Frenzy (26 page)

56

 

F
edderman hadn't slept much last night, but this morning, over breakfast, he and Penny had talked like adults. At least that was how she'd described it. That shaky gyroscopic balance that unkillable marriages somehow achieved had been regained.

All in all, it was a reason for Fedderman to feel pretty good.

The morning's conversation had even prompted him to dress neatly before leaving the apartment, knowing Penny would notice. He was wearing yesterday's baggy dark pants, but a clean white shirt, and the jacket of the Armani suit she'd advised him to buy. He had his usual mismatched look about him, but still, who could complain? It was his style.

He was on his way to interview a neighbor of the late Honor Tripp.

There was no sign that the building had recently housed a crime scene. The tape was gone from downstairs, as well as the cop on duty. Honor Tripp's apartment was still sealed, but that seemed to be the only visible irregularity in the hall.

Fedderman knocked on the door of the apartment adjacent to the one where Honor Tripp had died and waited for her neighbor, Justin Beck, to answer.

Beck responded to Fedderman's knock almost immediately. As if he'd been waiting at the window and seen Fedderman approach the building.

Beck was average height and weight, about forty, and handsome if you were a woman who liked squared-up guys with buzz cuts who appeared to have just been mustered out of the military. He was spiffed up in a gray business suit and looked ready to leave for some gray business. He made a nice contrast to Fedderman. However, as he stepped back to let Fedderman in, he did a double take on the Armani jacket. Fedderman smiled inwardly.

Beck's apartment was identical to that of Tripp's. Small entry hall, midsized living room, short hall to bathroom and bedroom. Gallery kitchen off to one side, bathroom to the other. It was a prewar building, as someone selling New York real estate would have been quick to point out. Meaning you couldn't hear through the walls.

Which, to Fedderman, cast a faint shadow of doubt on Beck's account of why he'd called 911.

Beck seemed loose and amiable enough, despite the fact that he looked like part of a toy soldier set. Fedderman declined an offer of coffee—it would have been his fourth of the morning—and sat down on a sofa that creaked like vinyl rather than leather and was cold even through the seat of Fedderman's out-of-season wooly pants.

While Beck was in the kitchen getting coffee for himself, Fedderman looked around. The wood floor was highly polished. There was a square rug in the center of the room. Furniture that looked like luxury Ikea was placed as if by the giant hand of a decorator.

Beck returned with coffee in a plain white mug and sat down in an angular wood-armed chair across from Fedderman.

“Sure you don't want a cup?” he asked with a smile. Precise white teeth. “It's exquisite and comes from a country in South America nobody has heard of.”

“It all tastes pretty much the same to me,” Fedderman said.

Beck nodded. “You've got a point.”

“You off work today?”

“I took a day off,” Beck said. “I guess I'm still shook up about the murder. Right next door. I about had a cow.”

“You told the uniformed officer who talked to you that you were an engineer of some sort.”

“Yeah. Structural engineer. I subcontract out to various developments.”

Fedderman didn't know quite what that meant but let it pass. The scent of the coffee was stronger and started to make Fedderman hungry.

“I'm sure you get tired of going over your account of Honor Tripp's murder,” he said, “but—”

“Not at all,” Beck interrupted. “Sharing the experience kind of eases my mind.”

This presented a problem for Fedderman. He had a copy of Beck's statement and sure didn't want to sit through hearing it read out loud.

“Read this,” he said, taking the three folded sheets of paper out of one of the Armani jacket's inside pockets. “I want to make sure it's accurate, then we can talk about it.”

Beck plunked wire-framed reading glasses on the bridge of his nose and read studiously, as if seeing the material for the first time. Fedderman watched his concentration, how Beck's pupils danced line to line over the three sheets of paper.

Finally Beck placed his coffee mug on the floor, on a
Home Progress
magazine where it wouldn't leave a ring. He took two steps up out of the chair and leaned halfway across the living room, passing the rolled-up statement toward Fedderman as if it were the baton in a relay race. Fedderman leaned forward, accepted it, and fell back into the sofa.

“Summarize,” he said.

“I'd fallen asleep about ten o'clock,” Beck said, “reading a book about how the Panama Canal was built.”

Was this guy serious? “Is that anyplace near where your coffee came from?” Fedderman asked.

“Probably,” Beck said with a straight face, and that was when Fedderman knew Beck was messing with him. Making sport of him.

That made Fedderman mad, but he wasn't going to let Beck see that side of him. He'd play right along. It interested Fedderman that a murder next door and a statement to the police, and now a police interview, didn't seem to cow Beck. It seemed instead to give him a welcome chance to play games. Overconfident killers—which most of them were—thought that way. They were the smartest guy in the room, even if it was full of Nobel Prize members.

Fedderman got his black leather notepad out of his pocket. Dug deeper and found a chewed-up pencil. He settled back and pretended to take notes.

“You'd fallen asleep about ten o'clock . . .” he reminded Beck.

