'It was never my idea that the place was the one and only hunting ground for the killer,' she told Quinn. Why was Quinn like this, critical of what they both knew was basic, solid police work? Maybe he was jealous that he hadn't thought about further checking out the pickup lounge.
'On the other hand,' Fedderman said, 'the killer might have picked up all his victims in Nuts and Bolts, and the owner and employees don't remember.'
'Somebody would have recalled the other victims,' Quinn said, 'or remembered the same man with at least some of the women. Most likely two of the victims simply happened to work in the same neighborhood and frequented the same lounge sometimes after work or in the evening.'
'On the third hand,' Fedderman said, 'the killer might never have set foot in the place.'
'Still, it's a connection,' Quinn said, giving in and allowing for the possibility.
'And remember both victims bought cell phone vibrators,' Pearl said.
'They sold a lot of those to women who haven't been murdered,' Fedderman reminded her.
'My gut tells me it means something,' Pearl said. She sipped her coffee from her initialed mug, thinking Mr. Coffee had done a pretty good job. 'Could be the killer lives in the neighborhood and goes into the lounge often.'
'Kind of a leap in logic,' Quinn said, 'but if you want to go to Nuts and Bolts from time to time to check it out, that's not a bad idea.'
'It's a pickup place,' Fedderman said. 'Maybe you'll get lucky.'
'Maybe you'll need somebody to pick you up,' Pearl said.
Fedderman tried not to smile. Quinn thought it was a good thing he controlled himself. His two detectives were bitching at each other the way they had in the old days. He didn't mind, as long as it didn't get out of hand. Agitation wasn't all bad. It required an active mind of the sort that was valuable in a murder investigation. It could create the pearl in the oyster, even a necklace of evidence pearls.
'How strong's this gut feeling of yours about the cell phone vibrators?' he asked Pearl, artfully veering away from the subject of pickups in singles' lounges.
'Not very strong, I admit. I guess it's more hope than anything else.'
Quinn looked over at Fedderman. 'What's your gut tell you, Feds?'
'Tells me I'm hungry.' Fedderman put down his mug on the desk nearest to Quinn's and glared at Pearl. 'And it tells me not to drink any more of this coffee.'
The Butcher slept late, having worked much of the night at his computer. He'd then spent most of the morning at the Rough Country store in Queens. So busy had he been that he hadn't had time to check the news on the Internet or read any of the morning papers.
Now he slouched in his leather recliner and read again the piece in the Times. The Florence Norton murder had been dropped from the front page but had never left the news entirely.
He greatly enjoyed the inside feature story on the Butcher murders. It provided brief biographies of the victims and time frames of their deaths, but concentrated mainly on Florence Norton. Perhaps in everyone's death there were fifteen minutes of fame. The features section, or obituary page, as curtain call.
As usual, if anyone astutely read between the lines it was obvious that the police were mystified. They simply had nothing to grab hold of that might lead them to the killer.
The Butcher.
It was so apropos. Every time he read the sobriquet the media had chosen for him, he had to smile. In fact, almost everything he'd read or heard in the media pleased him. Everything was falling into place. The re-formation of Quinn's detective team especially gave him satisfaction. The NYPD without Quinn and company were easy opponents, but the three detectives specifically assigned to hunt him down were top-notch and had a track record. They would at least make the game interesting.
He let his right arm drop and laid the folded paper on the floor, then adjusted the chair at a lower angle and rested the back of his head against the soft leather headrest. Though he didn't require much sleep, it wasn't unusual for him to nap during the daytime in the recliner. It was because he often worked most of the night.
He glanced at his watch. Not even three o'clock. There was plenty of time before he had to shower and dress for this evening. He settled deeper into the chair, closed his eyes, and thought about Marilyn Nelson. His right hand, the one that had held the folded paper, moved to his crotch.
Pearl's phone was ringing when she entered her apartment that evening, and she made the mistake of picking it up without looking at caller ID.
'Pearl, it's your mother. You're finally home. I've been calling and calling.'
Pearl's mood darkened, as it did whenever her mother called from where she lived in the Golden Sunset assisted living apartments in Teaneck.
'Sorry, Mom. Busy working.' She stretched the phone cord so she could move halfway across the room and start the window air conditioner. It would soon cool down the apartment and chase away the musty smell that often permeated the place.
Her mother said something she didn't understand, so she moved away from the humming air conditioner. 'Say again, Mom.'
'The Butcher murders. Why haven't you caught the animal yet?'
'He's smart, Mom, like the papers and TV say.'
'Still, you have Captain Quinn.'
'He's not exactly a captain anymore.' It rankled Pearl, the way her mother was a sucker for phony Irish charm and remained so fond of Quinn. She could still hear her mother's confidential whisper after meeting Quinn the first time: 'He's the one. A keeper. A real mensch, that one.'
'But the television news-'
'Not a permanent captain, anyway,' Pearl interrupted. 'He's more a civilian temporarily out of retirement.'
'Like yourself, dear?'
'Not unlike.'
'I never approved of you in that dangerous occupation.'
Or any other. 'I know, Mom.'
'So why haven't you phoned your apartment from time to time to check your messages? You'd have learned your mother was calling from nursing home hell.'
'It's not a nursing home, Mom. It's assisted living.'
'I need assistance to breathe?'
'Not for that, thank God.' Not yet. Pearl lay awake sweating in bed sometimes, thinking of even more oppressive days to come. 'For other things.'
'Oh? Such as?'
Pearl remembered the time her mother had warmed up a can of chili by placing it in a pot of water on the stove-neglecting to open the can-and heating it until it exploded, sending boiling water and chili all over her kitchen. Pearl remembered because it was she who'd had to clean up the mess. 'I'm thinking about the chili on the ceiling, Mom.'
'You mean the cans they don't make like they used to.'
'If you say so.'
'No, it's not what I say. It's whether they're making paper-thin cans these days, and they are.'
Pearl moved over a few feet so she'd be in the flow of cool air from the window unit. 'You might be right, Mom.' Just let me get off the phone!
'Your mother's always right, dear.' Violent coughing. Dramatic pause.
Pearl played along. 'Mom?' She was surprised to hear real concern in her voice.
'I'm right about this, too, dear. It's something mothers can feel. God willing, you'll know someday.'
Pearl worked her feet out of her shoes and wriggled her toes. 'We still talking about the chili?'
'My reference was to Mrs. Kahn's nephew, Milton.'
Huh?
Pearl knew Mrs. Kahn, a seventy-six-year-old woman with a walker with tennis balls on it, was in the assisted
