Night Kills

Book 0: Frank Quinn Novel

by John Lutz

Genres: Crime Fiction; Hard-Boiled; Private Investigators

Synopsis

ON THE TRAIL OF A BLOODY KILLER…
Frank Quinn is sure he is hunting for a madman: someone who is shooting young women in the heart, defiling their bodies, leaving only the torsos to be found. Quinn, a former NYPD detective, is called into the case by an ambitious chief of police and mobilizes his team of brilliant law-enforcement misfits. But in the concrete canyons of New York, this shocking serial murder case is turning into something very different...

A COP AND A VICTIM FIGHT BACK...
Jill Clark came to the city with too many hopes and too little cash. Now a seemingly deranged woman is telling her an extraordinary story. New to an exclusive dating service, Jill is warned that other women have died on their dates-and that she could be next. Struggling against a death trap closing in around her, Jill has a powerful ally in Frank Quinn. But no one knows the true motives behind a rampage of cold-blooded murder-or how much more terrifying this is going to get…


From the Compact Disc edition.

Release date: May 21, 2010

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 480

Sample

“Brilliant…a very scary and suspenseful read.”

—Booklist on In for the Kill

“Lutz has a thorough command of plot and character, making this another enthralling page-turner.”

—Publishers Weekly on In for the Kill

“Lutz can deliver a hard-boiled p.i. novel or a bloody thriller with equal ease…. The ingenuity of the plot shows that Lutz is in rare form.”

—The New York Times Book Review on Chill of Night

“Lutz keeps the suspense high and populates his story with a collection of unique characters…an ideal beach read.”

—Publishers Weekly on Chill of Night

“John Lutz knows how to make you shiver.”

—Harlan Coben

“John Lutz is one of the masters of the police novel.”

—Ridley Pearson

“A major talent.”

—John Lescroart

“I’ve been a fan for years.”

—T. Jefferson Parker

“John Lutz just keeps getting better and better.”

—Tony Hillerman

“Lutz ranks with such vintage masters of big-city murder as Lawrence Block and the late Ed McBain.”

—St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“Lutz is among the best.”

—San Diego Union

“Lutz juggles multiple storylines with such mastery that it’s easy to see how he won so many mystery awards. Darker Than Night is a can’t-put-it-down thriller, beautifully paced and executed, with enough twists and turns to keep it from ever getting too predictable.”

—reviewingtheevidence.com

“Readers will believe that they just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl after reading this action-packed police procedural…. John Lutz places Serpico in a serial killer venue with his blue knights still after him.”

—The Midwest Book Review on Darker Than Night

“John Lutz knows how to ratchet up the terror…. [He]propels the story with effective twists and a fast pace.”

—Sun-Sentinel (Ft. Lauderdale, FL) on The Night Spider

“Compelling…a gritty psychological thriller…Lutz’s details concerning police procedure, firefighting techniques, and FDNY policy ring true, and his clever use of flashbacks draws the reader deep into the killer’s troubled psyche.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Night Watcher

“John Lutz is the new Lawrence Sanders. The Night Watcher is a very smooth and civilized novel about a very uncivilized snuff artist, told with passion, wit, carnality, and relentless vigor. I loved it.”

—Ed Gorman in Mystery Scene

“A gripping thriller…extremely taut scenes, great descriptions, nicely depicted supporting players…Lutz is good with characterization.”

—reviewingtheevidence.com on The Night Watcher

“For a good scare and a well-paced story, Lutz delivers.”

—San Antonio Express News

“Lutz knows how to seize and hold the reader’s imagination.”

—Cleveland Plain Dealer

“SWF Seeks Same is a complex, riveting, and chilling portrayal of urban terror, as well as a wonderful novel of New York City. Echoes of Rosemary’s Baby, but this one’s scarier because it could happen.”

—Jonathan Kellerman

“Lutz is a fine craftsman.”

—Booklist on The Ex

“A psychological thriller that few readers will be able to put down.”

