up. He sat back and watched the smoke writhe toward the ceiling.

After tapping his fingers on the desk for a while, he sat forward and got his legal pad from the flat drawer. He looked over what he’d written so far, then drew a line beneath it. Beneath the line he wrote:

Quinn still didn’t know a lot about the Bakehouse woman. Sal and Harold would fill him in later. But it wasn’t the Carver’s style to leave a survivor behind. One slash of the knife was all it would have taken, and then run, run, run.

Quinn stared at the yellow legal pad.
Too many question marks.
He tossed the pad onto the desk and leaned back in his chair. Clamped the cigar between his teeth.

Watching the smoke’s writhing dance toward the ceiling, he thought about where he was, what he was doing. He remembered how May hated for him to smoke inside. May was still here, part of her, even though they’d been divorced for years. May and Lauri, when Lauri was small…good years.

Then the loneliness, and then Pearl.

Then the loneliness again.

Quinn could still remember Pearl here. Her presence still haunted the apartment. He would wake up sometimes thinking about her. She was so vibrant, and could be so loving when she wasn’t…pissed off about something. Pissed off about everything, in fact. Pearl was not a contented person. She was a driven and obsessive one.

Quinn had to admit that he was obsessive, too, but in a larger, more comprehensive way. Not minute by minute, like Pearl. Not with a short fuse like Pearl’s.

And not with insight like Pearl’s. It was almost as if she had little antennae all over her, picking up other people’s silent signals. Whatever else she was, she was a hell of a detective.

Quinn leaned back farther in his chair and smiled around his cigar, thinking about their life together here in this apartment. Dinner with friends, taking long walks, going to the theater and then coming back here and making love as pleasurably and slowly as if there were no numbers on the clock and they’d never have to leave the bed. The look in Pearl’s eyes after making love, so dark and unimaginably deep. If you could somehow see clearly in those dark depths you might glimpse the far end of the universe.

The truth was, he’d like to return to those days.

The truth was, he didn’t see much hope for that to happen.

Pearl saw to that.

He continued watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling and thought about Pearl.

Jesus, she can be a bitch!

The air conditioner was off, and the apartment was miserably hot. Mary Bakehouse sat bent forward on the remaining chair and looked up at Vitali and Mishkin. The sofa remained, along with whatever else had been there when Mary had rented the place furnished. It wasn’t much. The rest of what she’d bought to decorate or furnish the living room was gone. Two sweaty guys in identical wrinkled gray pants and white T-shirts huffed and puffed their way out the door carrying a mattress. A cardboard box with a lamp shade and some knickknacks in it sat near the door, almost close enough for the movers to trip over.

Sweat was rolling down Mary’s heart-shaped face as she struggled for words.
A sweet woman
, Harold Mishkin thought. Sweet and under a terrible strain, knowing her ordeal might not be over. The kind of visitor she’d had, sometimes they came back.

“Did he tell you directly he wasn’t finished with you?” Mishkin asked.

Mary Bakehouse appeared momentarily thrown by the question. “Not exactly, but he gave the impression he could come back anytime he wanted. That he could do whatever he wanted to me.”

“They often give that impression,” Mishkin said, “but usually they don’t return.”
Not that we can be sure about that
. “They get their kicks knowing you’ll worry about them for a long time.”

“Sadistic animal!” she said.

“That sums him up. But knowing what he’s about, you don’t have to worry so much. Scaring their victims is often the object of their sick game. He’ll probably move on to some other unsuspecting woman.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely. There’s no shortage of potential victims out there. He’s probably done with you. Besides, you’re moving. He’s not gonna go to the trouble of tracing you in a city so full of potential victims.”

Vitali waited patiently for Mishkin to finish his comfort patter. His partner seemed compelled to console crime’s victims, especially the more vulnerable, and women in particular. In her heart of hearts this woman knew her attacker might very well return and finish what he’d started. Maybe he’d follow her to the gates of hell to torture and kill her. It all depended on what kind of whack job he was, and who knew the answer to that?

When Mishkin had finally run down, Vitali glanced around at the now minimally furnished apartment. “Is that the only reason you’re moving, so he can’t find you?”

“Yes,” Mary said. “At least it will make it more difficult.”

“Could you identify him if you saw him again?” Vitali asked.

“I think so, but I can’t be sure. I saw him clearly, but it all happened fast, and…my God! I was confused.”

“Of course you were,” Mishkin said.

“Describe him as best you can,” Vitali said.

And she did, obviously growing more afraid as her words caused her to relive what had happened. Watching her, Vitali understood Mishkin’s point of view. He felt himself growing angry at the attacker.

What has he done to your sleep, Mary Bakehouse? To your dreams?

“Did you get the impression you surprised him?” Vitali asked. “Or do you think he was waiting for you?”

“Waiting. But I can’t be sure.”

“Any sign that you interrupted a burglar?”

“No.”

“Nothing missing?”

“No, I don’t think he was a burglar. He seemed more interested in me than in stealing anything.”

Vitali looked at her previous statement. “You said he had a knife.”

“Yes. I think he had it strapped to his ankle.” She described the knife, how her attacker had drawn it and used it to threaten her. Held it before her eyes so she had to look at the sharp blade. A boning knife, made to cleanly separate flesh from bone and gristle.

“Did he describe to you what he was going to do with the knife?” Vitali asked.

