'I guess not,' Pearl said, remembering the foul odor in the vicinity of the torso.
Everyone sat silently for a long while. Quinn wondered what the other two were thinking. He wasn't even sure what he thought about this departure, undoubtedly made by the same killer they'd been stalking. There were variations, sure, most notably the gender of the victim, but they were still looking at the same gun, same grisly M.O., same killer. Had to be.
Pearl yawned. Didn't excuse herself. 'Bed?'
'Bed,' Quinn said, standing and switching off his desk lamp.
'I bet I won't dream,' Pearl said.
'I bet I will,' Fedderman said.
30
Jill hadn't been able to sleep since her visit to Madeline's apartment. She played it over and over in her mind, trying to remember the slightest details, trying to be sure the new Madeline hadn't paid her any undue attention. She couldn't be positive.
She paced her apartment, moving like a disassociated spirit from room to room. She was exhausted but couldn't make herself sit down. In the kitchen, she paused at the sink and ran water into a glass, gulped it down. She knew she should eat something, but her appetite had been replaced by anxiety.
It was possible-no, now it was likely-that mad Madeline's story was true. But even if it wasn't, there sure as hell was something creepy going on. And if Madeline's story was true, that meant Tony was…
Jill didn't dare let herself think about that. It seemed impossible.
She remembered mad Madeline's distrust of the police. But not all of them. The problem was, which ones could be trusted?
Paranoia.
Jill refused to let her mind tilt in that direction.
She realized she didn't have anyone to turn to. That was how she'd gotten into this mess in the first place. There was only Tony. Ordinarily he'd be the first person she'd go to for help, but if the real Madeline Scott was right, he'd be the last person she should go to.
Jill tried again to bend her mind around the seemingly inescapable conclusion, but again it was impossible for her to imagine Tony intending she should come to any harm. Incomprehensible. Gentle, loving Tony.
She ran another glass of water and carried it into the living room. She slumped in the corner of the sofa, feeling small and vulnerable, and absently used the remote to switch on the TV.
The set was tuned to a local channel, and a talking head wearing a serious expression said that another Torso Murder victim had been found. 'The torso of a man…'
A man?
Jill turned up the volume and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees.
The news report had gone to tape. A tall, rawboned man in a white shirt and red tie, with strong features and a bad haircut, was striding just ahead of a gaggle of journalists dogging him with recorders and TV cameras. He ignored them and walked faster, nudged one of them aside, and opened the door of a large black car. It was a graceful but powerful movement. People instinctively got out of this man's way.
'Captain Quinn?' one of the media people, a woman, kept repeating. 'Captain Quinn?'
The big man said something unintelligible as he lowered himself into the car. He had to remove the hand of a man from the door so he could get it closed. There was a shot of the knot of journalists standing and staring as the big black car squatted with power and drove away fast.
The camera moved in for a close-up of the woman who'd been calling the man's name. She was hastily rearranging her breeze-mussed hair with her free hand while holding a microphone with the other. Behind her, other media people were moving back in the direction they'd come from when they'd followed the big man. A few of them were running.
'As you can see,' the woman said, 'the police aren't yet giving out any information on this new and startling development.' A lock of blond hair flopped over her left eye, and without closing the eye she shoved the hair back in place. 'Lead investigator Captain Frank Quinn did let slip that this time the torso is that of a man. Speculation at this point in time is that this murder was the work of a copycat killer, as so often happens in these sorts of cases. This is something that impacts the entire city, and you can count on Team News to get the facts as soon as they're available and pass them on to you. Bill?'
The news anchor named Bill reappeared on the screen. 'Thanks, Mary.' He gazed solemnly at the camera. 'As you just saw, Team News is on the scene and on the story, and we'll pass it on to you at the speed of electrons.' He shook his head at the horror of the developing story. 'Hopefully, this nightmare will soon be over.'
He glanced down at his desk, then back up at the camera. 'Do you ever wonder what your dog does when you're not home?'
Jill stopped listening. Quinn. Captain Frank Quinn. She recalled the big man's name from the papers and earlier TV news. The lead investigator.
There was something about him, something solid and strong. A calm island in an angry sea. He'd be a policeman she could trust. At least he was the best possibility she could think of, and she had to talk to someone.
She got the Manhattan phone directory, balanced it on her knees, and looked up the number of the precinct house closest to her apartment. She picked up the phone.
After punching in two numbers, she slowly put it back down.
It occurred to her what they'd want of her, what she'd almost certainly have to do if she contacted the police and told them everything.
They'd want her to look at a decomposed body. To identify Madeline Scott at the morgue.
Jill didn't know if she could do it. Didn't people sometimes get ill when they did that? Throw up? Sometimes pass out? Simply the thought was making Jill nauseated. She'd always considered herself to be a person with the willpower to do what was necessary, a person of commitment and courage. Now she wasn't so sure. She wasn't sure about anything. Her world seemed to have gone insane, and it was the only world she had.
She replaced the phone book and trudged to the sofa. Sat down and pressed her face hard between her palms. Her features were distorted as if squeezed in a vise. She didn't feel like crying; she felt like screaming. And screaming and screaming…
She held the screams inside, but it wasn't easy.
Eventually she might call Captain Frank Quinn, but not yet.
Charlotte was daydreaming while walking along Christopher Street and didn't recognize the car right away. There were so many big dark luxury cars running around New York. Then she used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and saw the shiny Chrysler emblem. She realized it was Dixie's brother's car. What was his name? Ron? No, Don.
The car slowed and then pulled to the curb about twenty feet ahead of where Charlotte was walking. Uh-oh. This might become an awkward situation. She'd caught the way Don had looked at her the other night, when he'd tried to get her and Dixie to go to his place for drinks, and knew he might not know about Dixie's sexual orientation. He might think she and Dixie were simply friends.
Charlotte pretended she hadn't recognized the car and kept walking at the same pace, hoping maybe she'd been wrong about it being Don's car. But when she was almost alongside it the tinted window on the passenger side glided down, and at a slant through the rear window Charlotte saw the figure behind the steering wheel lean over toward the passenger side to say something out the window.
'Charlotte.'
Not Don's voice. Dixie's.
Relieved, Charlotte approached the car and bent down.
There was Dixie, leaning across the front seat toward her and smiling. She looked terrific, dressed in black, as usual, with her red scarf, her glossy black hair pulled back to emphasize the prominent bone structure of her face