“Yes, and around midnight I was awakened by what sounded like screaming, only . . . kind of muffled. Then, in between screams, what sounded like whimpering.”

“No one else heard any screams,” Fedderman said.

“I'm not surprised. These screams wouldn't carry very far. I told you, they were muffled by something, and I'm—I was—her closest neighbor.”

“Your bedrooms are precisely side by side, I believe,” Fedderman said.

“I suppose they are.”

“You share a wall. And a heating and air-conditioning duct.”

“I guess we do. What's that supposed to mean?” Beck seemed more annoyed than afraid of where Fedderman might be taking the conversation. And slightly embarrassed. Yes, his bold warrior's features were definitely flushed. Fedderman knew why. Honor Tripp's sex life was part of Justin Beck's, too.

Fedderman smiled and shrugged. “Means you do what thousands of other New Yorkers do when they happen to find themselves side by side with an attractive neighbor, separated by only a vent. If that neighbor has any kind of sex life . . . well, it's inevitable that you're going to hear things. Sometimes it must seem almost like being a participant.”

Beck took a deep breath. He seemed to think about that.

“Okay,” he said at last. “The night of the murder, Honor was with a man in bed. I thought what I was hearing were sounds of sexual thrall. Instead . . .” He swallowed.

“You overheard the murder,” Fedderman said.

Beck nodded. “I didn't know it at the time. Not at first, anyway.”

“Of course not.” Fedderman didn't want this guy to go dry. “Listen, Justin, you could be a help to us. You must have been able to hear just about everything through that vent. Did you hear either one of them say anything?”

“No. Like I told you, she was gagged.”

“And it never occurred to you that this was something more than sex?”

“There are all kinds of sex practiced by all kinds of people.”

True enough, Fedderman thought. “What about him? Did you hear a man's voice at all?”

“Now and then. He told her . . .”

“What?”

“That he was going to do this or do that. With the knife and the cigarette. I couldn't make out the words through the wall. That's when the muffled screaming would start.”

“Was he interrogating her?”

“I don't think so. It was difficult to be sure. He seemed more into issuing orders. Now and then he'd give a cold kind of laugh. The bastard was enjoying himself. I thought they both were. I never imagined what he was doing, how far he was taking it.”

“So that's why you didn't call the police, or try to stop what was going on.”

“Right. I figured what was going on might be perfectly normal for them. The usual S&M behavior. Sexual games. Far as I knew, he wasn't doing anything Honor didn't like.”

“What about the screams?”

“I told you, they were muffled. All part of kinky sex, far as I could tell.”

“But eventually you
did
call.”

“I got to thinking about it. How she sounded. I decided. . .”

“What?”

“It didn't
really
sound like kinky sex. It sounded more like somebody might really be hurting her. Still, I didn't know enough to go pounding on her door, or go barging in there to save her. And I knew the cops would be here fast once I called.” He let out a long breath and sat back. “Which is how it happened.” He bowed his head. “Not fast enough.”

“You couldn't have broken in and saved her,” Fedderman said, staying on Beck's side. “Probably you would have just hastened her death, then maybe caused your own. This guy doesn't play gently, and you would have been between him and freedom.”

“So he's the D.O.A. guy? Back with us?”

“Not much doubt about it.” Fedderman snapped his leather notebook shut. “We'll need you to go down to the precinct house and add to and sign a statement.”

“Assault can sound like sex,” Beck said, feeling guilty and fishing for Fedderman's agreement. He needed atonement.

“Sometimes they aren't that different,” Fedderman said. “Then there are those times when one partner turns up dead.”

“Then it's time to do my duty as a citizen. And I will.” Beck chewed his lower lip for a few seconds. “Listen, if me making a statement gets in the papers or on TV, this killer's not likely to come after me, is he?”

“That's not his game,” Fedderman said. “He's probably already stalking his next female victim. But if you're worried about that, the sooner you put your signature on a statement, the sooner you'll be safe. You can't be prevented from doing what you've already done.”

Beck visibly brightened. “That makes sense.”

Fedderman guessed it did. Would it make sense to a sadistic killer? He wasn't so sure.

57

T
he hot spell hadn't subsided, but rain was added to the mix. It fell in large drops straight down, bouncing like stones off window ledges, air conditioner covers, metal trash containers, and crawling traffic. If you were indoors, it was a good place to stay.

Some of the detectives were thrashing things out in the office at Q&A. It was a sauna, even though the air conditioner was vibrating and humming along.

Quinn and Pearl listened to Fedderman's account of his interview with Justin Beck. Helen's lanky body was slouched asymmetrically in a chair. It was between their desks, but nearer to Quinn's. Fedderman was in one of the clients' chairs, facing them all.

“Not really of much help,” Pearl said, when Fedderman was finished talking.

Quinn agreed. “I didn't hear much of what we didn't already know.”

“That's kind of the point,” Helen said.

“The killer didn't say anything about the earlier murders,” Quinn said, “or any plans he has for future victims.”

