Authors: John Lutz

Tags: #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Suspense, #Espionage, #General

Pulse (13 page)

BOOK: Pulse

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T
here wasn’t much pain if she kept her little toe scrunched up.

Pearl was striding along West Seventy-ninth Street toward the office, wearing her New Balance jogging shoes. They were her most comfortable shoes for walking, but her left sock had bunched up and might be causing a blister. She figured she didn’t have far to go, so the hell with it.

She had spent much of the day verifying Louis Gainer’s alibi for the night of Ann Spellman’s murder. Gainer’s fiancée had been aware of his relationship with Spellman, and she described it as “long over.” Pearl let that one pass. It looked like Gainer was innocent, so why screw up a marriage before it even started?

Restaurant receipts and witness statements indicated that Gainer and his fiancée were where he’d said they’d been, with the people he’d named. And the old college friend Gainer had run into in the theater lobby at the approximate time of the murder described their meeting the same way Gainer had. The play they’d attended was titled
Chance Encounter.
Gainer wouldn’t have chosen that one to lie about. Unless he had a dangerous sense of humor, or no sense of humor at all.

If anything, Gainer was
too
alibied up for the night of Spellman’s torture and murder. Something Pearl would keep in mind.

Does this job make you cynical, or what?

Pearl’s cell phone, clipped to her belt beneath her light linen blazer, came to life and instinctively her hand moved toward it.

Then paused.

Pearl had a new phone that enabled the use of individual ring tones to identify callers. She stopped walking as she heard the musical strains of “You Talk Too Much,” Joe Jones’s old rhythm-and-blues hit from the sixties. When she looked at the phone’s caller ID, sure enough, she saw Golden Sunset Assisted Living in New Jersey. Where her mother lived, and called from at the most inopportune times.

Not that this was one of those times. But still ...

While she was debating whether to take the call, the phone fell silent.

Her mind had been made up for her. She told herself she’d been about to answer, even though she didn’t feel like hearing her mother harangue her for everything from her job to not being married, or for being married to her job.

She decided she really didn’t want to talk with her mother—or, rather, listen to her—even though she had a spare moment.

Pearl smiled. There was nothing like being honest with oneself.

No doubt her mother had left a message. She’d listen to it later.

As she clipped the phone back on her belt—turned off, just in case—the movement of her head caused her to glance behind her.

A tickle moved up her spine. Subtle, but she recognized it.

Something was wrong. She scanned the block she’d been walking along. Nothing seemed unusual. Yet in her initial glance, something hadn’t been right. She knew it. Like many cops with a talent for tailing people, she had a talent for knowing when someone was tailing her.

There!

A woman, slim, average height, wearing yellow, one of those girly sundress outfits that were popular these days. Moving gracefully away from Pearl, slipping in among the throng of pedestrians coming toward her. Even in the bright yellow dress, she’d disappeared. Half a block away, and she made the last of the walk signal. It would be impossible for Pearl to catch up with her.

The woman was familiar, but in a way Pearl couldn’t grasp. There was something unsettling about her.

Then it all clicked into place, how Pearl had caught glimpses of the woman on the subway platform, near the deli she frequented, crossing the street near the office. During the past few days, she and the woman had been in the same place at the same time too often for it to be coincidental.

The woman was a talented tracker, but not a pro. That was how Pearl had spotted her. A pro would have kept her wardrobe drab and wouldn’t have worn the standout yellow dress.

Still, there was something about this woman that suggested she wasn’t to be taken lightly. Something that triggered an emotion deep in Pearl’s consciousness.
Fear?
She wasn’t sure. Not of what it was or why she was feeling it.

Was the woman Daniel Danielle? It wasn’t impossible. After all, the original Daniel Danielle was sometimes Danielle Daniel, a woman by all appearances. One who’d disappeared in a Florida hurricane decades ago, had never been seen again, and was listed officially as dead. One of the worst disasters in Florida history had done the job of the state and executed Daniel Danielle, clearing the docket.

Officially
. There was a word that put Pearl on her guard. The presumed dead killer, or a copycat, appeared to be operating in New York.

Another possibility occurred to Pearl. The woman tailing her might be a confederate of the killer, working for him and with him. Helping him to learn about Pearl as he prepared to make his move on her. He might have done that with his earlier victims, stalked them, perhaps deliberately letting them know he was there so they would worry, become worn down by their anxiety to the point of surrender.

He’d be there to accept that surrender.

Pearl thought about that.

Be ready, you schmuck. I’m ready, too.

