the way, along with the ME, some real detectives-excuse me, Sal, but I mean, you two guys have gone private.”
“Semi-private, in this case,” Sal said.
“What exactly does that mean?” Sorkin asked.
“We got special powers even though we’re once removed, like a divorced father on visiting day.”
Sorkin seemed to think that over and find it adequate.
Mishkin removed a small tube from a pocket, squeezed a worm of something onto the tip of his right forefinger, and smeared it into his bushy gray mustache. The eye-watering smell of menthol displaced the faint odor of scorched flesh. If he didn’t supplant the various stenches of death with the overriding pungency of mentholated cream, Mishkin’s stomach sometimes acted up at homicide scenes.
“Ready, Harold?” Vitali asked.
Mishkin dried his finger with a handkerchief, nodded, and they went in.
The first thing they noticed was the blood. It was all over the body. Then it became obvious that some of it wasn’t blood, but the red of raw flesh showing at the edges and beneath where skin had been sliced. Peeled flesh. The victim appeared to have been partially skinned alive. Some of her pale skin was dangling in shreds, left attached at the top and narrowing to points at the bottom. There was more blood that had come from where skin had been broken on the victim’s wrists and ankles, from her struggle against the pain.
Pain showed in every line and angle of her face, as if she still suffered even in death. Like the first victim, her eyes were fixated with horror and staring at nothing. There was a thin silver chain around her neck, bearing the letter S.
On the nightstand next to the bed was an electric hair curler. Sal noted that it had been switched off. He also noted the dozens of narrow rectangular burns all over the victim’s nude body. Burns where they would hurt the most. Was she burned before or after the partial skinning? Any of the injuries would have caused the victim to lose consciousness, but there had been no relief from the pain. As with the last victim, around this one lingered the faint but sharp odor of ammonia. Vitali figured Harold might not have needed his mentholated cream this time.
“Sadistic bastard!” Harold said.
“The window’s partly opened over there,” Vitali said. “That’s why the chain lock was on. He locked her in before going down the fire escape.”
Noises behind them made them turn, figuring it was the crime scene unit, or even real detectives.
It was Quinn.
“Feds is out in the hall interviewing the super and the woman who found the body,” he said. “Pearl’s on the way.”
Sirens began echoing through the city’s stone canyons. Everyone stood and listened for a moment, and it became obvious the yowling was headed in their direction.
Of course, all that yowling didn’t mean the vehicles were making good time in Manhattan traffic. Emergency vehicles could howl and yodel as if they were doing ninety while sitting perfectly still blocked in by cars.
“Bet you Pearl will beat them here,” Sal said.
Quinn shook his head. “I wouldn’t bet against Pearl.”
He strained forward toward the corpse, noticing something, then went over and looked more closely at one of the bound and bloody ankles.
“Looks like something, probably a finger, has been dragged through this blood,” he said.
They all glanced around, and then moved toward the bathroom at the same time. The other two detectives fell back in deference to Quinn and let him enter first.
There were bloodstains in the white basin and on white towels. But most of the blood was on the medicine cabinet mirror, where it had been used to write what presumably was a man’s name: Simon Luttrell.
Quinn left the bathroom and moved through the bedroom and down a short hall to the living room. Sorkin and his partner were still there, the partner leaning in the doorway, Sorkin visible outside in the hall. Guarding the crime scene even though Harley Renz’s growing and unhealthy influence had gotten Quinn and his team inside before the yellow tape went up.
Quinn nodded at the two uniforms as he went out into the hall. The sirens were right outside now, some of them growling to silence. They were going to beat Pearl here after all.
Fedderman, standing with pencil and notebook and talking to Michelle Roper, looked over at Quinn.
“Do either of you know or know of someone named Simon Luttrell?” Quinn asked.
“He don’t live in the building,” said the super immediately.
Michelle gave the question a few more seconds’ thought. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”
Quinn nodded and said, “Come on into the apartment when you’re done here, Feds.”
“Just a few more questions,” Fedderman said.
“You hear that a lot on TV,” the super said.
Quinn edged his way around Sorkin and his partner and went back into Noon’s apartment. Mishkin was standing in the living room. Vitali came in from the hall that led to the bedrooms and bathroom.
“The bedroom she’s not in,” Vitali said. “It’s full of nothing but clothes. I mean really full of clothes.”
“The second bedroom, you mean?” Mishkin asked.
Vitali stared at him.
“How would you know which is which, Harold?” Mishkin could be a trial sometimes. Vitali bore him like a cross.
“The second one’s usually smaller. Did you check to see about size?”
“It’s not supposed to matter,” Vitali growled. “The thing is, that bedroom’s damn near bursting open, what with all the clothes in there. Most of them are on hangers, but some are just piled on the floor. I mean, a hell of a lot of clothes.”
“Maybe she was in some kinda clothes business,” Mishkin ventured.
“Nothing in there looked secondhand to me, Harold.”
“Maybe she was a designer,” Mishkin said.
Sal smiled. “Or a master of disguise.”
“Wouldn’t it be mistress of disguise?” Mishkin asked.
“Not unless she was a dominatrix or some married guy’s secret girlfriend.”
“Couldn’t she be both?”
Quinn knew what they were doing, cracking wise to stay sane, to scare away the ghosts. Cops had to learn to do that, if they were going to last.
He stopped listening to Vitali and Mishkin as he heard a commotion in the hall, a lot of clinking and clacking of equipment along with hurried, shuffling footfalls on the carpet. The sirens outside were fully stopped now. The troops had arrived, and in force. Sorkin and his partner moved back as if facing a tsunami to give them a clear route to the apartment.
Pearl was the first one through the door.
16
Michelle Roper had informed Quinn that Nora Noon had a sister somewhere in New Jersey. It hadn’t taken long to find her, not very far away in Teaneck. Fedderman waited at the morgue the next morning for the sister, Penny Noon, who was driving in to the city to identify the body.
The victim’s sister turned out to be a half sister, an attractive woman with choppy blond hair with dark streaks in it that looked deliberate. There wasn’t much of a family resemblance to her murdered sister, maybe because the victim was obviously much the younger of the two. Penny had a fuller face, calm gray eyes with the beginnings of crow’s-feet, and full lips with pink gloss. She did have the same deeply cleft chin as the victim. Her demeanor was tense but controlled, her strong features seemingly placid.
After the introductions, Penny, Fedderman, and a guy named Clarkson, from Renz’s office, stood and waited for Nora Noon’s postmortem photograph to appear on a monitor mounted at eye level on the wall. Clarkson wasn’t yet forty and dressed in a sharp gray suit, starched white shirt, and gold-clasped tie, making Fedderman by
