John Lutz Bundle (53 page)

“It somehow makes the murder more intimate,” Renz said.

He unmistakably winked at Pearl before he glanced around. It was the first time he’d been in the office space the city had rented for Quinn and his team, and he was obviously thrown by the idea of the place as an ersatz squad room. It looked more like the scene of a boiler room operation that had folded only minutes before the police arrived.

Zzzziiiiiiiiiii,
went a drill at Nothing but the Tooth.

Renz winced.

“Murder itself is as intimate as it gets,” Quinn said. “The fact that the killer displayed some of the victim’s pubic hair after dismembering the body doesn’t make it any worse.”

“No,” Pearl said, “Deputy Chief Renz is right. There’s something especially intimate about that kind of thing that gets to people—especially women. But men, too, if they have any sensitivity.” She was perched on the edge of her desk, where she could usually be found instead of in her chair.

Quinn gave her a dark look from behind his desk. Was she ticked off at him over something? And Renz was at least sensitive enough to know he was being played.

But Renz was smiling; Pearl was playing his game. “Officer Kasner has it figured right, Quinn. That’s why the chief and the commissioner and everybody who ever so much as ran for office in New York is on my ass.”

“Which is why you’re here,” Quinn said.

“Yep. Pass the potato. You and your team have gotta start showing some results, or the entire NYPD will be in so much deep shit with the pols it’ll be traded for Boston’s police department.”

“Or Mayberry’s,” Fedderman said. Pearl figured he must have seen Renz’s earlier wink.

Renz grinned. “I like that. Your team’s at least got a sense of humor, Quinn. Like a lot of losers, they’ve learned to laugh at themselves.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Quinn said.

Now Renz was laughing. They were all laughing. Oh, it was a jolly world.

Renz wiped his eyes. “I was told by the chief to come here and shake a knot in your tail. I’m going easy because I know how it is, how clean this bastard works, so there’s nothing you can grasp that doesn’t slide right outta your mind. All I’m saying is, remember who hired you. We’re working together while you’re working for me.”

“And we
are
working,” Pearl said, having lost track of who was doing the kidding.

“And hard,” Fedderman added.

“Don’t I know it?” Renz said. “This visit is just a political necessity.” He studied Quinn. “So what ails you? Have a bad night?”

“Real bad,” Quinn said. He wondered if Renz would have a sense of humor if he had Lauri for a daughter.

“Anything I can help with?” Renz asked sincerely, probably putting on Quinn again.

“No. It’s family stuff. Kinda thing you’ve gotta shake off so you can get to work.”

“So I was about to say,” Renz told him.

There was a sudden, muffled yelp.

Renz appeared startled. “What the hell was that?”

“Could be a root canal,” Quinn said. “At the dental clinic on the other side of the building. That was the drilling you heard earlier.”

“Ah. I thought maybe the Butcher was killing somebody right next door. Just the sort of thing he’d do to make us look bad.”

“Different kinda sadist over there,” Fedderman said, smiling with bad teeth.

Renz looked around again at the cluster of desks and workstations, the walls that were bare except for occasional nails or screws and clean rectangles where frames had been hung, the hardwood floor with clumps of tangled wiring jutting up from of it. “Place is a minefield. What happens if you step on one of those wiring masses? You get zapped?”

“Maybe,” Pearl said.

Renz hitched his belt up over his belly and glanced down to make sure the drape of his pants was right. Quinn knew it was a sign he was about to leave.

Renz said, “Well, you people can consider yourself chewed out. Far as the chief knows, that’s what happened here this morning.”

“Thanks,” Pearl said. She thought somebody should say it so Renz would leave believing his line of crap had been a sale.

Renz nodded to her, let his gaze slide over Quinn and Fedderman, then turned and went out the door.

“Man’s some piece of work,” Pearl said.

“Piece of something,” Fedderman said. He got up from behind his desk and sauntered across the minefield to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Pearl waited until he was out of earshot. “What kind of family problem?” she asked Quinn.