—Publishers Weekly on SWF Seeks Same

“Tense and relentless.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Torch

“The author has the ability to capture his readers with fear, and has compiled a myriad of frightful chapters that captures and holds until the final sentence.”

—New Orleans Times-Picayune on Bonegrinder

“Likable protagonists in a complex thriller.”

—Booklist on Final Seconds

“Lutz is rapidly bleeding critics dry of superlatives.”

—St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“It’s easy to see why he’s won an Edgar and two Shamuses.”

—Publishers Weekly

Retired homicide detective Frank Quinn was having strong black coffee after his breakfast at the Lotus Diner on Amsterdam when a saggy-jowled man who looked like a well-tailored bloodhound sat down opposite him.

“I know I’m late,” the bloodhound growled.

“How so?” Quinn asked, sipping his coffee.

“If it were up to you, I’d have been here much sooner.”

Quinn didn’t answer. Overconfident people bored him.

The two men were almost exact opposites. The bloodhound, who was New York Police Commissioner Harley Renz, was not only saggy jowled but saggy bodied. He’d put on about forty pounds in the past few years, and the expensive chalk-stripe blue suit didn’t disguise it as workable muscle. All vertical stripes did for Renz was zigzag.

Quinn, on the other hand, was tall and rangy, with a firm jaw, a nose broken once too often, and disconcerting flat green eyes. His straight, gray-flecked dark hair was cut short, and recently, but, as always, looked as if a barber should shape it to suit a human head. If Renz was the bloodhound, there was something of the wolf in Quinn.

“You’re glad to see me,” Renz went on, “because you don’t like rotting in retirement at the age of fifty-five.”

Thel the waitress came over and Quinn said, “A coffee for my antagonist.”

“I haven’t had breakfast,” Renz said. “I’ll have a waffle, too. Diet syrup.”

“Stuff tastes like tree sap,” Thel said. She was a dumpy, middle-aged woman who’d never been pretty, so substituted being frank. It worked pretty well for her.

“The real stuff, then,” Renz said, grateful to be nudged off his diet.

Quinn listened for a moment to Upper West Side traffic flowing past on Amsterdam. Somebody just outside shouted an obscenity. Somebody leaned on a car horn and shouted back. New York.

“I’m rotting fast,” he said. “Why don’t you get to the point?”

“Sure. I need you and your team again.”

Quinn and the two detectives Renz had assigned to him on his last case had become media darlings by tracking down a serial killer aptly called the Butcher. Their success had also resulted in Renz’s swift climb up the promotional ladder to commissioner. He was, in fact, one of the most popular commissioners the city had ever known. In New York that meant he could do just about as he pleased, including yanking three detectives temporarily back into the NYPD as long as they were willing. He knew Quinn would be willing. And if Quinn was willing, so would be his two detectives. Like Renz, Quinn was a hard man to refuse.

“Why do you need us?”

Renz smiled. Still looked like a bloodhound. “In this city, Quinn, you’re Mister Serial Killer.”

“I’m not sure I like the way you put that.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Last time we went to work for you, you got promoted all the way to commissioner.”

“And you got your good name back and became a big hero. There’s something in this for both of us, Quinn. This for that. Tit for tat. That’s how the world works.”

“Your world.”

“Well, that’s the one I live in.”

“What’s next for you, Harley, mayor?”

Renz shrugged. “Who knows?” He seemed serious. Quinn couldn’t see Harley as mayor. But then he hadn’t been able to see him as police commissioner, and there he sat. Police commissioner.

“What are the terms?” Quinn asked.

“Work for hire. It won’t interfere with your settlement or interrupt your retirement pay.”

Quinn wasn’t worried about the pay. Soon after the Night Prowler case, he’d gotten a large settlement from the city after having been falsely accused of raping a fourteen-year-old girl. Another cop had done it, and Quinn proved it. There was noplace Quinn could go to get his reputation back, so he settled for enough money to pay his attorneys and support himself comfortably with or without his pension.

“If I’m going to do it,” he said, “it’s got to interest me.”

“Oh, it will.”

