Twist (24 page)

H
arold was surprised when Carlie left work almost an hour early. He hung well back so she wouldn’t spot him, but tailed her with care and caution. Any break in her routine or the rhythm of her surroundings might mean something pertinent.

Now and then he got this creepy feeling, the notion that as he was following Carlie, he was being watched. Or used sometimes as an indicator of her whereabouts.

It could have been his imagination, but experience had taught him that it probably wasn’t. And it meant that Carlie might be in real danger, and he’d better keep a close watch on her.

Be her guardian angel, as the cops sometimes said. But Harold didn’t feel like an angel. He felt more like a hunter who had, to some degree, become prey.

He stopped without warning, turned, crossed streets he didn’t have to cross, checked reflections in car and show case windows. He saw nothing irregular. If he was being tailed, it was by an expert.

And he
was
being tailed.

His best course, he decided, was to tend to the business in front of him.

Carlie strode to her usual subway stop, not far from Bold Designs, but this time crossed the street and descended the narrow concrete steps to the uptown side of the platform.

A train had just pulled in and was screeching to a halt alongside the platform. Harold managed to board the same crowded car, but was standing toward the back, while Carlie had one of the few remaining seats up in front. As the train roared and swayed through darkness, he watched Carlie’s reflection in a window opposite where she sat. She was slouched and seemed tired. Her eyes were half closed. Occasionally she closed them all the way. Like many seated passengers, she might be feigning half sleep to withdraw from the cramped and speeding world of the subway, to discourage drunks or solicitors or the mentally precarious from approaching her. No right-thinking person wanted to deal with some of the people on the subway. So the walls stayed up; the gates stayed closed. Harold, watching carefully, knew Carlie wasn’t anywhere near falling asleep.

The train slowed slightly, approaching the Seventy-ninth Street station. She jerked to full attention but stayed seated. The train continued to slow, then finally stopped and took a lurch backward as momentum shifted. The doors slid open. Carlie stood quickly and got off quickly onto the platform. Harold got out behind her. He kept his distance as they climbed the steps toward the light and noise of traffic above.

Carlie stumbled at the top of the steps and almost fell. It was dangerous, the way the concrete slanted up there. She might have fallen right into the traffic on Broadway.

It was a dangerous city, Harold thought. One full of ways to get hurt.

Carlie didn’t have far to walk to the offices of Q&A.

Harold waited until she’d entered, then followed.

She must have called first, because it appeared that Quinn had been waiting for her. As Harold entered half a minute behind Carlie, he looked over and saw her seated in front of Quinn’s desk. Quinn didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Carlie saw him and nodded. Harold didn’t know what to make of that.

Something passed between Harold and Quinn without either man even looking at the other.

Harold went over and poured himself a cup of coffee and pretended Carlie wasn’t there.

 

 

When Carlie was finished describing her phone conversation with Jody’s grandmother, Quinn sat back and absently twirled a pencil through and around his fingers. He’d learned to do that with poker chips as a young man, and it had stayed with him.

He noticed Carlie watching the pencil and stopped. He rolled his desk chair a few inches toward her.

“Jody’s a freckle-faced redhead,” he said. “Not at all the killer’s type.”

“But she is your daughter,” Carlie said, “which makes her a likely target of this killer. I do think Pearl’s mother is right about that.”

“Right as far as it goes.”

“What does that mean?” But part of Carlie’s mind suspected what it meant. The icy suspicion trickled down her back.

“If you were to dye your hair a much blonder color, and wear it differently, you’d be even more the killer’s type. And there’s your middle name.”

“I never told you my middle name.”

“For God’s sake, Carlie, you have a Facebook page.” She fidgeted. “I forgot about that.”

“People tend to, Grace.”

“All right, so my middle name is Grace. So what are you getting at?”

“If this were a chess game, you’d be almost as tempting a piece as Jody, even without the fact that in the killer’s mind, you are the way to Helen.”

Carlie hadn’t thought of that.
G before H
. “My God! The killer’s twisted alphabetical mind . . .”

“The alphabet might be the only thing about him that isn’t twisted. His adherence to it is an exercise in orderliness, part of what Helen calls the backbone of his obsession.”