“The Lauri kind.”

She looked simultaneously sympathetic and amused. “From what I know of her, which is very little, she seems like a nice kid.”

“She is. And a naïve one. She’s got some misconceptions that I’m afraid make her vulnerable.”

“We talking about a boyfriend?”

“If you can call him that.”

“Well, I think I understand the situation. She’s probably not as naïve and vulnerable as you imagine, Quinn.”

“That’s what I’d like you to find out.”

Pearl raised her vivid eyebrows in surprise. She wasn’t sure what to think of this. Family was sticky.

God! I really should call my mother, after hanging up on her the way I did.

“Just meet and talk with her,” Quinn implored. “Get to know her a little. She might tell another female stuff she wouldn’t tell her father.”

“Oh, she might,” Pearl said. What must it be like to have Quinn for a father?

“Will you do that, Pearl?”

“Sure.” But she knew from the expression on Quinn’s face that she hadn’t sounded sufficiently enthusiastic.

They both fell silent as Fedderman returned with his coffee.

“Mayberry,” Fedderman said thoughtfully. “Things
are
quieter there. Remember Floyd the barber?”

“What you both oughta know,” Quinn said, “is that Renz isn’t to be taken lightly just because he’s talking like he’s one of us. He’ll act all buddy-buddy, but he’ll jam us up in a minute if it’ll help him get promoted.”

“We know it,” Pearl said. “We were only putting you on, Quinn.”

“Still,” Fedderman said, “Mayberry…”

“New York,” Quinn said. “Marilyn Nelson was the second
N,
but that doesn’t mean she was the final victim.”

Searching the weeds again. That was what Quinn called it, and that was what Pearl was doing here in Marilyn Nelson’s modest West Side apartment that still held the disinfected scent of death. Searching the weeds again. Hoping to find something, anything of use, on ground already covered.

Pearl walked around slowly in a second, more careful search of the apartment, paying closer attention. It was cheaply but tastefully decorated. Probably Marilyn Nelson had thought she earned a pretty good salary but found out it didn’t go far in Manhattan. The bedroom closet contained some interchangeable black outfits—Marilyn catching on—and some great outdoorsy-looking items. They would have suggested Marilyn was a hiker or rock climber, if Pearl didn’t know she worked for a clothing chain, and the rough-textured, riveted clothing and heavy boots were more for style than hard use.

There was nothing noteworthy in the refrigerator—an unopened bottle of orange juice, some leftover pizza in a takeout box, a half-gallon carton of milk well past its expiration date and almost empty, some bagged and sealed lettuce for salads on the go, the usual condiments. Pearl leaned close and breathed in some of the cool air before closing the refrigerator door.

Nothing new in the bedroom, either, but she went through drawers and the closet, even checked between the mattress and box spring, making sure a Dial In cell phone vibrator hadn’t been overlooked. It would have been nice to tie Marilyn Nelson in with two of the other victims. Tidy. Clean. Pearl swallowed. Clean was beginning to seem like a nasty word to her.

She made herself spend more time in the bathroom than was necessary, as if testing herself. The gleaming old porcelain tub was to her more disgusting than if it had been stained with the victim’s blood.

Sickened, she left the bathroom, then quickly made her way through the hall and living room toward the door. She would replace the yellow crime scene tape she’d untied from the doorknob, then get back out into the fresh air and the wider world where death wasn’t so near.

After a last, sad glance around the living room, she opened the door to the hall.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Bocanne, Florida, 1980

Sherman was dreaming, and suddenly he was awake and unable to recall the dream.

It had frightened him, though. He was drenched in sweat, and his heart was pounding in his ears, the loudest thing in the night other than the buzz of insects in the nearby swamp.

