Twist (15 page)

“W
hat I’d like to do,” Jody said, “is help.”

They were at the table in the brownstone’s spacious dining room, with its wainscoting, high ceiling, and original gas and electric brass chandelier. It was the sort of dining room where servants might be dispensing exotic dishes on bone china. They were eating takeout pizza off paper plates.

“You mean help people, as opposed to animals and insects?” Quinn asked.

“The law doesn’t make the distinction,” Jody said, and took a huge bite of cheese-dripping pizza.

“Between people, animals, and insects?” Quinn asked.

“Yep. The cute little kit fox and the snail darter can both halt huge construction and destruction projects.”

“I was thinking more of how people figured into the equation,” Quinn said.

Pearl, seated directly across from Jody, had heard about enough of their verbal give and take. She swallowed her last bite of pizza and washed it down with Diet Pepsi. “What are you trying to say, Jody?”

“I’m thinking of putting aside the rats’ rights-as-legal-squatters case, for the time being.”

“Why?”

“So I can be of more help with the Lady Liberty Killer case.”

Quinn said nothing.

Pearl said, “Is this because of Carlie?”

“Well, she
is
my sister.”

“In a limited kind of way,” Quinn said.

“She’s part of the family.”

Quinn smiled, shrugged. “Yeah. She is.”

There was a lot Pearl wanted to say, but she limited herself to, “You are a trained attorney, Jody. Not a trained detective.”

“I did all right on the last case, which was my first.”

“Can’t argue against that,” Quinn said, “though I’d like to.”

“Are you
sure
your law firm approves of this?” Pearl asked Jody.

“I’ve already cleared it with Prather and Pierce. They want to expand their criminal defense department, and they have me in mind as the principal attorney. Eventually.” She gave them her naïve but indomitable crooked grin. “So can I help more?”

Quinn studied pizza crust crumbs.

“Yeah, you can,” Pearl said.

Quinn repeated her words. Pearl glared at him, knowing he’d let her answer Jody first. Knowing, if anything happened to, or because of, Jody, how the blame would be shared. Pearl knew how he hated bureaucracies, and sometimes she thought he’d survived in one too long.

Quinn dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin, then glanced at his watch.

“Yankees game on TV?” Jody asked.

“Even better,” Quinn said. “Helen the profiler’s going to be on local television. The
Minnie Miner ASAP
show. Starts in five minutes.”

“We should hear what she says,” Jody said.

“And what she doesn’t say.”

They cooperated with each other without being told. Quinn put the grated cheese and other condiments in the refrigerator. Pearl gathered paper plates, wadded napkins, and plastic utensils and dumped them in the trash. Jody ran what was left of the pizza through the garbage disposal, then used a damp dishcloth to wipe down the table. Quinn enjoyed watching Jody’s face while they all worked. Obviously she enjoyed this ballet of family cooperation.

Together they went into the living room, where Quinn opened wooden panels to reveal the flat-screen TV. He sat on the sofa next to Pearl. Jody curled up in the chair that had customarily been his before she’d arrived.

On the TV, Helen appeared seated calmly, her long legs crossed in a chair angled to face three quarters of an identical chair. In that chair, beaming into the camera, sat Minnie Miner. Helen was casually dressed in Levi’s and a gray pullover. Minnie Miner was festooned with bracelets and necklaces and rings, and was about half the size of Helen. She looked, in fact, like a pretty, grinning doll that Helen had brought onto the set.

Until she began to talk. Then there was little doubt as to who was the ventriloquist.

“So no progress has been made in the Lady Liberty Killer murders,” Minnie said.

Helen said, “I wouldn’t—”

“And another victim was found only days ago, horribly mutilated. Tortured by this elusive madman that the police can’t figure out. Would it be safe to say that he has this city totally horrified?”

“Well, he is killing—”

“And it could be any one of us. You’re a profiler, Helen. What is there in this killer’s profile that makes him so badly want to destroy women?”

“My belief is that it’s his mother. She—”

“Why the woman? Isn’t it the father who usually molests a child?”

