'I find this killer interesting,' Nift said. 'You know me, how I like to play cop. Also, I thought I should call and let you know there's a journalist from City Beat hot on this story. Woman named Cindy Sellers. She's a hard charger, and serial killers make for big news. These murders take 'if it bleeds it leads' to an extreme.'
'I never heard of City Beat.'
'It's fairly new, not much circulation yet. But you know the way it works: One wolf gets the scent, then the whole pack's on the hunt.'
Quinn knew. He thanked Nift, then hung up and relayed the information to Fedderman and Pearl.
'No surprise there,' Pearl said. She leaned forward and placed the murder files on the desk, then rolled back a few feet in her chair so her gaze could take in both Quinn and Fedderman. 'But there is something.'
Quinn waited. 'No dramatic pauses, Pearl. Please.'
'I'm not being theatrical,' she said. 'I'm just thinking, trying to decide if it's plausible.'
'Let us decide along with you,' Fedderman said.
Pearl looked at Quinn. 'I think the killer chose you as his opponent.'
'That might be plausible,' Quinn said, 'except Renz did the choosing.'
Pearl kept him trapped with her dark eyes, wouldn't let him go. 'The last victim, Ida, was killed in my apartment. You think that's some wild coincidence?'
Quinn had to answer honestly. 'No. But that doesn't necessarily lead me to your conclusion.'
'It wouldn't me, either,' Pearl said, 'except for the victims' last initials, in the order of their deaths: Janice Queen, Lois Ullman, Ida Ingrahm.'
'Q, U, I,' Fedderman said, staring at Quinn. 'Almost spells-'
'It does,' Quinn said, standing up from behind the desk. He started to pace, but tripped over one of the wiring-clump mushrooms growing on the floor and almost fell.
'The next victim's name will start with an N,' Pearl said.
'She's right,' Fedderman said.
Quinn didn't have to be told. Pearl wasn't always right, but almost always.
She was almost surely right this time: The killer was choosing victims whose last initials spelled out Quinn's name.
'Think we oughta tell the media?' Fedderman asked. 'Be our asses if we don't.'
'He's got a point,' Pearl said. 'Women with N surnames have a right to know.'
Quinn picked up the phone again.
'Who you calling?' Fedderman asked.
'Renz. Then Nift. He knows a journalist who's already been on this, a woman named Cindy Sellers, with City Beat.'
'Never heard of her or it,' Fedderman said.
'You will after they scoop this story,' Quinn said.
As he was pecking out Renz's number with his forefinger, Pearl got up from her chair and stood with her hands on her hips, looking around.
'We gotta get a coffee machine.'
Pearl arrived at the office early the next morning with a sack containing a bag of gourmet ground Columbian beans, a pack of filters, and a brand-new Mr. Coffee that was still in the box.
Under her other arm were the murder files, which she'd taken home for a closer read last night.
She placed the Mr. Coffee on the computer table, the beans and filter next to it.
The files she laid on Quinn's desk. Ida Ingrahm's was on top.
'I wish you'd told me yesterday about that vibrator phone,' Pearl said.
Quinn and Fedderman looked at each other. Fedderman, slumped in a chair in front of the desk, said, 'Pearl, Pearl.'
'I don't have one,' she said, not blushing, 'but I happen to know where they're sold. A little shop in the Village. Intimate Items.'
'How would you know that, Pearl?' Fedderman asked.
'I shop there sometimes, asshole. The place isn't as risque as you might think. It's erotica that's mostly for women.'
'Ah,' Fedderman said, 'no whips and chains.'
'Well, some. But mostly stuff like those Dial In phones.'
'Dial In?' Quinn asked.
'That's the brand name, even though they're not really phones and have a fake keypad. I haven't seen them anywhere but in that shop. We can check and see if they have a record of Ida buying one there, or maybe they'll recognize her photo.'
'How would that help us?' Fedderman asked.
'She might not have been alone when she bought her phone.'
Quinn tried not to smile. Pearl a step ahead of Fedderman. Old and familiar patterns taking form. They were again becoming a team.
'Drop Feds and me off at Ida Ingrahm's apartment,' Quinn said, 'and we'll reinterview some of her neighbors, see if anybody's memory can be jogged. Then you drive the unmarked down to…what's it?'
'Intimate Items,' Fedderman reminded him.
'Yeah. Talk to the clerk, or whoever.' He handed her a morgue photo of Ida Ingrahm. 'Nift faxed this here this morning.'
'It's a head shot,' Fedderman said.
Pearl looked at him in disgust. 'Jesus, Feds.' Her expression was unchanging as she glanced at the photo. She reached for the murder files she'd laid on the desk. 'I'll take photos of the other victims, too. Just in case.'
'No coffee this morning?' Fedderman asked, looking over at the packages Pearl had piled on the computer table.
'No time,' Pearl said. 'You guys can make some tomorrow.'
Quinn stood up from behind his desk.
'I'll drive,' Pearl said, 'since I'll be going on down to the Village.'
'Seat's all the way back,' Quinn said, 'so I might as well drive to the apartment.' So we get there alive.
He and Fedderman knew how Pearl drove-as if she'd learned by watching The French Connection.
Fedderman glanced over at Quinn, smiling slightly, but like Quinn, he held his silence.
Familiar patterns.
8
On the drive to Ida Ingrahm's apartment, Fedderman tried to talk Quinn into sending him along with Pearl to follow up on the cell phone lead. Quinn knew this would be more for Fedderman's amusement than anything else, so he'd nixed it and told Pearl to take the unmarked and return to pick them up later. So here Pearl was alone, without having to cope with Fedderman and vibrator cell phones simultaneously. Pearl considered it a gift.
Intimate Items was a block off Broadway, and wasn't the kind of blatant sex shop its name might suggest. The merchandise was varied but mostly ran toward sexy lingerie, massage potions, aphrodisiac incense, romantic CDs, and other mood makers. Pearl thought the mannequin in Intimate Items' display window was dressed more for a romantic night at the Hilton than a session at an S amp;M club. Satin rather than leather, lace rather than Velcro. Make the mannequin's see-through gown more opaque, her panties bikini instead of thong, and she might fit right in flaunting her stuff in the windows of midtown department stores.
Opening and closing the door set off a soft chime somewhere in the shop. A hidden sachet made the place smell faintly of cinnamon. The design and decor were those of an upscale boutique, racks of clothes down one side, harder merchandise and a sales counter on the other. Changing rooms and full-length triple mirrors up on a low, carpeted podium were at the far end. Vibrators were kept out of sight beneath the counter. The shop's customers
