contents thoroughly. He added gold leaf, using thin latex gloves and flaking it gently and expertly with his fingertips so it drifted down like metallic snow. After each test mix he would spread a few strokes of paint on a length of pipe he was sure was the same composition as the steel support pole in the brownstone, then lay the pipe on a wooden block before a small fan that would dry it within minutes.
It took him almost three hours to find the precise formula, but the result was magical.
Romulus would bail out Victory on this job, and Victory would assume the persona that served him so well and strut and brag about the brownstone’s interior to his fellow decorators-among the most sought after and expensive in New York. It would be good for Romulus’ business.
For his art.
His work was done painstakingly, with tools mostly of his own making and with small, fine brushes, and it gave him the kind of visceral elation and soul-deep satisfaction da Vinci himself must have enjoyed.
It was the second highest level of elation Romulus could achieve.
Lars Svenson sat at his table in Munchen’s and studied the brunette at the end of the bar. She was junkie thin and her dark eyes burned in the back-bar mirror whenever they caught him staring at her.
There were several things besides her gauntness and eyes that he liked about the woman. Like the way she sat with her legs wrapped around each other on the high stool, one black pump about to fall off her foot. The way she gazed from time to time with such hopelessness into her drink, knowing he was watching her, had to know. The dark bruises on her bare arms, and on the sides of her neck.
He was especially intrigued by the neck bruises.
When he carried his drink over and sat on the stool next to her, she didn’t seem surprised. And why would she be? This was why she came here. Why every woman in the place came.
Losers’ lounge.
“You a regular customer here?” he asked, giving her his smile at half wattage. Not coming on too strong too fast.
“I don’t know if that’s precisely the word,” she said, not looking over at him.
“I’m Lars.”
“I’m strung out, Lars.”
“Hard night?”
“Not so far. I’m still looking.”
“Maybe I can help you.”
“You really think you have what I need?”
He turned her on the stool so she had to look at him, then gave her the whole smile. “I know exactly what you need, and I can supply.” He signaled the bartender for fresh drinks.
Her dark eyes were steady on him now. Pools of need. “We gonna have a few drinks now, get to know each other before we go to my place?”
“We should get to know each other,” Lars said. Terribly sincere, terribly concerned Lars. “You should be careful. You might take somebody home who might really hurt you.”
“I keep trying.”
By midnight Lars had her tied spread-eagle and whipped to a rag. She’d never stopped liking it.
By twelve-thirty he’d found her stash in a hollowed-out romance novel. Crap coke, but it would do.
By three A.M. she’d showed him how she got the bruises on her neck.
By six he’d left her sleeping or unconscious or dead.
He never had learned her name.
At a little after seven A.M. he was sitting on a bench in Washington Square. Around him the city was waking up and stretching and getting into its mood.
He didn’t feel good. The pressure was gone, but he knew it would return. It kept coming back after each time, sooner and sooner. And there was something odd this time. Different, anyway. He found himself wondering how the woman was. Feeling…what…sorry for her?
Not likely!
A guy across the square, big man but old, dressed in a bunch of rags, pushed himself up from where he’d been sitting on the grass and kicked at a pigeon. Good luck with that. He hacked and spat phlegm on the grass, then hitched up his oversize pants and limped away in the direction the pigeon had flapped.
Don’t wanna be like that guy…not ever…
Younger, stronger, employed Lars stood up shakily from the bench. He needed to get home, have some real sleep, then get to New Jersey for an afternoon move. His stomach was knotted and for some reason he felt like sobbing.
Not that he was actually going to sob. He had it under control.
He started walking toward Waverly, deciding it was probably bad drugs making him feel so down.
Where’d she buy the shit?
Maybe he should get rid of the rest of it, that he’d stolen from the woman- doing her a favor — and slipped beneath his shirt before letting himself out of her apartment. Throw it down a fucking sewer someplace and forget it.
Maybe he should think about that.
30
They’d begun meeting sometimes in Quinn’s apartment rather than on the park bench. Pearl’s apartment was too small, and Fedderman lived in a house in Queens with his wife and kids, and wisely tried not to take his work home with him.
Pearl had helped Quinn make the place presentable, even bought some flea-market furniture and moved out the stained and sprung sofa that looked a likely place for something to nest. Some aerosol disinfectant helped, too. The various age-old cooking odors, combined with the lingering scent of the foul cigars Quinn sometimes smoked, were brought under control. The apartment smelled…okay.
The three detectives would sit around drinking beer or soda, Quinn in his big armchair, Pearl and Fedderman on the sofa, a large bowl of chips or pretzels before them on the coffee table. Pearl had tried to get Quinn and Fedderman to show some respect for the marred old table by putting out cork coasters, but they were ignored after the first time. When she objected, Fedderman looked at her as if she were insane. What were a few more damp rings on a table with so much character? Besides, they had much more important matters on their minds.
“What we have,” Quinn said, after washing down a pretzel with a swig of diet Coke, “are two multiple murders, a husband and wife both times. The women were the primary victims, judging by the wounds. A gun was used in the first murder, a knife in the second. Both husbands and wives held jobs. But then, most households have two working partners. They were roughly in the same age group, and the women were attractive. The same could be said of thousands of couples in New York. In fact, there’s nothing distinctive these couples had in common.” He looked at Pearl. “You see any other similarities?”
She put down her Budweiser can. On a coaster. “You’ve only cited one significant difference-the murder weapon.”
Quinn thought about that. It only might be significant. “The killer got rid of the gun during the first murder, planting it in Martin Elzner’s hand to fake a murder-suicide, and probably had to go to a knife for his next murder because he had no second gun. Necessity over compulsion.”
“Or maybe the killer’s still exploring his compulsion,” Fedderman said. “Finding his way by trying things out, deciding which weapon he prefers.” He looked at Quinn and said, “Do you really think we’re getting anywhere?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn said honestly. “We can tick off some common threads, but they’re the kinds of similarities that can be pointed out about most couples.”
“For the most part,” Pearl said. “But here are some other similarities: Both couples were childless and lived in apartments. The killer was either let in or gained entry with a key. There were items that didn’t seem to belong- groceries spread out on the kitchen table, duplicate items in the refrigerator. In the second murder there was a