“Well, we’re not talking about—”

“But it goes back to his childhood.”

“We can’t know that for certain, but almost always—”

“As the twig is bent,” Minnie said.

“More like as the seed is—”

“Who
is
the mother? For that matter, who’s the father?”

“We don’t know. We can only—”

“And what is it that makes this killer especially terrifying, that reaches into the dark corners of every woman’s soul and creates fear and sleepless nights?”

“I wouldn’t say no one is sleeping,” Helen said. “But there’s no denying—”

“That he’s a monster,” Minnie finished.

“We agree,” Helen said quickly, finally catching on that she was going to have to jump right in, elbows flailing, if she wanted to be heard.

“Our thanks to Helen,” Minnie said, swiveling in her chair to face away from Helen. “A real profiler with some real information about the Lady Liberty Killer.”

Her expression went from tragic and puzzled to deeply concerned and knowing, somehow without any of her features seeming to move. “Speaking of killers, a killer tornado slashed through the small town of—”

Quinn pressed buttons on the remote and the Yankees game appeared. There was no score.

“That was informative,” Pearl said.

“Had to watch it,” Quinn said.

“Why?” Jody asked.

“Because, almost surely, somebody else was watching.”

 

 

When Carlie left Bold Designs to buy lunch from a street vendor, she couldn’t help but notice Jody lurking nearby. Carlie bought a knish and bottled water and walked directly toward where Jody was standing in the doorway of a luggage shop across the street.

She and Jody exchanged smiles.

“If you’re trying to be unnoticeable,” Carlie said, “you could be doing a better job. Unless you’re really interested in buying luggage.”

“Don’t need luggage,” Jody said. “Also don’t care if the killer spots me, if he happens to be stalking you. The object is to keep you alive.”

“But we might be doubling the desirability of the target.”

“How so?”

“If it’s the killer’s intention to send a message to Quinn, isn’t he just as likely to try for you?”

“I’m as different as possible from his type,” Jody said. “A scrawny redhead with freckles and corkscrew hair. Also, I’m an attorney. Everybody says they’d like to kill all the lawyers, but nobody ever actually does it, even to one. They might need to sue someone someday.”

“Well, that sounds logical.”

“It does when you consider that I’m not new to the detective business. I’ve been taught by experts. And I carry this.” She raised her tunic a few inches to reveal a belt holster holding a compact handgun.

“Is that legal?” Carlie asked, slightly unsettled by the sight of the gun.

“It’s legal and I’m licensed,” Jody said. “And I’ve spent time learning how to use it. And when not to use it.”

“Okay,” Carlie said, unscrewing the cap of her water bottle. “I feel safer with you here. Really.” She peeled the paper covering the cardboard container holding the knish. “I’d have gotten you something, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want,” she told Jody.

“I’ve already eaten,” Jody said.

“Then let’s sit down.”

Carlie moved toward a small concrete ledge where several other people were perched eating food from the kiosk. The ledge was hard and not the cleanest. There was plenty of room for two more. Carlie and Jody sat at the far end, where they wouldn’t be overheard.

Carlie offered her water bottle to Jody, but Jody shook her head no. Carlie took a swig, then started on her knish. Jody wondered how she could eat anything that was flavored by the low-lying exhaust fumes from the nearby traffic.

After chewing silently, Carlie swallowed some water and put bottle and knish on a white paper napkin that had come with her lunch order. She drew a sheet of paper from her purse.

“I thought you’d be interested in this new ‘professional woman’ line that the company I’m designing for is bringing out next month,” she said. She deftly unfolded the glossy paper with one hand and gave it to Jody. “High style and very severe. For every woman from attorney to dominatrix.”

“Pretty much the same thing,” Jody said. She made sure the paper was right side up and stared at it. “Keep an eye out for the killer while I study these,” she said almost absently.

In fact, that was exactly what Carlie was doing.

T
he killer bought a cheap throwaway cell phone from a chain drug store in Williamsburg. He thought it would be safe enough, especially if he thoroughly destroyed it immediately after his call.