“So it’s not Jody. It’s
me
you want to use as a lure.” Carlie wasn’t really that surprised. It only made sense.

Quinn nodded.

“Because Helen would be alphabetically premature, and I’m only slightly less valuable a chess piece than Jody.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. Jody simply doesn’t figure into his plans, either by type or alphabet. With you, the alphabet works. And to the killer, you could hardly be a more desirable type.” Quinn smiled, but with only the slightest edge of humor. “He does have good taste.”

Carlie didn’t smile. “Thanks for
that
, anyway.”

“We’re going to continue our protection for Jody, just in case. The thing that would take her, and you, completely out of danger is if the killer were apprehended.”

“No denying that,” Carlie said. Still, she wondered how Jody would feel about this conversation. About this strategy.

“Jody could leave the city,” she said.

“We suggested that. Jody
won’t
leave. Says her life and her work are here, and she won’t be scared away.”

“Runs in the family,” Carlie said.

Quinn knew where Carlie’s musings would eventually take her. He thought he might as well get there first. “Pearl doesn’t like this, either, but she figures it’s the best way to go.”

“And so do I,” Carlie said.

“Minnie Miner has said she’ll help to set up the situation,” Quinn said.

“I’ll bet she will,” Carlie said. “Do you think she can be subtle enough to fool the killer?”

“No,” Quinn said. “He’ll know what’s going on. He’ll try for you anyway.”

“The ego thing?”

“More the id.”

Carlie felt ice travel down her spine again. It was the id that made her flesh crawl. There was something primal about this killer, in the torture of his victims and in his birth and twisted maternal fixation. How callous and violent the human race must have been in order to persist. How near the surface lurked those primitive but powerful instincts and impulses so necessary for survival. Perhaps that was why serial killers so fascinated the public. We weren’t so far removed from the ancient past as we’d like to think. Or maybe not removed at all. Some of it we dragged along with us.

“We can protect you,” Quinn said. “But I wouldn’t lie to you and pretend there isn’t any danger. There’s plenty of that. But . . .”

“What?”

“We might have help from an unexpected source. The killer himself. He might have reached the point where he wants to be stopped.”

“That actually happens outside of books and movies?”

“Oh, yes. Killing weighs heavier and heavier after a while. It’s a burden that can be gotten out from under only one way.”

“Don’t killers like this usually choose to go out in a blaze of gunfire, gore, and glory?”

“They like to see it that way. But sometimes they don’t have the balls. Other times a sniper’s bullet to the head puts an end to them.”

“But they don’t give up.”

“No,” Quinn said, “they seldom stop on their own. They have to be stopped.”

“You and they have that in common.”

“Yes,” Quinn said.

“Which is why you’re so good at what you do.”

“Part of it.”

“When do I start?”

“You’ve already started. He’s been watching you.”

Helen worked to make Carlie as likely a lure as possible to the killer. Carlie’s hair was dyed an even blonder shade, and worn in a style more suited to the eighties. Her clothes, too, were backdated stylistically without it seeming too obvious.

“I’m not sure what more I can do,” Carlie said, “other than go around whistling outdated Beatle songs.”

“Weren’t they more the sixties?” Harold said.

“The Beatles were never outdated,” Sal rasped, obviously annoyed with Harold. “Never will be.”

“I’ve got some old Beatle T-shirts,” Pearl said.

Helen looked inquisitively at Quinn.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Quinn said.

Fedderman said, “Just don’t say ‘Boop, boop, e-doop.’ ”

This is fun
, Carlie thought,
dressing up to be murdered
.

T
he killer made sure the blinds were closed in his second-floor apartment in the East Village.

The building was a six-story walkup that he’d rehabbed and rented out. There were stairs down to a small courtyard out back, made private by foliage and sections of stockade fencing, and backing to a paving stone walkway to the next block, where one of several abandoned warehouses squatted, deteriorating unused near the river.

He spent much of his time elsewhere, and barely knew the neighbors, even those who were his tenants. This part of the Village was friendly enough, but privacy was respected, and Dred had long ago politely but firmly made it clear that he valued his privacy.

He dumped the money he’d taken from his safety deposit box out on his bed and stared at it.

Fifty thousand dollars.