Then the voices.
Like the ones in the dream.
Sam’s deep voice, and Sherman’s mother’s. His was calm; hers higher-pitched, faster-paced. It sounded as if Sam and Myrna were arguing in the bedroom down the hall, where they slept in the sagging double bed. Sherman’s body grew rigid and he realized he was squeezing his thumbs in his clenched fists, a habit he’d pretty much gotten over since Sam arrived.

There was a sound that might have been a slap. Flesh on flesh—hard.

Sherman’s grip on his thumbs tightened so that they ached.

His mother’s voice, then, much louder. Even though Sherman couldn’t make out the words, he was sure she was furious, cursing at Sam.

Sam’s voice was softer but not as calm, as if he didn’t want to wake Sherman, trying to get Myrna to regain control of herself. Another slap. Then another, terrible sound Sherman had never heard. He was sure his mother was weeping.

Sam again, speaking angrily but softly, in that slow, reasoned tone he used when patiently teaching Sherman to fish or telling him something interesting about the Civil War.

There was a war going on in his mother’s bedroom, Sherman thought. One he wanted no part of.

He lay motionless for a long time, waiting for more noise from the bedroom down the hall, but there was only the buzzing of the swamp in the night. He could smell the swamp through his open screened window, the rotting death scent of it, the fear and the fight of it within its lush green beauty. Thousands of cicadas were screaming now; Sam had told Sherman it was their mating call. It sounded desperate. Amidst the shrillness came a faint splashing and a deep, primal grunt. Something moving in the blackness not far away from the house. Not far away at all.

In the bedroom down the hall there was only silence.

The next morning, Sherman thought he was first up, but when he padded barefoot down the hall, there was his mom in the kitchen. She was lighting the butane stove to cook some eggs that were lying on the sink counter. Her hair was wild and there was a thoughtful expression on her face, but she didn’t look upset. She had on her old pink robe, its sash yanked tight around her narrow waist. Like her son, she was barefoot, the way she liked to be most of the time. Her toenails were painted red and one of them looked broken and as if it had been bleeding.

Sherman didn’t think she’d seen him. He changed direction and trudged toward the bathroom, seeing through the inch-wide crack where his mother’s bedroom door was open. There was Sam’s bare lower leg and foot on the bed. He must still be asleep.

Sherman thought that maybe last night—everything he’d heard—had been a dream. It was possible. Dreams and reality sometimes met and became entangled in his mind.

He urinated and then flushed the leaking old toilet so it would drain to the septic tank buried alongside the house. The washbasin’s ancient faucet handles squealed when he rotated them. He washed his hands and dried them carefully before leaving the bathroom.

The plank floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he returned to the kitchen. He noticed that now his mother’s bedroom door was closed all the way. He slowed so he might try the knob, see if it was locked.

“You want some eggs?” she asked.

“Toast is all,” Sherman said, picking up his pace.

“You go get some pants on first.”

Sherman was wearing only his Jockey shorts. He nodded and went back to his bedroom and put on his jeans. The morning was already hot and humid. He tried wrestling back into the T-shirt he’d worn yesterday, but it stuck to his damp skin so that it was difficult to pull down in back. He peeled it off and tossed it on the floor, then went shirtless back to the kitchen, this time not pausing near his mother’s bedroom door.

There was a slice of buttered toast and a glass of milk where Sherman always sat at the table. His mother was being nice to him this morning; usually he prepared his own breakfast.

She’d cooked up some eggs for herself. Now she used the rubber spatula to slide them onto a plate. Next to them she plopped down the second slice of toast from the old toaster.

Without speaking to or looking at Sherman, she sat down across from him at the table and began to eat.

“Sleep okay?” she asked, through a bite of egg she’d forked into her mouth.

“Always do.” Sherman took a big bite of toast.

“You’re young and you got no troubles,” she said, smiling.

“Got some.”

“Yeah, I guess ever’body does.”

They continued to eat, not looking at each other.

Then Sherman became aware that he was the only one eating.