Thel came over with Renz’s coffee and waffle, and maple syrup in a container that looked like one of those little liquor bottles the airlines give you.

“This,” Thel said, tapping the bottle’s cap with a chipped, red-enameled nail, “is good stuff. Straight from the tree.”

“I believe you, sweetheart,” Renz said.

When she’d walked away, he slathered his waffle with butter, then poured the little bottle’s entire contents over it.

“We’ve got us a serial killer,” he said to Quinn, “but the media’s not onto it yet. Except for Cindy Sellers, who’s sitting on it.”

“How many victims?”

“Two women.”

“Doesn’t sound like enough to make a serial killer.”

“They were both killed in identical, distinctive ways.”

“Then you have the bodies.”

It wasn’t a question. Renz picked up knife and fork and attacked his breakfast. “Parts of them,” he said. “Well, that’s not quite accurate,” he amended through a mouthful of waffle. “We’ve got just their torsos.”

He swallowed, then smacked his lips together in appreciation. “This stuff is yummy.”

Which seemed a strange thing for a bloodhound to say, especially one who was police commissioner, but there it was.

 

Thel sashayed over with some more coffee immediately when Renz had forked in his last bite of waffle, probably because he’d called her sweetheart.

She returned to behind the counter.

“Shot with the same gun,” Renz said, pushing away his empty plate. He dipped a finger into the residue of syrup and licked, then took a sip of coffee. Not in a rush. Relishing his tale. “Twenty-two-caliber hollow point, through the heart.”

“Small gun.”

“Big enough. The M.E. says the wounds were fatal, but the victims might have taken a while to die. Could be they were finished off with shots to the head. Not having the heads, we wouldn’t know.”

“Professional?”

“Nah. Pro wouldn’t go to all the trouble of dismembering the bodies.”

Quinn figured that was true. Then he cautioned himself not to come to any conclusions so soon.

“The other thing,” Renz said, “is that both women were sexually violated by a long, sharply pointed instrument. Not a knife, more like a stake.”

“Tell me that happened after they died,” Quinn said.

“It did according to Nift.” Nift was Dr. Julius Nift, a skillful but verbally brutal medical examiner. “Nift seemed disappointed by this glimmer of mercy in the killer.”

“More like convenience,” Quinn said. “Easier to bring down a victim with a bullet before going to work with a sharp instrument.”

“That’s why you the man,” Renz said. “You can slip right into the minds of these sick creeps.”

“Into yours, too.”

“You figure he does that thing with the sharp stake or whatever ’cause he can’t get it up?”

“There you go.”

Renz licked some more syrup off a finger and smiled at Quinn. “So whaddya say?”

“We’re on,” Quinn said. “I’ll call Feds and Pearl.”

Feds was retired homicide detective Larry Fedderman.

Pearl was…well, Pearl.

And that could be a problem.

Pearl was short and curvaceous, buxom, and even in her gray uniform looked almost too vivid to be real. Perfect pale complexion. Black, black hair and eyes. White, white perfectly even large teeth. And there was a kind of energy about her that seemed as if it might attract paper clips if she got close to them.

She watched the man over at the table where the deposit and withdrawal slips were filled out. He seemed to be taking a long time filling out whichever he’d chosen, and he kept glancing around the bank.

Sixth National Bank was an older institution and boasted lots of marble, walnut paneling, and polished brass. Behind the long row of tellers’ cages the great vault’s open door was visible, like the entrance to the nineteenth century. This was the kind of bank where if anything changed it was with the slowness of molasses dripping on a cold day, and you just knew your money was safe.

Pearl liked being a bank guard at Sixth National. It was like a relaxed version of being a cop. The uniform might be gray instead of blue, but it was a uniform. You spent a lot of time on your feet, and many of the required skills were the same. If only the pay were better. But she wasn’t complaining. She’d probably never remove the gun on her hip from its holster. Even if one of these days somebody like the dork at the walnut writing table really was casing the bank, or about to present a teller with a note informing him or her of a stickup.

