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“Why do you ask?” Qui
“We ain’t got a lot of Mi
“Subject them to her for a little while,” Qui
Ozzie went “Ummm,” which he always did when he was thinking.
“This about those murdered women and that Gremlin nutcase?” he asked.
“We’re trying to find that out,” Qui
“Okay, then. Long as you let me autograph some baseballs. I can sign them Ossie Snith—keep it legal.”
“Of course, as long as the photos are genuine.”
“Today we’re going to interview a real serial killer,” Mi
The Mi
Not yet, the Gremlin told himself. When the time came, there would be plenty of cameras aimed at him.
Almost, but not quite yet.
Mi
And the audience was silent.
The phone made the weird sound again. She looked at the audience, gave them an even bigger smile, and lifted the receiver with both anxious hands.
Smiling yet wider, the phone pressed to her ear, she nodded over and over, as if trying to shake off her smile.
This was great. This was wonderful! She mouthed the word “Gremlin” several times, her sparkling dark eyes sca
She was talking to a killer.
30
Qui
Mi
“First of all,” Mi
“Let’s not waste time talking about that.”
“Do you object to me referring to you that way—the Gremlin?”
“If you can hear a shrug on the phone, you just did,” the Gremlin said. His voice was male and strong, not what one might expect from a man described as resembling a destructive elf or leprechaun.
“And why did you want to talk with me, personally, rather than another journalist?”
“I’m interested in reaching your audience through you.”
“And the reason for that?”
“I don’t mind tales being told about me, as long as they’re based at least in part on the truth.”
“Do you think lies have been told?”
“You might call them selective editing. I call them lies.”
“Such as?” Mi
“That I’m angry, violent, and vicious,” the Gremlin said, “and trying to get back at someone. Or that I’m on some kind of crusade. Or that I’m seriously mentally unbalanced.”
“Are you saying you’re none of those things?”
For several seconds there was only the sound of heavy breathing. Then what might have been a whimper. “I’m wondering how you get into the club they call the human race.”
Mi
“I’m not selling bananas. Or anything else. I’m just looking for the truth. For someone who won’t lie to me.”
“Well. You found her. The language spoken here is the liberating, sometimes uncomfortable truth.”
“It wasn’t my fault those people died.”
“Which people?”
“The women who rejected me. The men who betrayed me.”
“Did you even know those people?”
“I knew all of them, because they’re all the same.”
“Like the people in the fire, and in the elevator?”
“All the same.”
“But why did you kill them?”
“So I might better understand them.”
“Are you saying that’s why you killed all those people in the elevator—so you could better understand them?”
“Not the people. The elevator.” Another pause. “The people, too, though.”
Mi
“You shouldn’t say those things about me.”
“I promised I’d tell you the truth.”
“That didn’t mean anything.”
“It most certainly did.”
“How do you make your living?” Mi
“Of course I do. Robbing from the rich and giving to myself. And I enjoy the agony and acquiescence my profession entails.”
“Robbing the dead. You must know how perverse that is. You need help.”
“You mean someone to hold their finger on the knots while I pull them tight?”
“I can give you some names and phone numbers,” Mi
“I can’t trust you.”
“You can, you can.”
“Are you trying to keep me on the line long enough so the police can trace my call?”
“Of course not.”
“See?”
Qui
Ten minutes later, Renz called. “It was a drugstore throwaway phone,” he told Qui
“We can’t be sure of that.”
“Sure we can,” Renz said. “I can tell stories two different ways, then later on I can take my pick. Fall back on the one that’s the best fit. No one remembers what other people say, anyway.”
“Cops do,” Qui
“Not if they don’t remember they’ve forgotten something.”
Qui
“Not us. Not cops.”
“Even cops.”
“But how would we know?”
“We’d find out,” Qui
31
Betty Lincoln and Macy Adams looked like Broadway dancers. Both of them, from time to time, had come close. They were wearing tight designer jeans, pullover tops, and flat-soled, comfortable-looking shoes. Not shoes to dance in, but to give their feet a rest. Betty and Macy waited patiently for their shrimp salads and iced tea. Each woman was small, with a tight body, flat abdomen, large muscular buttocks and calves. Betty was blond and had a turned-up nose. Macy had dark hair and a Mediterranean profile. They moved with a kind of grace and power that drew the eye, even when they simply crossed the Liner Diner to the booths beyond the counter.