a dozen police cars and an ambulance positioned in front of the victims’ building.
Pearl parked the car half a block down and they walked back.
“The uniform on the door,” Fedderman said, “I know him. Name’s Mehan and he’ll talk to me if I ask.”
“Go ahead and ask,” Quinn said. “Pearl and I will go up to the apartment and get started.”
Mehan was one of those beefy, redheaded guys with a pink complexion that made him look as if he’d burn if he even got near a beach. He saw them approach and without moving anything but his eyes gave them a look-not curious, not even interested, just a look.
But there was a flash of recognition when he saw Fedderman. “Wha’ say, Feds?”
“Not much.” Fedderman moved off to the side so Mehan could get a clear look at Quinn and Pearl.
Quinn flashed his new shield to be polite and Mehan nodded.
Pearl followed Quinn into the lobby. It was an impressive vista of marble, mirrors, and oak paneling, but there was a faint ammonia scent, as if the floor had just been mopped and disinfected. Another uniform was standing like a good soldier by the elevator. He was compliant; if Quinn and Pearl had made it past Mehan, they were okay to go farther. Security folding like an accordion.
“You’re lookin’ for fourteen B,” he said to Quinn.
Quinn thanked him.
The uniform smiled and nodded to Pearl as she and Quinn waited for the elevator.
On the fourteenth floor there was another uniformed cop posted outside an apartment with its door wide open like an invitation to the hospitality suite at a convention. This cop, a big curly-haired guy who looked like he should be a country-western singer, recognized Pearl.
“Stayin’ outta trouble, Pug?” he asked with a grin.
“You better watch out that I’m not,” Pearl said as she and Quinn moved past him into the apartment. She might have been joking; Quinn never knew for sure.
Great place, Pearl thought, looking around the living room. Lots of space, high ceilings, new-looking furniture, and the flawlessness of fresh, cream-colored paint. I’ve gotta get painting again in my apartment. The drapes were a pale blue that complemented furniture upholstered a darker blue, where it wasn’t brushed steel. Pearl wasn’t one for the modern look, but this place she could live in.
What she was wondering now was, who died in it?
Nift, the Napoleonic little ME, was standing off to the side in the living room, ignoring a couple of techs dusting everything for prints. As usual, Nift was nattily dressed, this time in a chalk-stripe black suit that would shame Fedderman when he came upstairs. Of course Fedderman wouldn’t notice. Nor would he notice Nift’s white-on-white shirt and improbably lush silk tie. Fedderman bought his ties in drugstores.
“Guy looks like a Wall Street asshole,” Pearl whispered to Quinn as they approached.
Nift had just finished peeling off his rubber gloves. He looked over at Quinn and Pearl and smiled. “Ah, even more detectives.”
“Fill us in,” Quinn said.
“Why? Are you hollowed out?”
“Don’t be such a prick,” Pearl said.
Nift gave her his imperious look, as if to say, yes, the peasants are still revolting. “You gonna report me for insubordination, Sugar Ray?”
“She’s gonna report me,” Quinn said, “for dropping you out a window. Don’t waste our time-do your job and give with what you’ve got.”
Nift grinned at Quinn to let him know he wasn’t afraid. “Didn’t you threaten to do that window thing to me before?”
“Yeah, but you came around.”
Nift appeared unfazed, but he did get cooperative. “Two dead in the kitchen, a Lisa Ide and one Leon Holtzman. Husband and wife, or so I was told by others of your ilk. Leon was stabbed three times, Lisa approximately twenty, many of the wounds in erogenous zones.”
“On both bodies?” Quinn asked.
Nift seemed to consider going smart-mouth again, then changed his mind. “Only on Lisa. Leon got it in the heart, as she did. But he died fast, and my guess is her other stab wounds were inflicted first.”
“The killer enjoyed his work,” Pearl said.
“And who wouldn’t? Anyway, this all seemed to transpire this morning, sometime between two and four o’clock.” Nift absently smoothed his wonderful maroon-and-black tie. Quinn noticed he wore a gold clasp to keep the tie from dangling and getting bloody. “That’s about all I can tell you for sure, until after the postmortem.”
“Any signs they resisted?” Pearl asked.
“To speculate would be playing detective, Detective.”
“Nift, how would you like-”
“There are only a few defensive wounds on the victims’ hands and arms, not as if they put up what you’d describe as a struggle.”
“I’d describe talking to you as a struggle. In fact-”
“Look like the same knife that killed the other married couples?” Quinn interrupted. Sometimes it was difficult to maintain a businesslike atmosphere with Pearl around.
“The Night Prowler’s knife? Yeah, it could have been. Remember, I’ve only done the prelim, so that’s all I can tell you right now.”
“Nift-”
“Let’s go,” Quinn said, gripping Pearl’s elbow and steering her away. After a few steps she jerked her arm out of his grasp and gave him a look he felt bounce off the back of his skull.
They went into the kitchen to examine the carnage.
There was the husband on the floor, dead with his eyes open in suspended surprise. There was the wife about five feet away from him, lying on her back in a bed of blood, with her legs splayed and her bared breasts carved by a madman. Her left nipple was missing. Pearl thought she saw it on the floor near the woman’s hip, but it was difficult to know for sure, the way it was coated with dried blood.
“He’s getting more violent,” Pearl said, feeling bile rise in her throat. Don’t get sick and lose it. Not in front of Quinn. Or Nift. Can’t be weak…
“Check out the table,” Quinn said.
Pearl looked to her left and saw an open milk carton.
She went over and peered closely at it without touching it. “Expiration date’s not for another three days.” She touched the carton lightly now with the inside of her bare wrist. “Room temperature.”
Two detectives who’d been in a back room, apparently the bedroom, entered the kitchen. One was a seriously overweight guy with a shaved head. His partner was a handsome African American in his forties who looked as if he worked out and lived in a health store. They were Egan’s troops.
Quinn and Pearl reached for their shields. “We’re-”
“We know who you are,” the bald one said. He gave Quinn a nasty grin. “I thought you were assigned to juvenile.”
“I’m Lou Jefferson,” said the black cop. “My partner’s Wayne Frist.”
Pearl was giving Frist a dead-eyed look. “We all going to cooperate?” she asked.
Frist looked away as if dismissing her.
“As long as we’re here together,” Jefferson said, “we might as well make nice.”
“We already got the victims’ names,” Quinn said, trying to prime the pump.
“Here’s some more on them.” Jefferson was referring to his notepad. “They owned a jewelry store on Forty- seventh, L and L’s Diamond Emporium. I know it; it’s one of those long, narrow places lined with showcases. They sell mostly diamonds, but also other kinds of gems and jewelry. There are a couple of valuable pieces laying around the apartment, but Wayne and I just finished tossing the bedroom. Nothing seems to have been stolen, but we’ll try to get an inventory from somebody who’ll know.”
“Lou…,” Frist said, sending an angry look Jefferson’s way. Clearly, he thought Jefferson was being too cooperative.
“Anybody see or hear anything suspicious?” Quinn asked.
“We haven’t talked to the neighbors or doorman yet. We just got here about twenty minutes ago.”