And if it ever did happen, hell, Pearl was ready.

The guy who’d been writing so laboriously, a skinny dude with a sleeveless shirt and lots of tattoos—the washed-out blue kind they got in prison—finally left the table and sauntered over to one of the tellers. He handed the teller what looked like a deposit slip and some cash.

Pearl relaxed and moved back to stand against the wall, out of the way of the customers. She did keep a wary eye on Mr. Tattoos, though.

Her cell phone, on a belt clip near her nine millimeter, buzzed and vibrated. She tucked in her chin and glanced down at it, holding it at an angle so she could see the display.

Quinn’s number.

She unclipped the phone and flipped up the lid so she could speak.

“Hello, Quinn,” she said simply.

“I’ve got a proposition,” said the voice on the phone.

“Been there, done that,” Pearl said.

Her gaze returned to the tattooed guy and the teller, a woman named Judy. Judy was twentyish and chubby and had a round, pretty face that usually didn’t display much emotion except at lunchtime. She was frowning now at Mr. Tats. Were they arguing?

“What kind of proposition?” Pearl asked, trying to hurry this along.

“Renz came by to see me. Seems there’s a serial killer operating in the city. The news hasn’t reached the media yet, but it’s about to pop. Cindy Sellers of City Beat is sitting on it and about to release it.”

Pearl remembered Cindy Sellers, a hard-ass little brunette who tended to move fast in straight lines.

Well, maybe the same could be said of Pearl.

“A serial killer could be harmful to Renz’s career,” Pearl said.

“Not if he’s responsible for nailing the killer. Or seems to be. Then his career gets a major boost. He wants me to reassemble the team and try to achieve that result.”

“He’s already police commissioner. What more does he want?”

“Long term, I don’t think we want to know. Whatever his motivation, he wants us on the hunt again.”

Throughout the conversation, Pearl had kept watching Mr. Tattoo and Judy. They were arguing. Judy’s round face was pale and she looked uncharacteristically furious, obviously trying to keep her cool. The guy with the tats was leaning toward her doing most of the talking.

“Pearl?”

“Yeah,” she said, angling over and beginning to move toward Judy and the skinny guy with the tattooed arms. Dozens of tattoos, kind of connected, what they called full sleeve. “Serial killer. Sounds interesting.”

“All the good guys have to work with are the victims’ torsos. He also sexually mutilates the women with a sharply pointed object like a stake. I haven’t called Feds yet. You in?”

“Just their torsos, you say?”

“Right. Both women shot through the heart, and with the same gun.”

“Damn,” Pearl said.

Mr. Tattoo said something that made Judy flinch, then he wheeled and made for the door at a fast walk.

Pearl looked at Judy.

Judy looked at Pearl.

Judy looked at Mr. Tattoo and silently mouthed, “Stop him!”

“You in, Pearl?”

Pearl took two long strides, shoved a woman in a teller’s line aside, and made for the tattooed guy. “You,” she said softly but firmly, so as not to cause instant bedlam. “Stop right where you are.”

“What’s that, Pearl? What’s going on?”

She slipped the cell phone into a side pocket of her gray uniform pants and caught up with the tattooed guy. He glanced at her and broke into a run. Pearl tackled him and brought him down on the hard marble floor, bumping her elbow hard enough that her right arm went numb. Customers were moving fast, like dancing shadows, on the periphery of her vision. A woman screamed.

“Hey, you bitch!” yelled the tattooed guy, scrambling to get up.

Pearl kicked his legs out from under him.

“Hey!” he yelled again and scooted backward out of her reach. Didn’t try to get up, though.

She fumbled for her gun and couldn’t get it out of its holster. Hell with it. She crawled over and turned Mr. Tats on his belly and reached around for her handcuffs. He wasn’t resisting. The kick in the legs she’d given him might have sprung one of his knees.

“Miss Kasner!” a woman’s voice was saying. “Miss Kasner, don’t hurt him! Please!”

