Authors: John Lutz

Tags: #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Suspense, #Espionage, #General

Pulse (25 page)

“I
received a phone call this morning,” Professor Elaine Pratt said to Chancellor Schueller.

The sun was shining brightly outside the chancellor’s office window, making the Waycliffe campus look pristine and green as a souvenir postcard. A student couple strolled past out on the quadrangle, hand in hand, assuring Elaine that the scene was real and not painted or Photoshopped.

“Subject?” the chancellor asked. He didn’t ask who’d called.

“Juditha Jason,” Elaine said. “Jody.”

“I assume her internship at Enders and Coil is still not going well.”

“She often works late,” Elaine said, giving him a look as if she were peering over her glasses, though she was not wearing glasses.

“I see.”

“She still seems to have a special interest in Meeding Properties’ efforts to evict a pesky client.”

“Youth,” the chancellor said, peering out the window now that Professor Pratt was staring at him. “All those windmills to tilt at.”

“Don Quixote wasn’t young,” she said. “On the other hand, Joan of Arc was.”

“Meaning?”

“Jody’s curiosity and efforts might be broadening beyond the eminent domain case, and in a way that might become serious.”

“Oh. I thought it was going to be something about windmills. You think she ...
suspects
?”

“Not at this point, or we’d know about it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely. Nevertheless, Enders and Coil are getting uneasy about Jody’s presence at the firm.”

“And Meeding Properties?”

“They’re unaware of any discord within the triumvirate.”

Schueller shrugged and turned back toward the professor. “Well? Enders and Coil know what they can do if they’re uneasy.”

“They’d be even more uneasy if they ended Jody’s internship. It would seem to confirm her suspicions.”

“Think she’s smart enough to know that?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Then cutting her loose would make her even more active,” the chancellor said. “And in a more effective way.” He picked up a sharpened pencil, as he often did when ruminating, and drummed out a tiny staccato riff on the wooden desktop. Elaine was sometimes tempted to tell him what he should do with that pencil. “At this juncture,” he said at last, “I think we should let the matter ride.”

“I agree,” Elaine Pratt said. “As long as we remind ourselves from time to time.”

“Remind ourselves?”

“That Jody Jason might be even smarter than we thought.”

“So what is this?” Quinn asked, when he and Pearl were at their desks in the office and Fedderman came in with the mail that had been in the box since yesterday.

“What it looks like, I guess,” Fedderman said. He appeared not to have had much sleep. His brown suit was more wrinkled than usual, and what hair he had left needed a trim. “A package addressed to you personally. Brown paper wrapping, neatly sealed with brown packaging tape.” Fedderman hoisted the small rectangular package with one hand. “Doesn’t weigh much.” He held it to his ear. “Not ticking.”

“Give it here,” Quinn said, holding out his hand.

Fedderman tossed the package to him. He was right. It wasn’t very heavy.

Quinn examined the label. Unadorned black felt tip printing on a plain white label.

“There’s no postage marking,” Fedderman said.

“Meaning it was placed rather than delivered,” Pearl said, standing up from behind her desk. She looked worried. “Where exactly was it, Feds?”

“On the floor just beneath our brass mail slot, where the postman usually leaves packages.”

“What’s the return address?”

“No return address,” Quinn said.

“Don’t open it,” Pearl said.

Quinn looked at Fedderman, who shrugged.

“We can’t call the bomb squad to open all our mail,” Quinn said.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Pearl said. She picked up her desk phone and began pecking out a number.

“Who are you calling?”

“Harley Renz.”

“For God’s sake, Pearl. Don’t stir him up.”

But it was too late. She had called Renz’s direct line.

It took her only a few minutes to tell Renz about the package. Then she listened for about ten seconds and hung up.

“What’d he say?” Fedderman asked.

“He’s sending somebody over from bomb disposal.”

“What?” Quinn said. “One of those robots to open our mail?”

“That robot,” Pearl said, “would be the second smartest person in the room.”

The street door swished open, then the door to the office.

“Fast work,” Fedderman said.