He would call from a relatively quiet place in Times Square (or at least a place where the din was manageable), and keep his conversation brief.

Not too brief, though. He’d call just past the top of the hour, when
Minnie Miner ASAP
usually took listener calls. Minnie enjoyed arguing with or commenting on her show’s callers. The Lady Liberty Killer smiled, thinking Minnie didn’t know it, but she was in for a treat. ASAP.

 

 

“For God’s sake, put him on!” Minnie said.

Her producer, Hal Divet, wasn’t so sure. He was an overweight, florid man, given to wearing sweaters in the cool studio even during the summer. “We don’t want to set off a bunch of numb nuts calling in for nothing other than to get a few minutes in the spotlight.”

Minnie, seated like an angry patriot in the middle of her red, white, and blue set, was fuming. “Maybe you didn’t notice, Hal, but we already have that!”

“Not like this guy,” Hal said. He seemed actually frightened. “I mean, there’s something about this caller. You don’t want him to get to know you, or even think he does.”

“If our viewers feel the same way, fine. If he’s genuine, what can the competition in our time slot do? I want
them
to be the ones caught sitting with their thumbs up their asses! Not us!”

Hal sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, Min.”

“All the goddamn lines are lit up. So where is he?”

“Line four,” Hal said.

The director gave his cue. “. . . two, one”, and the commercial was over and they were live on TV again. Well, that was if you didn’t count a seven-second delay. In case somebody said something truly politically incorrect.

Minnie presented her good side to the camera, leaned in close to the mike, and pressed the glowing white four button.

Being Minnie, she got right to the point:

“Is this really the Lady Liberty Killer I’m talking to, or just another imposter looking for temporary fame?” She glanced at the camera, smiling slightly, showing her audience that at this point they should be skeptical.

“I’m real,” said the voice on the line. The camera moved in on Minnie, a tight shot of her somber face. With a high-definition TV, you could see her pores. “And you know I’m real.” There was nothing distinctive about the voice. No way to fix the caller geographically.

“How do I know that?” Minnie asked. But the chill that ran up her spine for no apparent reason was how she knew.

“Freedom to kill.”

The camera stayed tight. “I don’t understand.”

“The police do.”

“You seem to be availing yourself of such a presumed freedom, but I don’t see how you’ve offered any sort of proof that you really are the—”

“It’s something I wrote in blood on a mirror. The police didn’t inform media parasites like you because they wanted the knowledge used to determine the genuineness of confessions to the Lady Liberty murders. A test.”

“I didn’t know that,” Minnie said.

“Of course not. Only the police and the killer know it. Well, now we’ll have to include you and all your loyal viewers. Gosh, that sure might make the police’s job more difficult.”

Minnie was signaling frantically to her director. Hal nodded and pointed. He was already on the phone to the police.

“So what prompted you to call the show?” Minnie asked. “Was it only to make the police’s secret information public?”

“Not at all. I called because I want to get
my
story out. The part of it I want people to know, anyway.”

“What about the other part?”

“Well, everyone has a private life they want to stay that way.”

“So why choose me as your means of communication?”

“You have a lot of viewers. And you’re tough. The police can’t muffle you and put out some kind of story that saves their reputation. Quinn and his detectives. Really, they haven’t kept up.”

Minnie figured time was running out. This character was too smart to stay on the line long enough for his call to be traced. Better get to the point. “Okay. Now another question: why did you kill those women?”

“They had the devil in them.”

“Many of us do.”

“Actually, I wanted your viewers to know their city isn’t safe. I do as I please. Go where I please. Kill as I please.”

“Is it true that killers like you are really slaying their mothers over and over?”
Keep this sicko on the line, even if it means insulting his mother.

“My mother was one of the kindest, gentlest women I have ever known.”

“Well, you’d say that.”

“And I’d tell you why, but it’s time for me to leave.”

“You say
was
. Is your mother dead?”

“How could she be, if I’m killing her over and over.”

“Who says you are?”

“Much of the media. Like you. Didn’t you just say that?”