Pearl looked up to see Judy standing over her. Behind Judy, all around the lobby, the bank’s customers were frozen by fear. Some of them were on the floor like Pearl and the tattooed guy.

“You asked me to stop him,” Pearl said to Judy. “Didn’t he try to rob the bank?”

“No. He just robbed me by refusing to give me my child support money. He’s my ex-husband, is all, not a bank robber.”

Pearl struggled to her feet, furious. The pain in her elbow flared. “Why the hell did you ask me to stop him?”

“I dunno. I just did.” Judy began to cry.

“I’m gonna goddamn sue you!” snarled the tattooed guy, sitting up now and glaring at Pearl.

“Sue me? You’re lucky I didn’t—”

“Miss Kasner.”

Another voice. That of Copperthwaite, the bank manager. “When Judy calms down I’d like to see both of you in my office.”

“I-I’m okay.” Judy sniffled and used the back of her wrist to wipe her eyes, which were blackened by running mascara, making her look like a distraught raccoon. She kneeled low and brushed a lock of hair from Mr. Tats’s forehead.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Pearl swore, dusting herself off and rubbing her sore elbow.

“Pearl…?”

Yet another voice. Very faint. Familiar.

Oh, yeah. Quinn.

Pearl fished the cell phone out of her pocket and held it to her ear.

“I’m in,” she said.

 

Fedderman wondered if he’d retired too soon. He was the youngest of the golf foursome from the Coral Castle condo project on Florida’s serene and scenic southwest coast. It was like paradise here except for hurricane season, and Fedderman knew he should be happy despite the fact that his wife, Blanche, had left him…what, a year ago now. It seemed much shorter. All he had to do in life was collect his pension and lie around the condo or play golf. Being retired, he was supposed to like just lying around. He was supposed to like golf.

He was supposed to like fishing, too, but frankly some of the things he’d caught in the ocean while deep-sea fishing scared him. Not to mention the seasickness.

“Hit the damned ball, Larry!” Chet, one of his foursome, shouted.

Fedderman looked back at him and waved. His drive had taken him off the fairway and into the rough, which was to say high saw grass that would cut your hand if you tried to pull up a clump. It was a miracle he’d even found the damned ball.

Never a man whose clothes quite fit, Fedderman’s tall and lanky yet potbellied form even made his golf outfit look like it belonged on someone else. One sleeve of his blue knit pullover seemed longer than the other, and his muted plaid slacks made him look as if he were standing in a brisk wind even though the weather was calm. And hot. And humid.

As he approached the ball, Fedderman slapped at a mosquito and missed. His seemingly mismatched body parts made for an interesting golf swing as he took a practice swish, then moved closer and slashed the ball out of the rough. It rose neatly toward the green, carrying Fedderman’s hope with it, then suddenly veered right as if it had encountered the jet stream and landed among some trees.

“You missed the sand trap, anyway!” Chet shouted. Fedderman was learning to dislike Chet.

Fedderman’s shot again. His three fellow golfers were already on the green. He was isolated in what seemed a forest of palm trees near a running creek. There was his ball. Not a bad lie, on a stretch of grass that wasn’t so high, because the sun never reached it beneath the closely grouped palms.

Something moved near the creek. Fedderman stared but saw nothing in the tall grass. He’d heard about alligators on the golf course but had never seen one, even on his frequent journeys into the rough. Still, he was sure he’d seen some kind of movement not human and it gave him the creeps.

He quickly approached his ball and set himself. He’d have to keep the shot low and get the ball between the trunks of two palm trees if he even had a chance to get near the barely visible green.

“Shoot the ball!” Chet yelled. “Shoot the ball, Larry!”

Shoot you, you dumb bastard!

Movement again, in the corner of his vision. There sure as hell was something over there in the shadows.

Fedderman took a quick practice swing, then hurried his shot.

He really nailed this one. Solid. It felt great.

The ball flew about ten feet, bounced off a palm trunk, and rocketed straight back and hit Fedderman in the head.