But it wasn’t the bomb disposal guy; it was Lido, come either to report or to work on the high-tech NYPD computer Renz had loaned Q&A. He was wearing dark slacks almost as wrinkled as Fedderman’s. His white shirt was untucked and buttoned crookedly.

“You already been at the sauce?” Quinn asked him.

“It’s how I do my best work,” Lido said.

Quinn looked him up and down. They weren’t talking about hot sauce. “Jesus, Jerry! It’s ten in the morning.”

Lido made a dismissive motion with his right hand, as if shaking liquid from his fingers. And maybe there really was liquid on his fingers. “I just pretend I’m someplace where it’s some other time,” he said.

“Does that work?” Pearl asked.

“In some other place it does.” Lido’s bleary eyes fixed on the package Quinn held. “What’s that?”

“We think it might be a bomb,” Pearl said.

Lido stared at all three of them, and then turned around and left.

When they heard the street door again five minutes later they thought Lido was returning. Instead it was the bomb disposal guy, who turned out to be a woman. She was about forty, sweetly pretty, and slightly overweight. Or maybe it was the uniform and all the gear dangling from her belt that made her just look overweight. At her side, held lightly by a short leather leash, was a large German shepherd.

“You the explosives expert?” Quinn asked.

“He is,” she said, nodding down at the dog. The dog looked at Quinn as if daring him to question his expertise.

“What’s his name?” Pearl asked.

“Boomer.”

“Of course,” Fedderman said.

“Can I pet him?” Pearl asked.

“If he’ll let you.”

That was a vague enough answer to keep Pearl where she was in her desk chair.

“I’m Darlene,” the bomb disposal cop said. She fixed her blue gaze on the package on Quinn’s desk corner. “That the suspicious package?”

“If you want to be suspicious,” Quinn said.

“I do,” Darlene said. “It’s how Boomer and I stay alive.”

No one spoke for a few seconds.

“That was sobering,” Fedderman said.

Darlene and Boomer had crossed the room and were standing in front of Quinn’s desk. Darlene brought her forefinger close to but not touching the brown package, and the dog looked up at her and then began sniffing the package.

Quietly, calmly, it sniffed for several seconds, and then backed away.

“It doesn’t contain explosives,” Darlene said. “But just in case, why don’t the three of you leave while I open it.” She didn’t pose it as a question.

“I thought you said it didn’t contain explosives,” Fedderman said.

“There’s only one way to be absolutely sure,” Darlene said. She had opened a case made of black plastic-like material with gray lining. There were various tools fitted inside. There appeared to be more tools than were needed to do the job. “Boomer and I won’t be long,” Darlene said. “Don’t let anyone inside.” She stood motionless, waiting for them to leave.

They went outside and stood on the sidewalk, about twenty feet away from the door. Darlene was right: there was only one way to be sure.

“Whaddya think?” Fedderman said.

“Candy from an admirer,” Pearl said. “In which case, I want to see the card.”

“Cigars from an admirer,” Quinn said, just to get under Pearl’s skin.

“Maybe something to do with the case,” Fedderman said. “Like a clue.”

The door opened and Darlene motioned that they could come back inside.

Fedderman’s guess was closest to the truth. The brown paper and tape lay folded neatly on the desk corner. Near it, on a plain white sheet of paper, lay something Quinn didn’t immediately recognize.

“That was inside,” Darlene said. She pointed to a smaller slip of paper that was creased from being tightly folded. Beneath it was something beneath white tissue that Quinn would get to after dealing with the folded paper. One thing at a time. Darlene would approve.

Barely touching the paper with the tip of his retracted ball point pen, Quinn examined both sides.

There was nothing on the paper other than a small black printed question mark. Admirer or not, the sender was secret.

Quinn used the pen to move the tissue out of the way so they could see what was beneath it.

Again, no one spoke for a few seconds.

“It looks like a pouch,” Fedderman said, “made of soft leather with a leather drawstring on top.”