His mother slowly raised her fork with a bite of egg halfway to her mouth, then set it back down on her plate. The expression on her face changed, like she was aging right in front of Sherman. She slid her chair back with a loud scraping sound, stood up from the table, and hurried into the bathroom.

She hadn’t even taken time to shut the door. Sherman could hear her retching in there.

Absently carrying what was left of his toast, he got up and walked to where he could see into the bathroom.

His mother was kneeling on the tile floor, her head hung over the yellowed porcelain toilet bowl so that some of her long brown hair dangled down into the water. Her face was as pale as Sherman had ever seen it.

She made a horrible grunting sound like the one Sherman had heard last night from the swamp, then retched and vomited into the toilet bowl. Sherman saw that a lot of what she was bringing up was blood. There was a smear of blood on the floor near her broken toenail.

So last night had been real, not a nightmare. There’d been a fight for sure. At least it had sounded like a fight.

Sherman moved closer to the open door, still staring into the bathroom.

“Mom…?”

“G’way!”

“You want me to wake up Sam?”

“Let him sleep,” said Sherman’s mother into the yellowed bowl.

She stayed the way she was, kneeling and staring into the toilet, for a long time. Sherman didn’t move, either.

Finally his mother reached up and worked the lever to flush the bowl. She scooted back away from it, lowered the wooden seat, and swiped the arm of her robe across her mouth.

“You okay, Mom?”

“Gonna be. Gotta be.”

She twisted her body to the side, then reached up and used the washbasin for support to haul herself back to her feet. Her breathing was deep and loud. Leaning with both arms on the basin, she looked into the medicine cabinet mirror, then quickly looked away.

The faucet handles squealed.

For a long time Myrna stood hunched over and holding her wrists beneath cool running water. This wasn’t like her because, as she often reminded Sherman, there was a limited amount, mostly rainwater, in the holding tank, and the pump water smelled bad and was unfit for washing or drinking.

Finally she turned off the water and looked over at Sherman. It gave him a chill, the way her eyes were, so sad and at the same time…something else. Something that frightened him.

“You and Sam were goin’ fishin’, as I recall.”

“Yes’m.” He couldn’t look away from her eyes.

“You go ahead, and he’ll meet you when he’s been up and had some breakfast.”

Her eyes.

Sherman didn’t move.

“Sam know how to find you?”

“Yes’m. We been goin’ to the same place.”

“Then you go on, Sherman. Sam’ll be along. You take your toast with you.”

Sherman took one hesitant step. Two. Her stare was like heat on his bare back.

“Sam’ll be along,” his mother said again.

Sherman could feel her eyes following him as he went out onto the porch, munching the last of his toast. He brushed his hands together to get rid of the crumbs and wiped his buttery fingers on his jeans.

He reached for the fly rod Sam had been letting him use, but on second thought took his old bamboo pole from where it was leaning against the house. It was already rigged with a line, bobber, and hook, and he could find some worms or bug bait where he’d be fishing. Let Sam use the rod and reel and colorful fly bait this morning.

Sherman went to where they’d been having luck lately, near the gnarled and twined roots of an ancient banyan tree, and sure enough he had no trouble finding worms in the moist soil.

But his luck didn’t hold. The fish weren’t biting this morning.

Sherman listened to the muted sounds of the swamp, thinking he could almost hear things growing. A mosquito buzzed very near. Hundreds of gnats glittered in the light and lent motion to a slanted sunbeam. There was no breeze, and yet foliage rustled. He watched water spiders adroitly traverse the dark surface near the shore, saw a brown-and-gray moth the size of his hand flutter into the dappled shadows beneath the trees.

He stayed there a long time, standing in the shade and staring into the water at his cork that never bobbed in any way meaningful, looking into the dark ripples, thinking about his mother’s eyes, waiting for Sam, hoping Sam would show up grinning with his rod and reel balanced and resting easy in his right hand, knowing he probably wouldn’t.

Thinking about his mother’s eyes.