Mister X Part 27

The two men smiled.

Not Pearl.

42.

Joyce House's neighbors didn't provide much help. The crime had taken place behind a locked door and in the privacy of the victim's bedroom. The victim had been gagged. No shot had been fired. No blow had been struck with a blunt instrument. No body had crashed to the floor. Perhaps there had been the snick of blade on bone, but aside from that the sharp knife had done its work in silence.

A woman who lived down the hall from Joyce said she'd noticed Joyce walking on the street near her apartment building with a man a few days ago. But other than saying he was medium height and weight, she couldn't help. It had been raining, and both Joyce and the man had been walking into the downfall, holding their open umbrellas low so their faces were visible only in glimpses.

Other than that brief sighting, none of Joyce's neighbors could recall seeing her with a man.

EMS paramedics had removed the body. The crime scene unit had left, and Joyce's apartment was sealed. Most of the yellow crime-scene tape had been removed, and only one uniformed officer stood watch near the building's entrance. Onlookers had drifted away.

There was nothing more to hold their interest.

Yet when Quinn, Pearl, Fedderman, and Vitali left the building they saw a woman standing very still across the street and staring at them. She was wearing a gray windbreaker and a dark blue baseball cap. Her arms were crossed, and her weight was on one leg. Her att.i.tude was that of someone waiting.

A black car suddenly turned the corner and veered in toward the curb in front of the building.

Mishkin in the unmarked. He'd driven over to the diner where Joyce House had worked and interviewed people there who knew her.

The arrival of the car, and Mishkin getting out, temporarily distracted everyone's attention. When they looked back across the street, the woman was gone.

Vitali said, "s.h.i.t!" and jogged across the street. Pearl followed.

Fedderman began to tag after them, but slowed after a few steps and looked around with his hands on his hips. Sal ran all the way to the end of the block and rounded the corner.

Quinn had looked up and down the street and didn't see much hope for catching up with the woman. There were too many ways she could have gone to lose them.

It didn't take long for Pearl and Fedderman to return.

Sal came back within a few minutes, breathing hard. "Gone like a ghost," he said.

"Our shadow woman?" Mishkin asked.

"Could have been," Quinn said. "If it was just somebody stopping for a moment to gawk, she wouldn't have made herself disappear so soon. It had to be that she didn't want us to catch her."

"More grist for Cindy Sellers's print mill," Pearl said.

"How will she find out-" Mishkin began, then stopped. The others were looking at him. They were hardly going to omit mention of the woman's presence in their report to Renz; they all knew Sellers would get the information from him. Being secretive simply meant to delay the information in making its predictable circuit.

"Maybe we're getting spooked," Pearl said. "People move when you're not looking at them all the time, so that when you glance back they're gone. It's just that we're looking for this woman. We're almost expecting to see her, and maybe that's why we do."

"That didn't look like a mirage Sal was chasing," Quinn said.

"She always wears something so you can't see her face," Fedderman said.

"What was it this time?" Pearl said. "A baseball cap. Some disguise. What? Were we supposed to think she was Derek Jeter?"

"She had the bill pulled down," Fedderman said. "Wore it facing full front and down so her face was in shadow."

"I wear my Mets cap that way when the sun's in my eyes," Pearl said.

"But you were right here with us, so we know it wasn't you," Fedderman said.

Pearl gave him a dead-eyed look. "I hate it when you play dumb, Feds. And it really isn't necessary."

Mishkin smiled slightly, and Vitali gave a gravelly laugh.

Pearl had both hands clenched into fists. Never a good sign.

"What'd you find out at the diner?" Quinn asked Mishkin, getting the conversation on another track that wouldn't lead to a train wreck.

"Everybody loved Joyce," Mishkin said.

"They mention anyone she seemed to love back?"

"No, but it's not the kind of place where the servers mix with the customers except to see they get their food and checks." Mishkin shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. "The owner-operator of the place, a guy named Mick, seems to have a thing about his employees getting too friendly with the customers, like they're going to conspire to steal tidbits from the kitchen."

"So if Joyce and anybody she met at the diner developed a relationship, they might keep it secret so she wouldn't lose her job."

"Which means our killer might be a frequent customer at the diner," Fedderman said. "We should check out the regulars."

"Actually," Quinn said, "I was thinking of anyone who might have stopped stopped eating there." eating there."

"The dog that didn't bark in the night," Pearl said.

Fedderman said, "Dog? Night?"

"Think we should go back there?" Pearl asked, ignoring him.

"For breakfast," Quinn said. "As I recall, Joyce worked the early shift. You and Feds go there tomorrow and have the special on the city. Then talk to the boss and whoever else might have worked some of the same hours as the victim."

