“Girlfriend’s got the jumps,” a voice said beside Quinn. Nancy Weaver, who’d noticed something wrong between Pearl and him and sidled over.
“Let’s all just do our jobs, Nancy,” Quinn said. And moved closer to the corpse.
The Skinner watched the man who’d been in Judith Blaney’s apartment approach him where he sat sipping a chocolate latte at an outside table. Traffic streamed past only a few yards away. The Skinner was unbothered by the low haze of exhaust fumes. There was a tilted green umbrella above the table that kept the sun out of his eyes but allowed for a warm slice of light across his bare forearms.
The man came and stood by the table but didn’t move to sit down. The Skinner didn’t invite him to sit.
The man reached into a pocket and laid a used and canceled theater ticket on the table next to the latte mug.
“Your alibi,” he said. “And there’s no way to prove you weren’t there last night at the time of…” He glanced around. No one was seated near enough to overhear. He smiled. “We don’t need to say it out loud.”
“It was really a crap play,” the Skinner said. He returned the smile but in a way that was creepily joyful. “But the encore performance was terrific.”
“I’m glad you had a good time.” The man turned to walk away, and then hesitated. “You like baseball?”
“The way I like Mom and apple pie. ’Specially Mom. Why?”
“You didn’t enjoy the play. Maybe next time we can make it a ball game.”
The Skinner didn’t like hearing that. Not at all. A “next time” with this potential blackmailer’s involvement wasn’t what he had in mind. He worked alone. A secret between two people wasn’t a secret. People like this, bullies and parasites-he didn’t like them at all. They hadn’t the right to live.
On the other hand, they were usually smart, and cautious with their information. Someone else knew, or there was a letter with a lawyer or in a safe deposit box. Insurance. The unpleasant man knew he didn’t even have to tell the Skinner about such insurance. They both knew he was safe.
The man walked along the street parallel to the curb as he was trying to hail a cab. It brought him close again to the Skinner’s table.
A cab slowed and swerved toward him and he pointed a finger at the Skinner, his thumb raised like the hammer of a revolver. Grinning, he brought the thumb down and said, “Yankees fan! Am I right?”
The Skinner said nothing as the man climbed into the cab and it drove away.
Cocky little bastard.
But he’ll learn.
45
Quinn was on the sofa in the brownstone, leafing through the autopsy photos of Judith Blaney, studying each one carefully. The workmen were busy on the top floor. Sounds of sawing and hammering could be heard, but barely, muted by the thick floor and walls.
Pearl was standing behind the sofa, leaning over Quinn’s shoulder. Her hand rested lightly on his back, weightless as a small bird that had lit there. The hand was either for balance or to display affection. Quinn couldn’t be sure which.
They were going to make a lunch of the lasagna they hadn’t eaten last night at Ricco’s Restaurant. That the gruesome morgue photographs of Judith Blaney didn’t affect their appetites suggested to Quinn that maybe they’d been in this business too long.
He glanced back at Pearl, then straightened the stack of black-and-white photos and placed them on the coffee table. Pearl came around and sat in a chair facing him.
“I was studying those wavering cuts in her torso and thighs,” Quinn said.
“We both were.”
“See anything to them? I mean, in the way of some message being communicated?”
“The message I get is that the Skinner is one sick cookie. Sick and sadistic.”
Quinn sighed and leaned back in the sofa. “What kind of knife do you supposed made those cuts?”
“Something sharp and with a fine point. Probably made for a specific purpose. A specialty scalpel?”
“Nift says no. He doesn’t think the killer’s using any sort of medical implement. But he does admit he can’t be certain.”
“Maybe something for cleaning fish.”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Quinn said.
“Maybe it’s simply another diversion. We are all agreed that the business with the Socrates’s Cavern membership list and letter S are simply that. Not to mention the shoe in the mouth.”
“Diversions, but we’re still forced to waste time checking them out.”
“So maybe we’re supposed to run around in circles trying to figure out what the fancy cut marks on the victims mean. Or maybe they mean nothing.”
“One distinction,” Quinn said. “The killer seems to have enjoyed carving designs in Judith Blaney. He apparently spent a lot of time doing it.”
“I get you,” Pearl said. “It’s his pleasure as well as a diversion.” She sat back and thought. “The wrong rapist identification factor-now that’s a solid connecting thread. I’m sure we’ll find it in Judith Blaney’s murder.”
“That’s what the killer wanted to conceal in the beginning,” Quinn said. “He must have known we’d eventually tumble to it.”
“You don’t suppose,” Pearl said, “that he’s using the rape misidentifications the same way he used the Socrates’s Cavern diversion.”
“You mean there might be a third, actual motive? You’re making my head hurt, Pearl.” But he had to admire her mind’s reach. “It would require too many victims,” he added. “The risk increases with each one.”
“He’s a psycho,” Pearl said. “He might not have done a risk analysis and determined a point of diminishing returns.”
“Oh, I bet he did. In fact, I think we can rely on it.”
She gave Quinn a level stare. A lock of her dark hair dangled near her left eye, giving her a tousled, sexy look. “Are we getting closer?” Her voice seemed slightly husky.
He didn’t want to misunderstand her. “To the killer?”
“Of course.” Her strictly business voice now.
He stared at her. She didn’t seem to have noticed the double entendre. Or maybe she had and was playing dumb. He wished she’d spend the afternoon with him in bed so he could make love to her, try again to convince her that she should move in with him. Yancy Taggart had died long enough ago that his memory no longer stood in the way. Quinn was reasonably sure of that. If only she could make up her mind. Her heart.
“I feel that we are getting closer,” Quinn said, “but I couldn’t tell you why.”
A persistent high-pitched dinging drifted from the kitchen. The oven timer.
“Pearl,” Quinn said, “do you want to stay here after lunch? Maybe spend the night?”
“The lasagna’s ready,” Pearl said. “I’m not.”
When they were almost finished with lunch, the brownstone phone rang.
Nift again.
“I thought I should mention what else I discovered when I cleaned all the blood out of Judith Blaney’s mouth and throat,” he said.
Quinn looked at what was left of his lasagna.
“It seems her tongue was removed,” Nift said.
“Removed?”
“Cut out. Back near its base. Very deftly.”
Quinn said nothing.
“Am I calling at a bad time?” Nift asked.
“No, not at all. Thanks.” Quinn hung up the phone. He looked at Pearl.
“Anything important?” Pearl asked.
“I’ll tell you after you finish lunch,” Quinn said.
