Danielle Daniel, a woman by all appearances. One who’d disappeared in a Florida hurricane decades ago, had never been seen again, and was listed officially as dead. One of the worst disasters in Florida history had done the job of the state and executed Daniel Danielle, clearing the docket.
Officially. There was a word that put Pearl on her guard. The presumed dead killer, or a copycat, appeared to be operating in New York.
Another possibility occurred to Pearl. The woman tailing her might be a confederate of the killer, working for him and with him. Helping him to learn about Pearl as he prepared to make his move on her. He might have done that with his earlier victims, stalked them, perhaps deliberately letting them know he was there so they would worry, become worn down by their anxiety to the point of surrender.
He’d be there to accept that surrender.
Pearl thought about that.
Be ready, you schmuck. I’m ready, too.
When she reached the office, Quinn was there alone, seated at his desk and reading something inside a yellow file folder. He glanced up when Pearl entered, and it registered on his face immediately that he knew she was distressed.
He laid what he’d been reading aside and sat back, waiting, swiveling his chair an inch this way, then that, causing a soft eek, eek.
“That isn’t important?” she asked, pointing to the folder he’d put aside.
“Sal’s report on his and Harold’s interview of Audrey Ackenheimer, neighbor of the victim.”
“Learn anything?”
“Yes. Sal’s being driven insane by Harold.”
Pearl had to smile. “It’s been that way with them for over ten years, from when they were NYPD. But somehow they make a good team. Cops who partner for years sometimes get like old married couples.”
“You’re talking about Sal and Harold because there’s something else on your mind,” Quinn said.
He stopped swiveling and the chair stopped squeaking.
“More a feeling than something I know for sure.”
“Share it so we both won’t know it for sure,” Quinn suggested.
She told him about the woman she thought was shadowing her. When she was about halfway through the account, Helen the profiler came into the office. Tall, redheaded, and sweaty, smelling like estrogen. She was wearing a running outfit with baggy shorts, a sleeveless red Fordham T-shirt, and New Balance shoes like Pearl’s, only more expensive. She paused the way people do when they realize they’ve intruded in a private conversation.
Only there was no reason for this to be private. Pearl knew it was part of the investigation.
Quinn nodded to Pearl, reading her mind, and she started over.
When she was finished, Helen said, “You’re certain it wasn’t your imagination?”
“I’m certain. And the woman was too small to be Daniel. What I’m not certain about are my speculations as to why. It doesn’t make much sense, a woman shadowing a potential victim for the killer.”
“It makes a lot of sense,” Helen said. “ Especially if the woman being followed is already slated to be a future victim. We all know how charming and manipulative some serial killers are. We also know you’re the killer’s type. It’s not unlikely that this woman’s scouting you, learning all about you, and will turn the information over to him.”
Pearl looked mad enough to spit. “I’m no teenage girl ready to be swept off my feet because some good- looking guy’s done research and knows my sign.”
Quinn was nudging his swivel chair this way and that again, making a rhythmic, almost inaudible squeaking. These two women were making him nervous. “None of it seems to fit.”
“Interesting,” Helen said, “that your gut feeling is different from Pearl’s.”
“I didn’t say I had a gut feeling about who was following me or why,” Pearl said, “only that I was being followed.”
“By a woman,” Helen added.
Quinn said, “Our killer’s familiar enough with us to know that whoever he sent to shadow Pearl, Pearl would most likely spot her. Or him.”
Helen crossed her arms and got more comfortable where she was leaning back against a desk-because of her height, almost sitting on it. “Oh, he wouldn’t care if the tail was spotted. That might have been the idea.”
“To let Pearl know she’s being stalked?”
“To let you know.”
“Playing a game.”
“Very much a game.”
“If he kills me,” Pearl said, “the game’s over.”
“Maybe not for the killer,” Helen said. “Taking you as a victim might be his way of focusing his opponent’s concentration, making the game more interesting.”
“Still doesn’t feel right,” Quinn said.
“Maybe at a certain point he lets all his victims know they’re being stalked,” Helen said. “He might derive pleasure from that. It isn’t uncommon.”
“This is an uncommon killer,” Quinn said.
Helen nodded. She stood up straight, unwinding, surprising Quinn as she almost always did with her six- foot-plus height. “There is that.”
“There’s the other thing,” Pearl said.
They both looked at her.
“I’m an uncommon victim.”
25
J ody Jason had no idea why Professor Pratt wanted to meet her here, though it must pertain to their earlier conversation about some profound change in Jody’s life. In a way, it didn’t surprise Jody that Elaine Pratt had chosen this place. She probably knew it was one of Jody’s favorite spots on campus, an oasis conducive to study and quiet. And private conversations. It was like Professor Pratt to know such things.
From where she sat on a concrete bench in the shade of a fifty-year-old post oak, Jody had a wide and impressive view of the Waycliffe campus. The green, manicured quadrangle, with its concrete paths and uniformly trimmed trees; its occasional lounging student; its encompassing ivy trellised brick buildings. It all looked like a painting by a master impressionist.
Though the afternoon was warm, there was a persistent soft breeze. It was pleasantly cool in the shade of the tree’s clustered leaves, which rattled in the wind.
Jody often sat on this particular bench to read, and it always amazed her that there were never any bird droppings on it. Or, so it seemed, on any of the benches. Maybe maintenance had some special chemical that repelled birds. Or maybe the birds simply knew better, at a prestigious college like Waycliffe.
“You beat me here,” a woman’s voice said.
Jody looked over and saw that Professor Pratt had approached her unseen, at an angle.
“It was so pleasant,” Jody said, “I thought I’d come early and sit here a while.”
Elaine (as Jody informally and privately thought of the professor) glanced around and smiled. “It is beautiful. And useful. As beauty often is.”
Jody scooted over to allow Elaine room to sit down, but the professor chose to remain standing.
“I hope I haven’t screwed up,” Jody said.
Elaine seemed amused. “Why would you think that?”
“This is… such a private and distant place, I thought… well, I don’t know what I thought.”
“That I chose a place where no one would observe us or overhear us shouting at each other?” “Not that,” Jody said with a smile. Might this be about something else altogether? A disciplinary measure? Did Elaine know