Pearl made a face. "Breakfast with Fedderman. Just how I wanna start the day."

"It'll be like a date, Pearl," Fedderman said with mock cheer.

"It'll be like most of your dates," Pearl said. "All you'll get is indigestion."

Quinn glanced around. "Since you're all here, it's a good time to inform you about another development."

And he told them about Erin Keller.

43.

Back at the office, Quinn gave his detectives, including Vitali and Mishkin, the name of Erin's hotel, the Melbourne, and more fully described his meeting with her.

They all listened closely, temporarily forgetting about the heat and the humming and occasionally hammering air conditioner.

They were particularly interested in Erin's reaction to their client's photograph.

"So now we've got two missing women," Sal said. "Chrissie and whoever impersonated Chrissie."

"And they look nothing alike," Fedderman added.

The phone on Quinn's desk rang. He nodded at Pearl, and she picked up the receiver. "Quinn and a.s.sociates."

The phone greeting still didn't sound familiar to Quinn; he'd been too long in the NYPD.

Pearl held the receiver out to him and silently mouthed, Renz. Renz.

"You got anything fresh on House?" Renz asked when Quinn had gotten on the line.

"Nothing that would excite you," Quinn said.

"I had a rush preliminary done on the postmortem. The victim was alive up until the time her throat was slashed. There was plenty of blood on the panties stuffed in her mouth, but it was all hers. CSU found some hairs that might be anybody's. The place had been wiped of prints here and there, where the killer must have touched things. Also there were some glove smudges. There was a wine bottle in the trash. Merlot. No prints on that, and no DNA. Couple of winegla.s.ses in the dishwasher, also clean of prints. Some red wine in the victim's stomach, too. Same as what was left in the bottle. Musta been a party."

"Up to a point," Quinn said.

"Or an edge. We got the hairs, anyway, some of them with follicle attached, so we got DNA samples. We get a suspect and make a match and we might have our killer."

"Getting the suspect is the problem," Quinn said, thinking if the suspect had ever been in Joyce House's apartment at any time before the night of the murder, the hair and DNA match could have come from an earlier visit and not be much in the way of hard evidence.

"Looks like they came home to her place with a bottle of wine-or she already had the bottle there. Then they had drinks, maybe c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s s.e.x, and murder. They musta known each other, had some kind of ongoing relationship."

"If they didn't meet that night. And if she wasn't raped."

"Nift is pretty sure she wasn't raped. Didn't anybody know who she was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g?"

"n.o.body we've found so far," Quinn said. "She might have had some kind of secret relationship."

"A married man?"

"Or somebody where she worked. The guy who runs the place and his employees don't seem likely. But she'd pretend not to know a customer who was a lover. Her boss had a strict policy of not mixing pleasure with business, and that kind of affair might have caused her to lose her job."

"Love will find a way," Renz said. "You checking on the diner's regular customers?"

"We're on it," Quinn said, deciding not to go into detail with Renz.

"It's worth pursuing," Renz said. "Way to go about that is to check and see if any of the regulars suddenly stopped eating there, so if he was banging Joyce House they could keep it a secret."

"Good idea."

"How's our girl Addie Price working out?" Renz asked.

"Fine. She knows her job."

"She came highly recommended. And she's media savvy, too. Listen close to her if she has ideas on how to handle the wolves."

"Wolves like Cindy Sellers?"

"I've got that wolf domesticated," Renz said.

Quinn almost laughed into the phone. He turned his head so Renz wouldn't hear.

"Partly, anyway." Renz might have heard something. "Keep me up on things, Quinn."

Quinn said that he would, and they ended the conversation.

Quinn filled everyone in on what Renz had told him about the postmortem and CSU findings.

"We got diddly s.h.i.t," Vitali said.

"Except for the dog-in-the-night angle," Fedderman said. "That one's worth pursuing."

"That's what Renz said," Quinn told him.

"Now I am worried," Fedderman said.

Two hours later, Fedderman dropped a sheet of copy paper on Quinn's desk. "That dog in the night didn't hunt. The owner and employees said there were three regular customers that recently stopped coming into the diner where Joyce House worked. Two were women. We did an Identi-Kit on the third."

Quinn studied the image the police artist had created from voice description. An average-looking man, short haircut, firm chin, neither too fat nor too thin.

"Make a good spy, wouldn't he?" Fedderman said.

"Yeah. He look familiar to you?"

"Uh-huh. But he's got one of those faces."

"I guess that's it," Quinn said.

"No way to trace him from the diner," Fedderman said. "Mr. n.o.body."