area.”
“Fits our guy,” Pearl said. “Focus is on the woman.”
“Hubby’s got something that looks like a pineapple clutched in his hand. Not a real one. Plaster or metal. As if he was going to use it as a weapon. There isn’t any blood or hair on it, though.”
“A shame.”
Quinn twisted his body so he could scan the tabletop. He wasn’t moving his feet much, what with all the mess on the floor. “Check the fridge.” His own words sounded incongruous to him, as if he were asking the little lady to see if there was cold beer on hand.
Pearl opened the refrigerator door. “Well stocked, and there’s a squeeze bottle of mustard and a jar of what looks like the same kind of pickles that are on the sandwich.” She pulled out a deep plastic drawer lettered that it was for meat, and there was the package containing the rest of the pastrami. “Meat’s in here.”
“So our killer built himself a sandwich, put away the meat and condiments he used, then sat down at the table to eat.”
“Like he didn’t want anything perishable to spoil.” Pearl felt a chill. “Maybe he planned on coming back for seconds some other night.”
“Or he’s compulsively neat.”
“What he did here isn’t neat.”
“What about the milk?” Quinn asked.
“It’s warm. And there’s no glass. He was drinking it straight from the carton. Kind of homey and familiar. Bad mannered, though.”
“Should be plenty of DNA evidence,” Quinn said. “Saliva on the milk carton and sandwich.”
“Maybe even tooth marks.”
“It’d all be very helpful, if only we had samples to match it against.”
“We will someday,” Pearl said, “and we’ll use them to nail this bastard to the wall.”
Quinn glanced at her and smiled slightly, no longer surprised by her vehemence. What is it, genetic?
“What if it was one of the victims who was having the snack?” Pearl asked.
“Good question. Medical examiner can answer it later. But I don’t think he’ll be able to help us with what Mary tried to write on the wall.”
“Huh?”
“C’mon over here,” Quinn said, “and I’ll show you.”
Pearl followed him to where Mary Navarre lay, and they both stooped low to be closer to what she’d begun to write with her own blood on the wall.
“It looks like a caret,” Pearl said.
“You kidding?” Fedderman’s voice. He’d entered the apartment and come up behind them. “It’s too pointy, upside down, and doesn’t have any leafy stuff growing outta the top.”
“She means a caret, like an A without a cross stroke, to show where something should be inserted in print.”
“Ah,” Fedderman said. “So maybe the victim was starting to print an A when she died. Or it could be the first part of an M.”
“Looks like she died last,” Quinn said, “like Marcy Graham. Only one or two stabs to finish the husband-I can’t tell for sure and don’t wanna move the body-then our killer took out all his frustration on the wife.”
“He hates women, all right,” Fedderman said.
Pearl gave him a look. “Don’t they all? It’s why the scumbags kill.”
She left the kitchen and walked into the bedroom. It was restful and tastefully and expensively furnished. Not like my bedroom. The bed was unmade, the duvet and a blanket folded on a chair. It looked as if the victims had been sleeping with only a light sheet over them, and it was thrown back and wadded as if they’d climbed out of bed in a hurry. Maybe somebody heard a noise. On the windowsill was a lineup of books-mysteries, biographies, including some recent bestsellers. There was a gold-painted pineapple bookend supporting them on the left, nothing on the right. That was where Hubby found his weapon, Pearl thought. It appeared as if one or both of the victims woke up afraid of something. Hubby grabbed hold of a convenient blunt object, the pineapple bookend, and bravely went to investigate. The alpha male. His wife, Mary, followed and shouldn’t have.
Why don’t people call 911?
Pearl walked back into the kitchen and told Quinn and Fedderman what she’d observed. Then she went to the refrigerator again and looked for duplicate items or gourmet food. Nothing unusual, but if the couple got stranded in the apartment, it would be months before they’d starve.
She wandered over to the door to the hall and examined it. “No sign of forced entry.”
Quinn and Fedderman didn’t answer; she realized they’d both made a note of the door’s condition when they entered. Pearl was a bit surprised to realize this didn’t annoy her; it was great to be working with pros.
There was a crisp snapping sound as Quinn peeled off his gloves. “Egan’s army’s gonna be here soon. Let’s get the jump on them. I’ll go downstairs and talk to the super. You two start with the neighbors and the doorman. Later we’ll get together at my place and compare notes.”
Pearl nodded. Maybe I’ll stay the night at your place.
Where did that come from?
She started toward the door to the hall, Fedderman close behind.
The Night Prowler stood beneath the shower and let hot needles of water drive away his thoughts. It was a time of satisfaction and peace, of triumph. When he turned off the shower, he knew he wouldn’t hear the buzzing.
He’d been prepared, and his dark knowledge had been validated. He’d stood at the foot of their bed and observed them, Donald who didn’t know, and Mary who knew but wouldn’t admit it. They slept lightly, Mary close to Donald, as if her asleep self knew she was being watched and was disturbed. They loved each other, the Night Prowler was sure. They didn’t love him and wouldn’t have, even if they’d known they were two-thirds of a menage a trois.
Mary had known, of course, but tried to hide from the knowledge.
He smoothed back his wet hair with both hands, then reached out and turned off the shower. In the white steaming bathroom he dried himself with a rough terry cloth towel; then, leaving his hair damp, he went out into the coolness on the other side of the door. He didn’t bother putting on clothes; no one could see in, and he was comfortable as he was. He got a glass of ice water from the refrigerator, then sat in a corner of the sofa and used the remote to switch on the TV.
He smiled. There on cable news was a wedding photo of Mary and Donald. The caption at the bottom of the screen read, WEST SIDE SLAYINGS.
A wedding photo! Wonderful! Handsome couple.
The newlyweds in the photo disappeared and there was a blond-haired young woman in a navy blazer, standing with the victims’ apartment building in the background. There were several police cars parked at the curb, and people milling about in front of the building. The journalist, whose name was Kay Kemper, wore a serious expression that didn’t work because the top of her fluffy hairdo kept standing straight up in the breeze, then settling almost back down, like a lid that didn’t quite fit but wouldn’t stop trying. “The police aren’t talking,” she was saying into the microphone while staring at the camera, “but sources tell us this is almost certainly another deadly attack by the Night Prowler. Both victims were purportedly stabbed to death, Mary Navarre and her husband, Donald Baines. The couple was childless. Neighbors say…”
The Night Prowler stopped listening closely; he knew all about the victims, more even than they’d known about each other, their secret places and desires. Mary he knew from reading her mail, both snail and e, from the scent of her clothes, clean and unwashed, from what she ate and liked and disliked. He knew what authors she read, what cosmetics she used, her medications and birth control pills, her breathing and scent when she slept, the up-close warmth of her flesh, her intimate thoughts murmured in her sleep. Her favorite colors.
And he knew about last night. Far more than anyone else would ever know. The way he’d possibly made enough noise to wake them. Though they might just as easily have slept through his secret visit as they had the others. They’d surprised him there in the kitchen, but not completely. He had, in his way, been waiting for them, sitting with his knife close at hand, sitting with a plan imprinted in his mind, a plan that required action not thought. A plan that was justice and balance and vengeance. Freedom, at least for a while. Escape and salvation, at least for
