Frenzy

Pearl smelled something all too familiar. Faint, but definitely there.

“Watch where you step and what you touch,” Qui

Pearl could see beyond him a huddled form on a dining room floor.

“Lucille De

“No doubt,” Pearl said.

“Somebody must have answered her ad.”

“A dissatisfied customer.”

Qui

“Careful not to step in any blood,” Qui

Pearl moved closer to the body so she could see the dead woman’s forehead. The letters D.O.A. were there. They looked like the letters found carved on the earlier victims.

Qui

Pearl moved carefully around the perimeter of the room, past a dark mahogany china cabinet, and saw half a dozen jagged pieces of ceramic on the floor. She fitted them together in her mind and came up with what looked like the head and torso of a bare-breasted woman who might have been Bellezza.

If the bust had been marble instead of ceramic.

Or had ever been touched by Michelangelo.

The classified ad in the Teaneck newspaper had obviously sent someone on a futile mission. Qui

“Do you think she really figured she might sell that thing to some naïf?” Pearl asked.

“Maybe to one out of twenty,” Qui

Pearl could only shake her head.

“What’s the percentage of hardcore addicts who get sick or die because of poison they thought was coke or heroin?” Qui

“Could be one out of twenty,” Pearl said.

“And the one out of twenty here might have been the first caller,” Qui

Which made Pearl glance around uneasily, as if fate were creeping up on her.

“I checked,” Qui

“What strikes me,” Pearl said, “is that he’d be too wily even to inquire about that obviously imitation piece of junk.”

“It served its purpose,” Qui

“Which is?”

“To get us wasting time standing here talking and thinking about Lucille De

“Not motive enough.”

“Spooking us into thinking he could be going interstate again.”

“Still not enough.”

“And to demonstrate how powerful he is.”

“Motive enough,” Pearl said.

Qui

Then he called Mi

Qui

“Might slow her down” Qui

“Pearl? Detective Qui

Jesse’s voice. It sounded as if she had her head stuck inside the open front door.

“Better stay where you are, dear,” Qui

But she didn’t. Curiosity and concern for her aunt Lucille prompted her to enter the house. Pearl heard her coming and tried to head her off but failed. Jesse saw what was on the dining room floor.

And would have nightmares the rest of her life.

64

The killer parked behind a black SUV, diagonally across the street from the Far Castle. He was driving his old gray BMW. The car was a plain four-door model, and because it was a luxury car, so often had its styling been mimicked that it was a vehicle that drew little attention. It looked at a glance like a million other cars in Manhattan. At the same time, it was very fast. The killer valued anonymity and speed. Who knew when one or both would be needed?

He lowered the windows and switched off the engine and air conditioner. The radio was tuned softly to classical music, Holst’s “Jupiter.” One of the killer’s favorites.

Where he’d parked put him in a perfect position to observe diners at the restaurant’s crowded outside tables. He could also see people come and go.

He’d done this kind of surveillance before, but now he knew who he was looking for. The server Mi

The killer was by now familiar with all the food servers, and he was interested in the most recently hired, a blond woman in her forties. Quite attractive. His trained eye had become suspicious the first time he’d seen her. She looked her part as a Medieval serving wench and seemed to play it with gusto. More gusto, in fact, than skill at her job. Serving food wasn’t quite her thing, the first couple of times he’d observed her. Then she became more adept, less often accidentally knocking over water glasses, or stepping on diners’ toes, a quick study adjusting to her role. An adjustable wench.

The killer had to smile at his own cleverness. Perhaps he’d share the pun with his victim, at the proper time.

Then there was the evening when he was watching and the blond waitress had spoken briefly with Qui

So the woman was obviously a plant. The killer didn’t jump to that conclusion, but it took only a few more days to erase most of his doubts. The restaurant’s owner and wa

With a little more investigation and a pair of binoculars he recognized her. Nancy Weaver. The one who almost got him.

What was she doing at the restaurant? Had she made the co

At first the killer hadn’t been interested in anything but playing out his deadly game with Qui

The talkative Grace Geyer had piqued his interest at the museum. Grace had led him to question Andria Bell in the Fairchild Hotel at knifepoint and with fire. Andria couldn’t have lied to him. Not deliberately. But how much of what she’d told him was fact, he couldn’t be sure. He could be sure that she believed everything she’d told him.

And he’d be sure Weaver would speak the truth. She would tell him what she knew, what the NYPD knew, what Qui