Fedderman absently straightened a nonexistent crease in his pants. “I got the impression that Beck didn't happen to eavesdrop on Honor Tripp's bedroom
only
the night of her murder. And the killer must have noticed that vent in the wall, right next to her bed.”

“He knew someone was listening,” Helen said.

Fedderman said, “I kind of got that same creepy feeling. Mess around next to that big vent and someone almost has to overhear.”

“But why would the killer want that?” Pearl asked.

“Maybe he gets his kicks that way,” Fedderman said, “being watched. Or in this case, heard.”

“I didn't read anything important in his statement,” Pearl said. “So I'm guessing he didn't overhear anything important in his vent.”

“That's the notable thing about what Beck says he overheard,” Helen said. “There was nothing about art. And Honor Tripp was a genre writer. A mystery novelist. Mysteries are thought by some naïve souls to be the opposite of art.”

“So that's the message?” Quinn asked. “The killer is parading the fact that this murder had nothing to do with art in general, and so not with
Bellezza
specifically?”

“That could be it,” Helen said.

Fedderman looked at her.

“Wouldn't a simpler way to put it be that he's trying to throw us off the scent?”

“You know this guy better than that, Feds.”

“He's going to up the ante,” Pearl said. “That's the sicko's message.”

“Exactly,” Helen said. “And the pool of his potential victims has widened. From now on they won't have to know anything about art, or be aware of missing Michelangelo pieces. This killer is no longer playing games. The treasure hunt is over.”

“Which makes our work harder,” Quinn said.

They all sat in silence for several seconds, considering. Trying to get into the killer's mind, knowing it wasn't a nice place to visit.

“He's going to force a showdown,” Quinn said.

“Something like that,” Helen said. “He doesn't like balancing on the head of a pin.”

“All of them eventually come to that place,” Fedderman said. “They need for it to go one way or the other. To be over.”

Helen said, “You can count on it. The killer wants to press what he sees as his advantage. He regards himself as invulnerable at this point. Godlike. He feels a need to demonstrate that.”

“Or?” Pearl said.

“He simply wants us to know he's no longer an art aficionado,” Quinn said.

Helen said, “There's a possibility.” And smiled. Quinn knew that smile and didn't like it.

 

 

The killer had followed them home from their morning jog, watching them slow to a walk that demanded an occasional little skip, and enter their apartment building on Central Park West. It didn't take him long to narrow down their unit's number on the third floor of the brick and marble building.

Or to learn other things about them. Details were so important.

The man was of least interest. He was in his thirties and apparently in good shape except for a roll of fat around his midsection. He invariably ran in khaki shorts, a sleeveless white T-shirt, and white jogging shoes. Ben Swift was his name, but he didn't look so swift jogging alongside his wife, Beth. Ben had a lot of side-to-side motion that slowed him down. Beth was built for speed, with a slim body, muscular legs, and a stride that wasted no motion. It was obvious that Ben was struggling to keep up with her. He was forever a yard or two behind, staring at his wife's blond ponytail swinging with the regularity of a metronome. Her jogging shoes were red, her T-shirt white like her husband's, her shorts blue. That amused the killer, who saw himself as something of a patriot.

He put on speed and pulled ahead of them, then slouched on a bench with his head thrown back, as if winded and resting. They huffed and puffed past him and continued jogging as the path fell away. From where he sat on the bench in the sun, he watched them with binoculars, usually focusing on Beth's slim hips, the rhythmic motion of her body.

A perfect running machine, he thought, wondering if she competed in the New York Marathon. She and Ben were an active, healthy couple. Apparently with plenty of spare time. Nothing else to do. So maybe she was in training. He would ask her about that.

But then, what would be the point?

He'd watched the building for several days, and now knew the security setup, and the hours kept by the doorman, Carl.

Carl worked short hours in the morning, then was replaced by another man, Arthur, who worked into the late afternoon. Carl would then show up to provide a doorman presence until midnight. Both men were in their forties and looked fit, except for a slight paunch on Carl. It was a shame they had to wear those hideous brown uniforms with the striped trousers.

However they were dressed, the killer mused, it would be simple for him to deal with whichever man was on duty. The building actually had pretty good security, especially when the street doors were locked after midnight, no doorman was present, and no one could enter without a resident's card key and a five-number code.

The fact was, for someone like the killer, it was easier to get into the building unseen with the doors
un
locked and a doorman on duty.

No problem at all, for someone willing to go to extremes. Who knew the wisdom of acting promptly and boldly when an opponent was reeling and back on his heels.

The killer cautioned himself against being overconfident. Quinn and his detectives weren't exactly reeling.

The killer smiled.

He checked his wristwatch, then left the park and walked to a diner on Amsterdam, where he knew there'd be a TV tuned to
Minnie Miner ASAP.
It was time for a burger and a cup of coffee. And some quiet contemplation.

Maybe even some information.

People leaked things to Minnie. Sometimes anonymously. When it came to the media, she was one of his favorite people.

And occasionally useful.