Mary Bakehouse turned pale. She shook her head no. “He didn’t say anything to me. Not all the time we were together. It was like there was a spell, as if some terrible thing would happen if either of us spoke. He smiled. He seemed…amused.”

“Excuse me for asking this,” Mishkin said, “but…”

“Go ahead,” she said. “Ask what you must.”

“It’s just that I need to confirm something. You said he pinched your right nipple?”

The embarrassed shrinking of Mary Bakehouse made Mishkin feel miserable for having asked. This should have been Sal’s question.

She nodded silently.

Vitali gave Mishkin one of his “I’ll take it, Harold” looks. Mishkin was getting as uncomfortable as the victim.

“He waved the knife around while he held it in front of you?” Vitali asked.

Another nod.

“Did he try to make it seem as if he was about to…cut off the nipple?”

“Of course he did! That was the whole idea!” She bowed her head and began to sob silently.

Mishkin got down on one knee in front of her as if he might be about to propose marriage. He pressed one of her hands in both of his. “It’s all right, really. We’ve got to ask you this stuff. We don’t like it any more than you do.”

“The hell you don’t!” Mary Bakehouse shouted at him.

Mishkin recoiled, stunned. He scrambled to his feet and backed away. “We don’t! Honest…”

“Harold.” Vitali’s voice, cautioning. Then, to the victim: “Ms. Bakehouse, it could be very important that we know these things. Or at least have some sense of them.”

She sniffed and then wiped her perspiring forearm across her nose. Her hair was a tangle in the heat, wild bangs plastered to her glistening forehead.

“He wasn’t going to cut me,” she said in a meek and beaten voice. “If he’d wanted to, he would have. Instead he just got up off me and made his way out the window and down the fire escape.”

The two guys were back from taking out the mattress. They paused inside the door and gave Mary Bakehouse and the two detectives a look, as if to ask if Mary needed help.
Chivalry
, Vitali thought. This woman seemed to bring that out in men, a keen desire to protect her. Even Harold, least likely of dragon slayers, had his chest puffed out.

“Here,” Vitali said, ignoring the movers and handing one of his cards to Mary Bakehouse. “If you think of something—”

“Or if you feel you need help,” Mishkin interrupted, handing her one of his cards, too. “You make sure you call us. We can have somebody at your side in a hurry.”

The two burly movers swaggered off into the bedroom. A single damsel in distress could be divvied up only so many ways.

Mishkin rested a hand briefly on Mary Bakehouse’s trembling shoulder, and the two detectives thanked her for her time and cooperation and left her sitting hunched over in her chair.

“That tears your heart out,” Mishkin said, when they were outside on the sidewalk.

Vitali shook his head. “Don’t have a coronary, Harold. We were only questioning a witness.”

“You think whoever assaulted her was our guy?”

“I dunno. He made it look like he was going to help himself to a nipple. Our man likes souvenirs. But he didn’t cut her.”

“Why do you think he bolted?”

“Probably because he didn’t like the setup. I think she might have come home unexpectedly and surprised him, which means he wasn’t in complete control. Hadn’t made the encounter happen on his terms.”

“Or he might’ve been waiting for her, just like she said, and only wanted to scare her that time,” Mishkin said. “But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have gotten carried away and eventually killed her.”

“True,” Vitali said. “But it still doesn’t seem like the Carver. Doesn’t
feel
like him.”

“I’ve gotta agree with you,” Mishkin said, opening the driver-side door of their unmarked. “But at the same time, we can’t absolutely rule the subway guy out.”

“If it actually
was
the man from the subway who attacked Bakehouse.”

“If,” Mishkin agreed, and waited while Vitali walked around the car and got in next to him.

“What’s your gut feeling?” Mishkin asked.

“Same guy,” Vitali said.

“Yeah,” Mishkin said.

When Vitali had fastened his seat belt, Mishkin started the engine.

“What a science our job is, Sal.”

Vitali grunted agreement. “Drive, Dr. Mishkin.”

Mary followed the mover down with the last cardboard box packed with the detritus of her life, from the apartment that had once seemed a haven. In a strange way, moving away from here was more of a wrench than when she’d left home to come to New York. That had been a matter of choice. This move was a necessity. If she didn’t make it, she would never feel safe in her home again.

Of course, she wasn’t positive she’d feel safer in her new apartment, on a higher floor, with a full-time doorman, where she was off her usual subway route and would have to be traced to be found. She didn’t think the subway man would go to that trouble. Probably he chose his targets at random.

Or so she told herself. She knew that if she were the object of some kind of sick fixation he might go to whatever trouble he had to in order to find her, his unholy grail.

She carried the seed of fear he’d planted in her with his eyes and the glint of the knife blade. What would he do to her if he did somehow manage to find her?

Mary knew that wherever she went she would ask herself that question, terrified of the answer. The subway man hadn’t harmed her, but he’d certainly considered it. She was nothing human to him, merely something to satisfy a sick whim, a plaything of his dark desires. He could see her as that and only that, an object. And he wasn’t the only one. There were others out there just like him, looking at her the same way, thinking the same dark thoughts. Every day, everywhere she went, they could simply look at her and know how vulnerable she was. People like them could see her as what she had become, could sense her injured soul the way carnivores could sense their prey.

In head and heart she knew that.

And knowing it had changed everything for her.

She shut the street door and tried not to look back.