“I think it’s a tobacco pouch,” Darlene said. “But it would do for jewelry.” She reached out with an exploring fingertip. “That leather’s like butter. It’s pretty high-quality goods. Boomer sure wouldn’t mind chewing on it.” She pointed with her pink-enameled nail to the bottom of the pouch. “What’s that gnarly looking thing on the bottom?”

“That’s a nipple,” Quinn said.

Darlene and Boomer stood staring at the pouch. Darlene’s expression began to change.

Pearl pointed toward the half-bath over by the coffee machine.

Darlene and Boomer crossed the room so fast that Boomer stepped with a heavy paw on Pearl’s toe.

Quinn picked up the folded paper by its edges to look again at the question mark.

Q
uinn was back behind his desk. Darlene and Boomer had gone and taken the pouch with them. The lab would doubtless be able to match the DNA with one of the victims.

Unless the pouch had been fashioned from the breast of one of Daniel’s earlier victims. Was that what the monster was doing with his victims’ body parts? Using them for some kind of grotesque hobby?

It seemed too horrible to be possible, but Quinn knew that human beings were capable of any nightmare they could conjure.

Helen the profiler had come in to the office. Quinn wanted her to be in on this. Her short, carrot-colored hair was ruffled and looked soft, as if she’d just washed it and sat under a dryer. Probably, Quinn figured, she’d rubbed it dry with a towel and forgotten about it. Her denim shorts made her long legs look even longer. She had on blue jogging shoes and a sleeveless Fordham sweatshirt. Quinn didn’t think she’d attended Fordham, more likely some college in the Midwest where they played basketball. He’d asked her once if she’d played basketball and she told him no, but she was a fan. Just because a woman was over six feet tall didn’t mean she’d played basketball.

Quinn had wondered why not.

“He’s trying to taunt us,” he said.

“More to it than that,” Helen said. She was wearing either no makeup or scant makeup skillfully applied.

Pearl returned from the coffee machine carrying two steaming mugs. “It’s goddamned gruesome,” she said, handing one of the mugs to Helen.

Helen accepted the mug and moved away a few feet to sit on a different desk. She’d been perched on Pearl’s. Now Pearl sat down at her desk and placed her coffee mug on a cork coaster.

“If the killer’s trying to send someone a message, it’s probably Quinn,” Fedderman said.

“And it’s probably more than a simple taunt,” Helen said.

“I don’t know if it’s complicated,” Quinn said. “He wants to get me mad so I screw up. He’s playing chess.”

“The chess analogy goes only so far,” Helen said.

“Maybe the idea is to make you feel vulnerable,” Fedderman said, thinking back on his recent conversations with Penny.

“That’s closer,” Helen said. “But it’s also possible that he wants to demonstrate how vulnerable Pearl is.”

Fedderman appeared puzzled. “Why Pearl in particular ?”

“Because he knows we’re living together,” Quinn said. “He sees Pearl as my possession and wants to show me he can take it away whenever he chooses.”

“Women as toys for the sadist,” Pearl said.

Fedderman sipped his coffee, which had become cool. “I dunno, Pearl. It could simply be that you’re his type and he wants you the way he wanted those other women. That’s what the pouch might signify—he’s objectifying you. You’re no more to him than another souvenir pouch.”

“Thanks,” Pearl said.

“Or some other kind of souvenir,” Helen said.

“No, he’s a breast man,” Fedderman said.

Pearl shot him a glance that would have stung a more sensitive person.

“The package was addressed to me,” Quinn reminded them.

“He wouldn’t send something valuable like that direct to a mere possession of yours,” Helen said.

“That might well be,” Quinn admitted. Once you figured out where Helen was coming from, she tended to make a lot of sense.

“Men!” Pearl said. “It’s always about you.”

“Helen’s the one that worked it out,” Fedderman said, “and she’s a woman.”

Pearl had no adequate response to that, but she wished now that she hadn’t fetched Helen’s coffee.

“Whatever is in this sicko’s mind,” Quinn said, “Pearl is in danger.”

“And she’s being followed,” Fedderman said.