He’d kept it as a safety net while he used the rest of what was left of the one-hundred-and-seventy-five-thousand-dollar lottery winnings to establish his antique business. The money was in hundred-dollar bills, small enough and negotiable. They were easily safe to spend, especially here in New York, where prices were geared to customers with expense accounts. Hundred-dollar bills were common. A cab ride with a generous tip could cost you more than half that, and the cabbie always had the change in small bills.

Mildred had accepted the lump sum from the state rather than monthly payments, and had probably simply cashed her check at one of the large banks. There would be no reason to mark the bills, or make any sort of record of their serial numbers. Still, Dred was glad to see that none of the packets of cash he’d held in reserve were made up of bills with sequential serial numbers.

He would be safe spending this money, as long as he didn’t draw undue attention to himself. For now, though, he would keep it hidden beneath the sink, where he could get it quickly and easily if he had to run on short notice. The adventure at the old house might have turned out much differently were it not for his good luck. It had made him more cautious. No, not more cautious—more meticulous. Certainly not more afraid.

Meanwhile, it was time that he spent this money.

Antique trading upper-end merchandise was a loosely taxed business that depended a lot on the honesty of the taxpayer. Payoffs like the one Mildred had enjoyed were taxed even before the money was made available. Dred could leverage it tax free as long as he didn’t buy or sell big-ticket items at exclusive houses like Sotheby’s or Christie’s. Beyond that, he knew plenty of private collectors who would pay cash, ask no questions, and give no answers. Money in whatever form moved easily in a vacuum.

The private art and collectible market was a healthy, long-running shadow economy, impossible to stamp out. Simple, and sometimes secret, possession was everything to the kinds of buyers Dred knew. More than mere connoisseurs, they were what they owned.

The wonderful thing was that he wouldn’t have to actively pursue his business for a while, and he could instead pursue prizes much more interesting.

Like Carlie Clark. Close enough to Quinn to hurt him, but with several prime targets left—like Jody and Pearl.

Something to think about.

 

 

The killer had been stalking Carlie with extreme care. One of Quinn’s detectives was always near her. The killer had to be especially alert to the fact that if he made the slightest mistake, he might be seen, identified somehow, and apprehended.

No. Not apprehended.

A mistake on either side could exact the ultimate cost.

That made the exercise enjoyable.

Here came Carlie now from Bold Designs, not knowing that he had bold designs on her.

What was this? She’d had her hair dyed a much lighter blond, and it was hanging straight and curtain-like, partially concealing one side of her face or the other as she moved. A beautiful woman, presented simply to the world as such. There was almost a spirituality to her earth-mother blond beauty. Peter and Paul had to be around here someplace with a couple of guitars.

She was dressed more boldly, too. A blue summer matching outfit with a short skirt, navy blue, very high heels that added inches to her height and flashed in the sunlight as she strode along the sidewalk toward her subway stop. She appeared tall, statuesque, and was carrying a small black attaché case this evening. Homework?

Or homicide?

At least there was no sign of the idiot Jesse Trummel. He was an amateur who could throw all sorts of unexpected shit into the game. At least the police seemed to have done their job and kept Trummel away from Carlie, and alive for a while longer. Trummel might thank the police in the future, if he ever gained sense enough to understand what had happened.

The one called Sal was Carlie’s guardian angel today. He was short, which made him slightly more difficult to keep track of in a crowd. The killer was almost certain of where Carlie was going, anyway. Home to her apartment. Maybe she’d stop at a deli down the street from where she lived and get some takeout. She didn’t look dressed for the kitchen.

He decided to cross the street and hurry ahead of Carlie and Sal. The subway trains ran closer together in the early evening, when people were headed home from their jobs. He could train ahead and wait for Carlie, and Sal, near the deli.

Or he could simply go directly to stand across the street from her apartment and observe her. She’d be approximately twenty minutes later if she stopped in at the deli. He’d been tracking her carefully, noting times and places, letting his plan fall into place on its own. It worked best that way, letting fate determine his method, his unconscious seeing possible chinks in whatever protective armor Carlie was supposed to have. An overarching plan, but with adjustments on the run.

Eventually opportunity would present itself in its entirety—the best way for him to spend quality time with Carlie.

That was because fate was on his side.

Not luck, mind you, but fate.