“I heard you,” Renz cut him off. “Of course they were murdered. Just like the Elzners. That’s why I hired you, remember? I figured we had a repeater and the case would blossom. Thing is, Egan will still be seeing murder- suicide.”
“That’s what Nift thinks. I let him think it.”
“Good. I know the basic facts of this case, though, and after the autopsy Nift will have to reveal everything to Egan.”
“I thought Nift was your man in the ME’s office.”
“He is, right now. But Nift is for Nift. And all he can do is delay. He’ll tell Egan it was murder-suicide; then Egan will figure out what you already know. Which is what?”
Quinn explained to Renz about the positions of the bodies, the dust dragged out from beneath the bed, the chair pulled out from the kitchen table, the four wedges of expensive gourmet cheese.
“Cheese this time, eh?” Renz said when Quinn was finished. Then added, “And a knife instead of a gun. We’ve got a repeater who changes his method.”
“It happens,” Quinn said. “Our guy’s method isn’t tied in with whatever makes him tick.”
“Whatever makes him sick,” Renz said. “That’s for you to find out. Get in this motherfucker’s mind, Quinn.”
“Before Egan does,” Quinn said.
“That’s our game. How are Pearl and Fedderman working out?”
“They’re both good ones. Fedderman’s got bloodhound in him. Pearl’s a terrier.”
“Just so they remember Egan wants to send them both to the pound.”
“It’s always in their thoughts,” Quinn assured Renz.
“I was gonna call you,” Renz said, “seeing as cooperation runs both ways. We got a trace on that silencer used in the Elzner case, the Metzger eight hundred Sound Suppressor. In the past five years, one hundred thirty of that model was sold through two outlets: a biannual newsletter called ‘Handgun Nation,’ and a magazine, Mercenary Today. ”
“And you traced all hundred thirty?”
“It turned out to be easier than we thought. A militia group in Southwest Missouri bought a hundred of them, and they were all accounted for when the government shut down their operation two years ago and confiscated their weapons. The other thirty, we’ve tracked. They’re all accounted for but one. It was bought mail order four years ago from Mercenary Today by a guy named Ed Smyth-that’s with a Y — in Tacoma, Washington. He says he sold it at a gun show a year later to a bearded man in a pickup truck. No sales record because it wasn’t a gun, just gun paraphernalia.”
Quinn didn’t bother asking about the bearded man in the pickup. “What else do we know about Smyth with a Y? ”
“That he bought a Russian revolver on that same date. He says he’s a collector, and he lists his age as seventy-nine.”
“Not our guy.”
“Not unless he’s the oldest psychosexual serial killer on record. And Tacoma police think he’s telling the truth about the silencer. They know him because he’s a gun nut, and they say he’s honest.”
“So we need to track the bearded guy in a pickup who bought the silencer. That should be easy.”
“It should be,” Renz said, his tone suggesting he’d been waiting for Quinn’s sarcasm. “Smyth is a straight shooter in more ways than one. He etched his Social Security number in the silencer. Now we have it, and it’s being sent out to various pawnshops and gun dealers. If the beard sold it, we’ll nail him.”
But Quinn knew he wouldn’t be the killer. Whoever they were tracking was too smart to use anything as a weapon that might be traced to him. And there was something else. “Renz-”
“Harley.”
“Harley, you’ve traced silencers sold within the last five years, but what if the silencer was bought before that? There might be hundreds or thousands of them out there you don’t know about.”
“It wasn’t marketed in this country until five years ago.” Renz, ready for him again. Quinn could almost see his smirk. Irritating.
“Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”
“Wanted to see if you’d think of it. If you’ve retained your old sharpness. I’ve seen cops get old fast, once they retire. And I gotta tell you, Quinn, it took you a while.”
“Just keep me informed on the silencer,” Quinn said, and pressed the button to disconnect.
He thought he heard Renz laughing as the phone went dead. Quinn almost hoped the silencer they were after had been smuggled in from another country.
Egan sat in his office feeling that everything was pretty much under control. He’d figured double murder faster than anyone predicted, with Nift’s help. Renz thought Nift was his man, but Nift was Nift’s man only and was hedging his bet on who’d be the next chief. The arrogant little ME called and told Egan right away that the knife found in the husband’s hand wasn’t the murder weapon. The blades were close, but they didn’t quite match the wounds.
The papers and TV had the story the next morning. Egan had seen to it. The New York media became frenetic and inflamed over few things more than a serial killer. Since both couples had been killed around three A.M., and the female victims had been of obvious erotic interest to the killer, the media dubbed him the Night Prowler.
Egan liked it. Leave it to the New York press. Now New Yorkers had a killer they knew by name-nickname, anyway. A killer they could visualize and hate and fear. A star in a city that fed on stars.
He leaned back in his desk chair and grinned at the way things were going. A nocturnal serial killer! Just what was needed to increase the pressure on Renz, Quinn, and that pocket-size bitch Pearl. Fedderman he saw as no problem.
Egan felt confident. This was the kind of fight he never lost.
The Night Prowler.
Okay, why not? He rather liked it.
“The Night Prowler” set his quarter-folded Times aside on the wrought iron table and smiled. He was having a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and a croissant at a West Side restaurant that had tables set up on the sidewalk outside. Someone driving past in the line of traffic was for some reason envious or offended by the smile and raised a middle finger at him, but he didn’t mind. His thoughts were elsewhere, in a very special place the driver would never visit in his paltry, miserable life.
His gaze fell again on the folded newspaper.
The Night Prowler.
Yes, he approved!
And he knew himself well enough to realize that soon the Night Prowler would have to satisfy his special needs. The buzzing would begin again, softly at first, the cacophony and energy of discordant colors. He knew who the next one should be, but she was unmarried and lived alone. And she was apparently without a lover.
Not his type, as the incredibly inept police profilers would say.
Then why does she call to me so in the night?
He should make sure about her. Definitely he should make sure.
His waiter came by and the Night Prowler pointed to the half-eaten croissant on his plate.
“I believe I’ll have another. They’re delicious.”
Why does she call to me so…?
19
It had rained lightly but persistently the morning of Raoul Caruso’s funeral, but by the time many of the mourners and family arrived at Anna’s father’s modest frame house in Queens, the sun was shining. Food-ravioli, salad, and chocolate-chip cookies-had been prepared there by a neighbor who’d been a good friend of Anna’s father.
