Frenzy

When the killer was safely home in his apartment, he leaned with his back against the closed door and took in the warm and slightly mildewed scent of the place. It made him feel much better, safer, like the cozy and well-concealed nest of an animal. But this nest had cream-colored walls on which classic art was carefully arranged, from chromolithographs to charcoal sketches; candle-glow Vermeers to sun-dappled Rembrandts; sunflowers by Van Gogh to trees by Klimt.

Near a low tan leather sofa in an alcove was a silver art deco nude woman on a pedestal, stretching languidly with both arms raised high, fingertips lightly touching, as is she were about to dive from a high place into deep water. There was a similar pedestal, unused, near the opposite end of the sofa.

What all of this art had in common was that it was part of a display of skillfully produced copies. Quality stuff—just not the real stuff.

The real art, the great art, was elsewhere, much of it in Mexico, and some in Europe. Locked away safe and tight even if it happened by chance to be discovered.

Feeling much better, the killer started to take off his dark raincoat and paused.

There was a hole—large enough to fit his little finger through—in the coat’s waterproofed material. He stared at it, knowing it was a bullet hole. It was actually in the coat’s right hand pocket. His hand darted inside the pocket and found the bulk of the semi-automatic he carried. He felt the coat’s material beneath and beside the gun. No pain. No apparent injury. He explored with his fingers the bottom of the pocket, the i

Think about this.

The bullet must have penetrated Weaver’s apartment door and been deflected when it hit the coat, found its way into the fabric.

It must be here.

But it wasn’t.

When he removed his gun to make his search easier, he felt and then saw the small caliber bullet lodged in the checked wooden handgrip. If it had continued its course, it would have struck him in the hip. Would probably be lodged in bone the way it was stuck in the gun’s grip.

The bullet wasn’t so deformed that a ballistics test wouldn’t have revealed it was fired from Weaver’s gun.

Proof positive that he’d been the man in her apartment.

Enough evidence to hold him while they co

He didn’t feel so much like watching the news now. Instead he went into the European-style kitchen and poured three fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler. Added a cascade of cubes from the stainless steel refrigerator’s growling ice maker.

Holding his drink level, he returned to the living room and stood among the almost real works of the real greats, knowing with a glow of pride that this was only a shadow and reminder of what was his and his alone. Like a woman’s drawer of paste jewelry that emulated what she had that was genuine and valuable.

But like a dog with a rag, his mind kept returning to his recent close call. And to Qui

He sat on the sofa and tried not to conclude that he was shaken, ru

He knew that Qui

38

Qui

The office was stuffy and smelled as if someone had recently snuffed out a cigar. Qui

“The trouble is,” Renz said, “we can’t control how the media will interpret the killer’s try for Weaver.”

“That won’t matter if they don’t find out about it. Nobody actually saw D.O.A. in Weaver’s building, and the bullet hole in the door can be patched before anyone takes a close look at it and figures out what it is.”

“That’s already been done,” Renz said. “We’re lucky.” He held up both hands, palms out. “No, I’ll start over. We’re lucky—but only in a way, for God’s sake—for all the fuss in the media about Wallace.”

Wallace was the young cop who’d been shot and killed on Broadway.

“I know what you mean, Harley. I’m not going to quote you.”

“The Wallace shooting is a tragedy. A gallant officer leaves behind him a wife and two young children.”

“I’m not going to quote you,” Qui

“Yeah,” Renz said. He shook his head. “Poor bastard. And the truth is, he was a good cop.”

“It’s better the media’s singing his praises and squawking about the dangers of Times Square than concentrating on D.O.A.”

“You said it, not me,” Renz said. “It’s a cruel friggin’ world.”

“How’s Weaver holding up?”

“The lady has balls.” Renz patted his breast pocket, as if absently reaching for a cigarette. Or a cigar. “We didn’t make too big a fuss after the attempt on her life. Just a couple of radio cars. The CSU van. Far as we know, the press isn’t in on the deal, doesn’t even know it happened.”

“It should seem that way to the killer,” Qui

“And that’ll drive him nuts. At least according to you and Helen.” Renz did his reaching thing again, this time only brushing a fingertip over his breast pocket. “You really think D.O.A. is starting to crumble?”

“He’s showing signs,” Qui

“The hospitals would tip us to that one.”

“Not if he knows an agreeable doctor. Or if it’s a minor wound and he can treat it himself. A twenty-two slug doesn’t hit like a broadaxe. But it made it through the door and we didn’t find it, so maybe it’s inside the killer.” Qui

Renz held up two crossed fingers.

There were three soft, evenly spaced knocks on his door, more like a signal than a request to enter. Renz said, “Showtime.” He stood up and buttoned his uniform jacket. Smoothed the material with both hands. “These two dead sisters, or cousins, or whatever the hell they are. This family from Ohio. How do you read all that?”

“Not sure,” Qui

“Maybe they’re not family at all. Maybe it’s all bullshit. Like some kind of cult thing. You know, like the Manson Family.”

“It seems that way sometimes.”

Qui

“Hmph. Helen. You believe that psychobabble malarkey?”

“Sometimes,” Qui

Renz held the door open for him.

“Bagpipes,” Renz said. “I’ve heard them so many times at funerals. I can’t listen to them and not think of death.”

“They strike a sad note.”

“Can I drop you someplace in the limo?”

“Wouldn’t seem right,” Qui

“Guess not,” Renz agreed. He shook his head. “Lord Jesus, I hate bagpipes!”