“I don’t think so. I simply asked a question.”

“I think,” the killer said, with a soft laugh deep in his throat, “that you are trying to keep me on the line, talking as long as possible.”

“Not true! Believe me!”

“Check and see if your pants are on fire.”

Minnie actually found herself glancing down. “Freedom to kill,” the caller said. And was gone with the connection.

Minnie had to make sure he was no longer there. “You never gave me your name,” she said inanely.

Her reply was silence.

“Your first victims were in alphabetical order,” Minnie said. “Is there a reason for that? Is there an
A
the police don’t know about? Should women whose names start with E be worried?”

Again, silence.

The director signaled for a commercial, then did a countdown from five. A spot for an underarm deodorant came on, a woman standing on a mountain peak with her arms spread wide. Eagles circled her.

“The police said it was true about the ‘Freedom to Kill’ line,” Hal said. “Our caller
was
the real killer.” He hugged himself as if he were cold. And he might have been, despite his unseasonable powder-blue sweater.

The director signaled that there was a phone call for Minnie.

She picked up, shooting a glance at the monitor. The deodorized woman was hang-gliding now, soaring with the eagles.

“This is Police Commissioner Harley Renz. You off the air?”

“We’re in a commercial break, Commissioner. Will be for another minute and twenty seconds.”

“Was that guy for real?”

“You tell me,” Minnie said.

“He knew about the ‘Freedom to Kill’ message, so we gotta assume he’s the killer.”

“You gonna be able to trace the call?” Minnie, still trolling for news.

“We already did. It came from somewhere in Times Square, and the phone’s one of those cheap toss-aways. It’s no doubt broken apart and dropped down a storm sewer, or some other place where we can never find it. Not that it would do much good if we did.”

“There might be fingerprints.”

“Not with this guy. He’s too careful to leave prints.”

“Can I quote you?”

“Can I prevent it?”

Minnie had to smile. “Well, no. It’s news. But I assure you the story is about the killer, not you.”

Renz wasn’t sure he liked that, but he hadn’t figured out yet how to use this latest development to promote himself.

“I’d love to talk to him some more,” Minnie said. “I’m sure I could get him to open up.”

“If he does call,” Renz said, “we want to be in on it from the get-go. And I want any contact of any kind between you and the killer to be taped. Or digitalized. Or whatever the hell it is you do. Then I want it to find its way to my desk, and fast.”

“Of course. We want the same thing. For the killer to be stopped. And for credit to go to the proper people. My show seems to be the way the killer has chosen to talk to his fans.”

“His
what?
”

“His public, I meant to say.
The
public. I’m sure you know what I mean, Commissioner. We have to face the fact that this case has captured public imagination. We here at
Minnie Miner ASAP
are a news organization. What we want out of this is a wider viewership so we can better inform people. Ratings. And of course for the killer to be caught.”

“By the by,” Renz said. “You did mention credit going to the proper people?”

“Of course. Such as yourself. And that entails exchanges of information. Facts.”

Renz was silent.

“Do we have a quid pro quo?” Minnie asked.

“We do. Only because I don’t have much choice.” They both knew that wasn’t true, but people on both ends of an agreement should be allowed their delusions.

“Fine,” Minnie said. “I look forward to talking and sharing with my new friends.”

“With friends like her—” Minnie heard Renz say, as he was lowering the phone and breaking their connection.

Probably by now, Minnie thought, the killer had shattered his disposable cell phone into as many fragments as possible.

The commercial break was over. Minnie thought she’d mull over her recent conversation with Renz and decide when, how and
if
she’d use it. There was no reason quid pro qu
o
couldn’t simply be quid.

Minnie was back live.

“Wow! Wasn’t
that
something? Inside the mind of a serial killer. And we have good reason to believe that won’t be the last time the killer calls.

“Something special for you now, folks. We have a guest who believes serial killers can and
do
affect the stock market. He’s going to tell us how to take advantage of that phenomenon and, just as importantly, how and when to get off the gravy train.”

The gravy train,
the killer thought.
Where do you board that one?