He threw down his club and clutched his skull, then staggered out into the searing sunlight. His cleated golf shoes snagged in the tall grass and he almost fell. Chet was yelling something, maybe laughing.

Damn Chet!

Damn golf!

Damn Florida!

He had to get out of here! Had to!

Fedderman’s cell phone chirped.

Two months earlier

Shellie Marston paced in the vast glass and marble atrium of the CitiGroup Building at Third Avenue and Fifty-third Street. She walked again past a display window and tried to glance at her reflection without attracting attention. She saw a woman in her late twenties with medium-cut blond hair, a definitely filled-out but not too fat figure in a new maroon Avanti sweat suit and startlingly white New Balance jogging shoes. She wore a white scarf around her neck. Too much? Not considering that she was wearing no jewelry other than small gold hoop earrings, and her very practical-looking wristwatch with its black Velcro band. This was supposed to be a casual first meeting with…David Adams. It took her a second to recall his name. A meeting in a public place arranged by E-Bliss.org.

The atrium wasn’t very crowded, but all the hard surfaces created an echoing effect that made it seem that way. Voices and shuffling soles created a constant background buzz. New Yorkers and tourists alike were strolling along the lines of shops or hurrying to and from the escalators.

As she looked away from the display window, Shellie saw that one of the small round tables set outside the shops was available. She’d bought an egg cream in a foam cup so she’d have something to do with her hands. Carrying it carefully so it wouldn’t spill, she quickly laid claim to the tiny table and sat down. She placed the cup just so on the napkin she’d been provided.

His first impression would be of her seated. Was that okay?

If she sat gracefully enough. She made sure her thighs were together and placed one New Balance jogger slightly in front of the other, rested her left hand in her lap. That should present a reasonably graceful picture.

She raised her left hand briefly to glance at the watch on her wrist. He was five minutes late. She nervously took a sip of egg cream. Was he actually going to show up? Or was she going to sit here another—how long—fifteen minutes? The two old men playing chess at the nearest table had stolen looks at her; they knew she was waiting for someone.

Shellie tried not to feel embarrassed. It didn’t matter if she was stood up, she told herself, not in New York. This city was full of improbable and unpredictable characters.

None of whom she knew more than casually, however. Shellie had been in the city a little more than a month. She was still operating on the inheritance she’d brought with her from Bluebonnet, Nebraska. All her mother had in the world, plus her mother’s life insurance money. Shellie’s dad had died ten years ago. A distant aunt had died only a few months ago, and Shellie had no siblings. She was on her own in the world, which was one reason why she’d decided to start a new life in New York.

Why not the biggest, most interesting city in the country? Shellie had her nerve, and her college degree in general education. Always a loner, there was no one she was particularly friendly with in Bluebonnet. There was nothing in the romance area, certainly, now that she’d broken off her affair with Mark Drucker. Hulking and ever-smiling Mark. Big high school football hero, college dropout, and TV addict. All Mark wanted to do was have sex and watch movies and shows on TV. Old The Dukes of Hazzard episodes. My God! Well, Shellie hoped that by now he’d found someone to share his passions, both in front of the TV and in the backseat of his meticulously restored ’69 Camaro (his real true love). For her it was time for something more challenging and promising. Time to see if she could make it on her own.

And she could—she was sure of it. But she was so damned lonely. New York could do that to you. There you were, swimming in an ocean of humanity, and if you knew no one well, you were as isolated as if you were a castaway on a remote island.

Shellie had finally given in to something she’d been long considering. Using a matchmaking service to alleviate her loneliness hadn’t seemed like the best idea she’d ever had, but she’d finally decided to give it a try. Sometimes in life you had to take a chance.

After spending weeks visiting the website of E-Bliss.org, she’d filled out the detailed questionnaire that allowed the agency to match her with the best possible bet as a future mate. Then she’d waited.