When she reached the office, Quinn was there alone, seated at his desk and reading something inside a yellow file folder. He glanced up when Pearl entered, and it registered on his face immediately that he knew she was distressed.

He laid what he’d been reading aside and sat back, waiting, swiveling his chair an inch this way, then that, causing a soft
eek, eek
.

“That isn’t important?” she asked, pointing to the folder he’d put aside.

“Sal’s report on his and Harold’s interview of Audrey Ackenheimer, neighbor of the victim.”

“Learn anything?”

“Yes. Sal’s being driven insane by Harold.”

Pearl had to smile. “It’s been that way with them for over ten years, from when they were NYPD. But somehow they make a good team. Cops who partner for years sometimes get like old married couples.”

“You’re talking about Sal and Harold because there’s something else on your mind,” Quinn said.

He stopped swiveling and the chair stopped squeaking.

“More a feeling than something I know for sure.”

“Share it so we both won’t know it for sure,” Quinn suggested.

She told him about the woman she thought was shadowing her. When she was about halfway through the account, Helen the profiler came into the office. Tall, redheaded, and sweaty, smelling like estrogen. She was wearing a running outfit with baggy shorts, a sleeveless red Fordham T-shirt, and New Balance shoes like Pearl’s, only more expensive. She paused the way people do when they realize they’ve intruded in a private conversation.

Only there was no reason for this to be private. Pearl knew it was part of the investigation.

Quinn nodded to Pearl, reading her mind, and she started over.

When she was finished, Helen said, “You’re certain it wasn’t your imagination?”

“I’m certain. And the woman was too small to be Daniel. What I’m not certain about are my speculations as to why. It doesn’t make much sense, a woman shadowing a potential victim for the killer.”

“It makes a lot of sense,” Helen said. “
Especially
if the woman being followed is already slated to be a future victim. We all know how charming and manipulative some serial killers are. We also know you’re the killer’s type. It’s not unlikely that this woman’s scouting you, learning all about you, and will turn the information over to him.”

Pearl looked mad enough to spit. “I’m no teenage girl ready to be swept off my feet because some good-looking guy’s done research and knows my sign.”

Quinn was nudging his swivel chair this way and that again, making a rhythmic, almost inaudible squeaking. These two women were making him nervous. “None of it seems to fit.”

“Interesting,” Helen said, “that your gut feeling is different from Pearl’s.”

“I didn’t say I had a gut feeling about who was following me or why,” Pearl said, “only that I was being followed.”

“By a woman,” Helen added.

Quinn said, “Our killer’s familiar enough with us to know that whoever he sent to shadow Pearl, Pearl would most likely spot her. Or him.”

Helen crossed her arms and got more comfortable where she was leaning back against a desk—because of her height, almost sitting on it. “Oh, he wouldn’t care if the tail was spotted. That might have been the idea.”

“To let Pearl know she’s being stalked?”

“To let
you
know.”

“Playing a game.”

“Very much a game.”

“If he kills me,” Pearl said, “the game’s over.”

“Maybe not for the killer,” Helen said. “Taking you as a victim might be his way of focusing his opponent’s concentration, making the game more interesting.”

“Still doesn’t feel right,” Quinn said.

“Maybe at a certain point he lets all his victims know they’re being stalked,” Helen said. “He might derive pleasure from that. It isn’t uncommon.”

“This is an uncommon killer,” Quinn said.

Helen nodded. She stood up straight, unwinding, surprising Quinn as she almost always did with her six-foot-plus height. “There is that.”

“There’s the other thing,” Pearl said.

They both looked at her.

“I’m an uncommon victim.”

J
ody Jason had no idea why Professor Pratt wanted to meet her here, though it must pertain to their earlier conversation about some profound change in Jody’s life. In a way, it didn’t surprise Jody that Elaine Pratt had chosen this place. She probably knew it was one of Jody’s favorite spots on campus, an oasis conducive to study and quiet. And private conversations. It was like Professor Pratt to know such things.

From where she sat on a concrete bench in the shade of a fifty-year-old post oak, Jody had a wide and impressive view of the Waycliffe campus. The green, manicured quadrangle, with its concrete paths and uniformly trimmed trees; its occasional lounging student; its encompassing ivy trellised brick buildings. It all looked like a painting by a master impressionist.

Though the afternoon was warm, there was a persistent soft breeze. It was pleasantly cool in the shade of the tree’s clustered leaves, which rattled in the wind.

Jody often sat on this particular bench to read, and it always amazed her that there were never any bird droppings on it. Or, so it seemed, on any of the benches. Maybe maintenance had some special chemical that repelled birds. Or maybe the birds simply knew better, at a prestigious college like Waycliffe.

