leather jacket the husband tried to return to where it wasn’t bought, and he accused the salesclerk of giving it to his wife.”
“Gifts,” Fedderman said. “The groceries included expensive gourmet stuff the wives liked. And Marcy Graham had admired the jacket shortly before her death.”
“Our guy had to know something about the wives,” Pearl said. “Maybe he was in their circle of acquaintances.”
“The couples didn’t seem to know each other,” Fedderman said, “and they moved in different circles.”
Quinn swallowed a slug of Coke. “Let’s stick to similarities. Pattern.”
“The victims were fairly well off financially.”
“You have to be, to live in Manhattan these days,” Pearl said, then glanced around. “At least in the kinds of apartments they had.” She stretched and reached for a pretzel. “Maybe the killer was leaving gifts for the wives, even though he didn’t know them.”
“A secret admirer,” Fedderman said.
“Something like that. It’s kinda like he was courting them, plying them with presents.”
“Not many serial killers are romantics,” Quinn pointed out. “If that’s what we’re dealing with.”
“And the husbands woulda put a stop to it,” Fedderman said.
“One of them tried,” Pearl said. “He went to a shop where she’d admired the jacket but didn’t buy it, and he raised hell trying to return it.”
“So the killer at some point learned she wanted the jacket.”
“Yeah, the salesclerk said she wanted it bad, but Hubby said no.”
“Our killer must have seen her try on the jacket.”
“Or overheard her and her husband talking about the incident,” Quinn said. “Maybe even days later.”
“More likely he was watching her in the shop,” Fedderman said.
Quinn nodded. “Or worked there.”
“The clerk, that Ira guy, is a creep,” Pearl said, “but he’s got an alibi you couldn’t budge with dynamite.” She finished her beer and placed the can back on its coaster. “The gifts-if that’s what they were-are about the only pattern we have that might mean something. And the kitchens.”
Quinn recalled her supposition that the killer had suffered some kind of childhood trauma involving a woman in a kitchen. The kind of speculation that was usually Freudian bullshit, but not always.
“Maybe his mother was a terrible cook,” Fedderman said.
No one acknowledged him. He shrugged.
“We do know our killer has an affinity with kitchens,” Pearl said.
“Like me,” Fedderman said, patting his ample stomach.
Pearl ignored him. “The rest could be coincidence. We need more pattern. More commonality that looks and smells like evidence.”
“We all know what we need,” Fedderman said in his cop’s flat voice.
At first Pearl was irked, thinking he was ragging her; then she realized what he meant. The more they learned about the Night Prowler, the sooner they’d nail him.
There was one sure way to learn more.
Quinn went ahead and said it. “We need another victim.”
“Another pair of openers,” Fedderman said. “When he kills, it’s like dealing us more cards to play.”
“And it increases the pressure on us to stop him, making our job harder. It’s a trade-off and he has to know it. That’s the kind of game we’re playing.”
Pearl gave Quinn a look he’d learned to interpret. The frustration was getting to her. She was heating up like a teakettle that bitched instead of whistled.
“Our guy’s under pressure, too,” Fedderman said. “He’s gotta go for another double dip soon.”
Pearl said, “This is becoming a crock of shit, Quinn.”
“It was that from the beginning.”
“This is the pressure we were talking about,” Fedderman said. “Egan and the killer want us talking like you two.”
Pearl said, “Feds, shut up about pressure. And kitchens and card games.”
Fedderman ate a pretzel.
Pearl turned her attention back to Quinn. “So this is gonna be our strategy? We sit around like ghouls waiting for another slaughter so we can pick through the entrails?”
“Like cops,” Quinn corrected her. “And we don’t sit around.”
Fedderman stood up and tucked his shirt in tighter, where his suspenders buttoned to his waistband.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Pearl snapped at him, surprised by his sudden movement.
“Not sitting around. Getting up to go fetch another beer. You want one?”
“I’ll tell you what you can do with your can of beer-”
“Don’t!” Quinn interrupted her, but he was grinning.
That made Pearl really mad.
David Blank was, as usual, punctual. But he seemed less at ease this visit as he settled into the deep leather recliner. He smiled, but not with his usual smugness, and glanced sideways expectantly at Dr. Rita Maxwell. His look said that they both knew the clock was running, time was money.
Rita decided to play on his unease, perhaps draw him out. She maintained her silence.
After almost a full minute Blank said, “Ticktock, Dr. Rita.”
“That’s what bombs do, David.”
“Clocks too. But it’s funny you should mention bombs. Time bombs.”
“Did I read your mind?” Time bombs?
“A paragraph or two,” Blank said.
“Do you feel something’s ticking inside you, David?”
“As if I swallowed my watch or something?”
“You know what I mean. Something, some complex feeling, or a set of emotions that might lead to a kind of explosion.”
“Explosion? No, I don’t think so.” He was silent for a moment. “But what if there were a certain pressure building? How would a person relieve that pressure by means other than an explosion?”
“The pressure comes from conflict, David. You share your conflict. You tell someone like me, and I can possibly help you to help yourself.”
“Help me stop the ticking?”
“In a sense, yes.”
“But what if the explosion’s already taken place?”
“Has it?”
“What if?”
“Then it might be guilt causing your conflict and pressure. I might be able to help you there, too.”
“My, aren’t you versatile.”
Sarcasm. I’m losing him. “You know how it works, David: confess your guilt and it lessens because it’s shared.”
“That isn’t logical.”
“I know, but it’s human. That’s how it works with people. Always has. Have you ever gone to confession?”
“You mean in a church? No, I’m not Catholic.”
“That’s what confession is for, alleviating guilt. It’s a cathartic act, to unburden yourself to another. The church learned that centuries ago, and it still holds true. For Catholics, a priest might be sufficient. For others, perhaps someone like me would do.”
“And I fall into the category of others.”
“You said you weren’t Catholic.”
“The church believes confession leads to salvation,” Blank said. “I’m not interested in salvation.”
“Oh, David, I think we all are.”
He seemed to consider that carefully. “Not all of us. Not the ones who are already lost.”
