Frenzy

Add to that the fact that this killer was prey that tended to morph into predator. A lot was on the line here.

“What’s Renz?” Larry Fedderman asked, having caught the tail end of Qui

“I think we all know the answer to that,” Pearl said.

Qui

As Qui

“We got doughnuts,” Sal rasped.

Over by the coffee machine, Fedderman said, “We got coffee.”

“We got cholesterol,” Harold said.

Sal glared at him. “Don’t be crass, Harold.”

Pearl said, “Do you have something with cream filling?”

“We did,” Sal said. “Also with chocolate icing. Harold ate it.”

“Why?” Fedderman asked, sounding angry and puzzled. “He’s the one concerned about cholesterol.”

“I’ll compensate at lunch,” Harold said.

“You should have slapped it out of his hand,” Pearl said to Sal.

Qui

Qui

He glanced at his watch. Six minutes after nine. Everyone was here except for Jerry Lido, the Q&A tech whiz, who might be too hungover to struggle out of bed.

Nobody was talking right now, so Qui

“All the girls’ families have been notified,” he said, “at least in time for them not to learn about their daughters’ deaths on the news.”

“Musta been all kinds of hell,” Harold said. He had too much empathy for a cop, and occasionally threw up at crime scenes.

The street door opened, and warm air and exhaust fumes wafted into the office. A car horn honked three times, fast, outside, as if something had drawn the driver’s attention. Or as if to a

Officer Nancy Weaver entered. The NYPD liaison Renz had mentioned.

9

Weaver had worked with Q&A before. She would fit right in, as long as she and Pearl didn’t actually come to blows.

She was an attractive, compactly built brunette in her forties, with a keen intelligence and an overactive libido. She’d gotten the hell beaten out of her on her last go-round with Q&A, but she still had her slightly crooked grin and the same good-to-go glint in her brown eyes. Qui

She was wearing what looked like six-inch heels, a short, tight red skirt, and a form-fitting bowling team shirt lettered DO IT IN THE ALLEY. Dressed for work with the vice squad, Qui

Weaver gri

“Can you actually bowl in that outfit?” Pearl asked.

“When I do,” Weaver said, “it doesn’t matter where the ball goes.”

Qui

“I’ve got the first on-the-scene officers’ written statements here,” Weaver said, “along with their brief initial interviews of hotel guests in adjoining rooms, and potential witnesses.”

Qui

“Enlighten us,” he said.

Weaver moved to a spot near the center of the room. She said, “Grace Geyer, Christy Mathewson, Sheryl Stewart, Dawn Kramer, Lucy Mitchell. And their teacher and guide, Andria Bell.” Weaver looked up from the paper bearing the names. “The victims,” she said. “They seem to have little in common other than that they attend—attended—some academy in Cleveland and were chosen for the trip because of their interest and/or talent in art. Mitchell and Stewart were best friends and shared secrets. Grace Geyer was something of a daredevil and troublemaker. She was on probation—the school’s, not the law’s—and was on the tour primarily because she was the one with the most artistic talent.”

“Figures,” Harold said.

No one asked him why.

“The victims-to-be all checked in without anything unusual happening. Andria Bell asked the concierge down in the lobby about directions to the Museum of Modern Art. That was about it. The girls didn’t raise any hell or cause any trouble or play music too loud. The only other hotel guest who even recalls seeing them was a woman on the same floor, a writer named Lettie Soho—small h—down the hall about four rooms. She happened to take an elevator up from the lobby with them and saw them all go into their room. Everything seemed normal, she said. There were some giggles in the elevator. One of the girls poked another in the ribs. Their teacher tour guide gave them a look. Then they went out, and while Soho was trying to get her card key to work, she watched them all file into their suite. This was on the day of the crime, approximately an hour before they were killed. When Soho went down to the hotel restaurant for di

The Q&A detectives were silent and leaned slightly toward Weaver.

“Probably he was the killer,” Weaver said. “Soho didn’t get a good look at him before he went into the suite and the door closed.”

“But the uniforms got what Soho had to give. Some kind of description.”

“Yeah,” Weaver said. “Average size and build, but maybe taller or shorter. Hair brown or black, cut short or medium. Eyes maybe dark, or possibly blue. Wearing gray pants or maybe jeans. White or blue shirt. Possibly a tie, yellow or brown. Age, somewhere between late twenties, mid- or late forties.”