After slightly more than a week, the nervously anticipated e-mail had appeared on her computer screen. The attached profile hadn’t revealed much about her prospective soul mate, David Adams. It hadn’t even included his photo. Well, that was okay. Shellie remembered how hesitant she’d been to send her photo to E-Bliss.org. After all, once your image was on the Internet, who knew where it might pop up? Someone might even superimpose her head on the body of another woman doing God knew what. Maybe even committing unnatural acts. Shellie had heard of it happening.

She’d been permitted to choose the public place that was to be the scene of their first meeting, so here she was at the agreed-upon time.

Now it was ten minutes past that time, and here was Shellie still waiting to share conversation and perhaps another egg cream with the first date she’d had since moving to New York. (She didn’t count the scuzzy guy who’d stuck out his tongue at her and tried to pick her up outside Starbucks last week.)

 

On the other side of the atrium, pretending now and then to look into the show window of a luggage shop, David Adams watched her. Shellie Marston. From Nebraska, no less. He smiled. Maybe he’d been expecting too much. She wasn’t perfect, but she’d do.

Adams was wearing neatly pressed khakis, a blue pullover shirt with a collar, white jogging shoes. Even from this distance he could see that Shellie was also wearing white joggers. His smile widened. Already they had something in common. Maybe this would really work.

He was a handsome man with regular features not easily remembered from a glance. It took a while for his bland but masculine visage to register as attractive. His hair was dark brown, wavy, and worn a bit long to disguise the fact that his ears stuck out. He was slightly under six feet tall and moved with athletic ease. His body was compact and muscular, his waist narrow. His was the sort of physique that wore clothes well. He was all in all nonthreatening, and there was certainly nothing not to like about him. Easy manner, nice smile, clean, and well groomed. He was the sort who’d fit well in most women’s romantic fantasies. And of course when he did finally bed them, they saw him as the ideal from the desires and dreams they’d carried since their first kiss.

He took another longer and bolder look at Shellie Marston and decided she was a go. He moved toward her with an easy grace, gaze fixed on her.

She’d spotted him now. These first few minutes were important. He watched her face.

It was, as usual, good strategy to be late. For an instant, relief that he’d shown up at all flooded her features. Then she had her mask on again.

He smiled at her and she managed to smile back.

 

Shellie made herself smile at the man she was now sure was approaching her table. He must be David Adams. She didn’t know why she’d had to make herself smile. There was nothing wrong with this guy. Not that she could see, anyway. He didn’t look like the type who’d need a matchmaking service. But then Shellie didn’t see herself as that type, either.

She told herself again that there was nothing disreputable or dangerous about Internet hookups. Not anymore. This was a competitive and busy world, especially here in the largest and busiest of cities. People didn’t have time to move tentatively in finding and developing relationships, as they often still did in Nebraska. She’d even known a girl in high school whose prospective suitors had to ask her parents’ permission to date her.

Quaint, Shellie thought. And even if someone wanted to ask Shellie’s father for her hand, she didn’t have a father. She had only herself. And she could make up her own mind.

The closer David Adams got to her table, the more sure she was that she’d made the right decision in contacting E-Bliss.org.

“Shellie?” he asked when he was within a few feet of her. Even that one word—her name—was smooth and softly modulated. This was a gentle man, obviously. A bit hesitant and shy, like herself. A gentle man, but not at all effeminate.

“Shellie,” she confirmed, then smiled and stood up. She felt the sole of one New Balance slide over the toe of the other. Not noticeable. “You must be David.”

They shook hands. Gentle again.

Flesh upon flesh. Shellie hoped there might be some electricity there. Some arc of emotion that suggested a future truly meaningful. Physical attraction wasn’t everything, except at first.

She wasn’t disappointed.

The present

Cindy Sellers sat alone at a corner table in P.J. Clarke’s on Third Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street. Around her were muted voices, the occasional clink of flatware on china, and laughter from the adjoining bar. The mingled scents of spices hung in the air.

The restaurant part of the venerable tavern was dim, with dark wood paneling, and there was something about the young woman seated in isolation before her bowl of stew and a Guinness that discouraged any of the rogues and business types at the bar or some of the other tables from approaching her. She was reasonably attractive, with inquisitive large brown eyes, short brown hair, and a trim figure, but there was an intensity about her that sometimes drove people away. She was very good at going after those people, overcoming their reluctance, and getting them to talk about matters they wouldn’t have dreamed of telling anyone else.

