living unit next to her mother's. 'I don't think I know him, Mom.'
'But you should, Pearl, which is why I called.'
'Nine times,' Pearl said, 'according to the message count on my answering machine.'
'The machine you should have remotely checked to see if you had any messages at all.'
'Why would I want to know this nephew Milton?' But Pearl knew why.
'Because he's eligible in every way, and newly single.'
'I don't have time right now to search for a husband, Mom, being busy searching for a killer.'
'What search? I'm dropping him into your lap.'
'I want my lap empty for now.'
There was a long silence on the other end of the connection. Then: 'Speaking of your lap, so how is that nice Captain-excuse me-Mr. Quinn?'
'Jesus, Mom!'
'Pearl!'
'Sorry for the language. Mr. Quinn's fine.'
'You didn't preface his name with 'nice.''
'No, I didn't. He isn't nice all the time.'
'So who is, dear? Did he ever beat you?'
'Never.'
'Then he was nice enough to you and would be again. He's quite handsome in a manly way and is a person of substance, Pearl. There will come a time when you won't want to chase criminals, or stand in one spot in a bank developing varicose veins just to earn a small paycheck. There will come a time when you might be in assisted living.'
Pearl hated these phone conversations with her mother. They almost always ended in arguments, and this evening Pearl was tired. She'd worked hard. She didn't feel like bickering with anyone, much less her mother. And she especially didn't want to argue about her status as a divorced single woman. It simply was not in her at this time to foster her mother's delusion that her daughter was actively seeking a husband.
'Whether or not you say so, Pearl, Mr. Quinn is a fine man.'
'He's an obsessive psychopath.'
'They can be good providers, dear.'
Pearl hung up.
Hard enough that her mother wouldn't call her back tonight.
But maybe tomorrow.
The Butcher prepared himself to go out. He took a shower, not a bath, then put on clean blue silk boxer shorts. He brushed his teeth with Crest, combed his hair, and leisurely dressed in his new clothes.
All the time he was doing this, somewhere in his layered and partitioned mind he was thinking about Marilyn Nelson; the rhythmic roll of her hips when she walked, the mischievous glitter like dark tinsel in her eye when she turned and ducked her head to glance at him. As if on some level she knew. And maybe she already did know. Like some of the others, maybe from time to time she caught a glimpse of destiny that transcended conscious thought.
His second N woman.
Florence Norton had been a matter of expedience. This one he would take his time with and relish. He owed her that, as he owed himself. They were in this together now, whether she realized it or not. Partners in crime and time and players in the game that could only end one way for Marilyn Nelson.
Finished dressing, he stood before the full-length mirror attached to the closet door and appraised himself. He could smell his expensive spicy aftershave. It was much too strong now, but he'd recently applied it and knew that within a short while it would lose much of its potency.
He turned this way and that, striking poses like a confident and playful catalog model, observing how he looked in the outfit he'd bought that morning at Rough Country in Queens.
Marilyn would be pleased, but it wasn't his usual style. He wasn't crazy about the square-pocket jeans and rough piped cotton shirt with its flap pockets and dull brass snaps instead of buttons. The essence of Rough Country style seemed to lie in the liberal use of metals and coarse material. He preferred tailored conservative suits, custom-made shirts of Egyptian cotton, and silk ties. But since he had on the shirt and jeans, he didn't so much mind the boots. They were surprisingly comfortable.
He did flatly like the hat. It was like a cowboy hat but with a narrower, raked brim. Like something Glenn Ford might have worn. He was partial to Glenn Ford movies, and fancied that he bore some resemblance to the late movie star, which was enhanced by the hat.
He laid the hat on the bed (knowing some people thought doing so brought bad luck, but the hell with superstition if you were smart), then adroitly dusted his dark hair with aerosol spray.
Posing before the full-length mirror again, he placed the hat on his head carefully so as not to muss his hair. He adjusted the hat, touched a finger to the curved brim, and shot himself a smile.
Then he switched off the light and left in something of a hurry.
He had a date.
16
Quinn had finished his impromptu late dinner of hash and eggs, and was enjoying a cigar at his desk in the den, when there was a knock on his apartment door. This didn't surprise him, as the building's security system allowed most anyone with an IQ higher than a rabbit's to find a way to enter without being buzzed in.
He propped the cigar in an ashtray so it wouldn't go out, and made his way into the living room. With a glance at his watch, he saw that it was past nine o'clock. He'd spent most of the evening reading over the murder books on the Butcher's victims, hoping something might snag his attention and open new vistas of investigation. It seldom happened, but happened often enough to warrant tireless scrutiny of file information. It hadn't happened this evening.
Peeking through the round peephole he saw only what appeared to be the shoulder of someone not very big. He opened the door to the hall.
A young woman of about eighteen stood staring in at him. What drew his eye was the glitter of a tiny glass or diamond stud in her left nostril. Then there was the general impression of build, average if a bit fleshy, five-feet- four or so, stuffed into a tight aqua-colored top made of some kind of stretch material. Her dirty, faded jeans were too tight and rode low, revealing between waistband and blouse an expanse of stomach that showcased a navel pierced by a small silver ring. She had brown hair combed in a practical short do, a slightly turned-up nose, wide, generous mouth, a strong chin, and green eyes exactly like Quinn's.
She smiled and said, 'Hi, Dad.'
Astounded, Quinn actually backed up a step or two. This almost stranger was his daughter Lauri, whose mother May and her present husband, Elliott Franzine, lived in California, where Lauri lived with them.
Should be living with them.
Only Lauri wasn't in California. She was here. Quinn was seeing her for the first time in a little over a year. The change was astounding.
He said, 'Lauri?'
Still smiling, she came in and dropped an overstuffed backpack he somehow hadn't noticed on the floor, then glanced around. 'Your place is nice.'
'You're…here,' he said, still stunned. She was so much older, grown-up. A full-sized…person.
'Sure am.' She came to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed his cheek, and was gone before he'd had a chance to hug her back.
'May…Your mother…'
'I decided to leave California. Saved up some money. Rode buses all the way. That Port Authority place is like wild. Got anything to eat?'