“You beat me here,” a woman’s voice said.

Jody looked over and saw that Professor Pratt had approached her unseen, at an angle.

“It was so pleasant,” Jody said, “I thought I’d come early and sit here a while.”

Elaine (as Jody informally and privately thought of the professor) glanced around and smiled. “It
is
beautiful. And useful. As beauty often is.”

Jody scooted over to allow Elaine room to sit down, but the professor chose to remain standing.

“I hope I haven’t screwed up,” Jody said.

Elaine seemed amused. “Why would you think that?”

“This is ... such a private and distant place, I thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought.”

“That I chose a place where no one would observe us or overhear us shouting at each other?” “Not that,” Jody said with a smile. Might this be about something else altogether? A disciplinary measure? Did Elaine know about those times Jody had sneaked off campus to explore the town after dark? About that over-amorous associate professor she’d kneed in the groin at the annual Waycliffe anniversary party?

What the hell’s going on here? I can think of a few possibilities, and I don’t like them.

“Chancellor Schueller and I have ruminated upon you further,” Elaine said. She seemed to be enjoying this, stringing it out and keeping Jody in the agony of curiosity.

Uh-oh
. This didn’t feel like a positive discussion.

Elaine waited. For maximum effect, Jody was sure. Was Jody going to be reprimanded? Cautioned about future behavior?

There should be suspenseful music here.

Jody felt momentarily pissed off. She knew the game now and put on an eager expression. Let Elaine think she was squirming inside. Actually, she was getting bored and at this point didn’t much care where the game would end. Waycliffe wasn’t the only college in the world.

“You’ve been approved for an internship at Enders and Coil,” Elaine said.

Jody didn’t have to fake her surprise. Two months ago she had, almost as a matter of routine, filled out brief applications for summer internships at some of the major law firms in the area. Not really holding out much hope. It wasn’t easy to obtain internships. Usually, somebody had to know somebody for it to happen. Or ...

“I’d be replacing Macy Collins,” Jody said.

“Someone must,” Elaine Pratt said.

The summer had started without any of the internships coming through. Jody had pushed the possibility from her mind. It had been a long shot anyway. But now, this late in the season, one of them had accepted her because of murder.

“Often in life, someone’s misfortune is someone else’s opportunity. Pick up the sword and use it, Jody.”

“That sounds so ... Roman.”

“The Romans had a lot of things right.” Elaine Pratt said. “And whatever you do will make no difference to Macy Collins.”

Jody wanted to learn the particulars of what Macy had done at the law firm, and how well she’d done it. Obvious questions to ask, and difficult ones to answer. Jody knew that and remained silent.

Causing Elaine to smile. These two could understand each other.

“I pressed for you to be the choice,” Elaine said. “The chancellor agreed and recommended you to the firm.”

Jody could believe that. It seemed that the Elaine and Schueller had a special relationship. Not romantic or sexual. . . but something drew them together. Maybe something kinky, after all. But Jody didn’t want to even imagine that. Unless maybe the chancellor took Elaine up in his airplane and they ...

Jody put on a big grin. Not all of it fake. “Thank you! Really! Thanks to both of you.”

“You deserve it. Enders and Coil’s offices are in Manhattan, but you won’t have to commute. Though the internship doesn’t pay, of course, it does include a small apartment near the firm.”

“In Manhattan?”

“Of course.”

“That’s so great!” Jody said, and meant it.
An apartment in Manhattan. Holy shit! This could all work.
She had enough left of her student loan to be able to clothe and feed herself. She hoped.

Elaine drew a deep breath, then exhaled loudly and clasped her hands. “So, we’re all set?”

Time to throw shit in the game.

“Professor Pratt, I hate to ask this, but would you mind if I thought about the offer?”

Elaine almost laughed out loud in surprise, but she held a neutral expression. Just like that, dominance had shifted and she was now the one on pins and needles. How would it look if she’d pressed so hard for Jody, and then Jody brushed off the internship? What would Chancellor Schueller think? How would Enders and Coil react? How would this affect Professor Pratt’s career?

“Can you let me know tomorrow?” she asked, careful not to sound anxious.

Jody thought for a long few seconds—in control now and letting Elaine know it—and then nodded. “Sure. No problem there.”

“Here, either,” Elaine said.

When Jody got up, she gave her a big hug.

Jody sat back down and watched the professor’s retreating figure change shapes as it passed through lengthening shadows across the quadrangle.

She didn’t know quite what to think other than
WTF?
, as they said on the social networks.

BOOK: Pulse

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