It was still too early for the dinner crowd, and the place was quiet enough for her to think, which was why she’d come here. Before her on the table were her notes on what she’d chosen to call the Torso Murders, as well as a revised draft of what would be her story.

And a hell of a story it was. The time was near when she’d no longer feel obligated to keep it all off the record, as she’d promised Renz.

In fact, maybe the time was here.

Cindy took a sip of Guinness and allowed that the public had a right to know if a sadistic killer was in its midst and might kill again. It was, in fact, her professional obligation to inform the people, as long as it would sell papers and advance her journalism career. But Renz was police commissioner now, not just another workaday cop with rank, and he was riding a political high. Of course, he didn’t know that he wasn’t her only source, and that she was aware he’d called in retired homicide captain Frank Quinn, along with his detective team, that pushy bitch Pearl and the hapless but occasionally shrewd Fedderman, to work the case. There were people in the NYPD hierarchy who didn’t like the prospect of semioutsiders covering themselves and Renz with glory so Renz could advance to an even higher office. These dissatisfied cops were people Cindy Sellers could and did use.

Certainly Renz wouldn’t like it if the quasi-official presence of Quinn and his team was revealed too soon. On the other hand, he knew they’d be media subjects sooner or later—that was even the idea. They were, after all, part of Renz’s team—working for him in particular as well as for the city. And Renz wouldn’t be shocked by the fact that the NYPD had more than one leak.

Still, he was the commissioner. Cindy understood and respected power. She would give it its due, up to a point.

She took a long pull of Guinness and fished her cell phone from her purse on the chair beside her. Renz’s direct number was on her speed dial.

No answer.

She tried his cell phone.

Apparently it was turned off.

Cindy dialed the general number of the Puzzle Palace, her term for One Police Plaza, and was politely put on ignore. She sighed and drummed her fingers. Waiting patiently for anything wasn’t in Cindy’s nature.

Hell with him, she thought, cutting the connection. She’d tried to give him a heads-up before releasing the story every other media outlet in the city probably knew about anyway but couldn’t confirm. The clock was ticking and she’d done what she could.

Cindy had been here before and knew how it worked. When City Beat hit the newsstands and vending machines tomorrow morning, the hounds would be loosed. Renz as well as the killer would have to play the fox. Quinn and his detectives would occupy the area between hounds and foxes, perilous ground.

Keyed up as she was with anticipation, Cindy wasn’t hungry. She took another long sip of Guinness and pushed aside her barely touched bowl of stew. Placing her half-rim reading glasses low on the bridge of her nose, she arranged the draft of her story—which was jotted down in her own custom shorthand that only she could read—before her on the table. Then she flicked down the menu on her cell phone and pressed the button that dialed her editor at City Beat.

“Are you sitting down?” she asked when he picked up.

Without waiting for an answer, she told him what she had and began reading aloud into the phone, but not so loud that anyone in the restaurant might overhear.

Just as she’d thought, he loved it.

By the time she flipped down the lid of her phone, Cindy’s appetite had magically returned. She pulled the still-warm bowl of stew back close to her from across the table and ordered another Guinness.

 

He’d sawn the broomstick in half. Now he finished sharpening one end and began the sanding. He enjoyed this part. He would use increasingly more finely grained sandpaper as he shaped the end into a gradually tapered fine point.

For almost an hour he sanded, idly watching television as he worked. An old spaghetti Western starring Clint Eastwood was playing. The TV was on mute, so he could only read Eastwood’s taut dialogue in closed caption at the bottom of the screen. That was okay. He’d seen the movie half a dozen times and could practically fill in the dialogue himself. The rhythmic sound of the sandpaper on wood was soothing as he felt the tapering broomstick take shape in his hands.

Finally, when his hands and forearms began to ache from the effort, he set the b. . .