In for the Kill

25

Pearl often thought about why moths were drawn to flame. The problem wasn't that she couldn't figure out the reason. It was that she knew. She wondered if the moths knew, too, and didn't give a damn.

That evening she phoned the Waverton Hotel again and asked for Jeb Jones. This time he was in his room and picked up on the second ring.

"I'm the homicide detective you talked to earlier in Marilyn Nelson's apartment," Pearl said. "I have a few more questions to ask. Is this a good time?"

"I'll make the time for you." His voice was mellower over the phone; he seemed more in control.

Pearl was in her apartment, slouched on the sofa with her bare feet up on a hassock. There was a scotch and water in her left hand. Her second in the last hour. The TV was on mute, showing convincingly wrought animated dinosaurs pursuing people through a phony-looking forest. She didn't need her scotch hand. It wasn't as if she were taking notes.

"Did you ever meet any of Marilyn Nelson's friends?" she asked.

"No. I don't think she had many yet. She'd only been in town a short while."

"Did she ever happen to mention anyone? A name?"

"Not that I can recall."

"Had her behavior changed in any way the last time you saw her? Specifically, did she act afraid, or mention anyone who was in any way threatening?"

"No, she was her usual bright self. She didn't act at all like she thought she might be in any danger. She was the kind of girl-woman-that seemed to trust everyone. What happened to her…I think it must have come as a total surprise."

Pearl found herself without a next question. She knew why she'd really called. There was something about Jeb Jones she couldn't get out of her mind. Maybe it was simply that she felt sorry for him. He did seem genuinely crushed by Marilyn Nelson's death. Pearl knew she was a sucker for a bird with a broken wing. Even one who, when nursed back to health, might peck her eyes out.

But the guy wasn't a suspect. The Butcher wouldn't knock on the apartment door of a woman he'd recently murdered.

Unless he returned to recover something he'd forgotten.

Or was the type with a compulsion to revisit the scene of the crime.

Pearl pushed these possibilities to the far edges of her mind and took a sip of watered-down scotch. This wouldn't be the first time she'd become personally involved with someone on the periphery of an investigation. Flirting with a man and with disaster simultaneously. Once burned, twice shy didn't apply to moths.

She'd been quiet for a while, prompting Jones to speak:

"Officer…Kasner, is it?"

"Pearl Kasner."

"Pearl, listen. I know I was a little emotional yesterday. I'm not usually like that. I mean, such a wimp."

"You didn't come across as a wimp." She wanted to help him, soothe and rebuild his ego. "Anyway, it's not as if you burst out crying. And it isn't against the rules for men to show emotion in front of women. In fact, some women count that in a man's favor."

"Some women say that."

There was a silence that was definitely awkward.

Again, Jeb was the first to speak. "I'm ready for more questions."

"I don't have any right now. But I might have to talk to you again."

"I wish you would."

"Try to get some sleep and you'll feel better." Dumb thing to say. Shouldn't have called.

"You, too, Pearl. You must be awfully busy these days."

"Busier than I'd like," she said. "Good night, Jeb."

"'Night, Pearl."

She hung up the phone but kept her hand on it. She wasn't trembling. Not quite. And she was a little angry with herself.

No, more than a little.

What an idiot you are!

Idiot full of scotch!

The phone sprang to life beneath her hand and jangled, starling her. She didn't pick up, didn't feel like talking to anyone else. She'd already made an ass of herself on the phone. Let the machine take it.

"Pearl?" inquired her mother's voice from the machine.

God! There was no one she felt less like talking to now.

"Pearl, are you there? Of course you aren't. Busy making the world safe when you gave up a steady job to put yourself in danger. I thought you were finished with the police and were planning on a normal life. Speaking of which, I talked to Mrs. Kahn, and it's true her nephew Milton is at the moment between relationships after his regrettable divorce from a woman who didn't deserve him. What she put him through you wouldn't believe. Mrs. Kahn says the divorce was a long time coming and, if you'll excuse the expression, financial rape. Of Milton, not the hellion wife. Mrs. Kahn says Milton says he would like to meet you, and I can tell you he's a presentable and kind person and with prospects. I saw him when he came here to visit his aunt, and I will confirm to you that he's a hunka-hunka. There'd be no harm in you two getting together to break bread and break the ice and see what's beneath it even. You should consider, dear. The clock is ticking, and faster than you think. Your mother knows, Pearl. Call your mother."

The machine clicked off.

Maybe not such an idiot.

When Quinn arrived at the office the next morning Pearl was already there, perched on her desk with her arms crossed. Fedderman hadn't yet arrived. The coffee was on and smelled fresh and pungent. Someone thumped three times, hard, on the dividing wall between the office and the dental clinic, possibly a patient attempting escape.

Quinn touched his chin where he'd nicked himself with his razor. This thing with Lauri and Wormy…

"I met Lauri for lunch yesterday," Pearl said.

Quinn sat down behind his desk, the chair cushion hissing beneath him as a reminder that he should lose some weight. "And?"

"We had a long talk. She really is an exceptional girl."

Quinn smiled, then became more serious and began lightly tapping a pencil on the desk. "What I'd like is for her to give herself a chance."

"She's trying to do that," Pearl said. "Her workplace seems okay except for the food."

"And the music."

"What I heard was recorded," Pearl said.

"A mercy."

"I don't know, Quinn. I'm not a parent. But I'd feel okay about Lauri. Life teaches its lessons gradually, and I can see why a father would be impatient, especially if he's…impatient. My advice to you is to stop worrying so much."

"What about that musical geek she's been dating?"

"Wormy? Him I didn't see. Does he have a real name?"

"If he did, no one would use it. Wormy's too apropos. Or maybe it's his show business name, for when he sings and fronts his band at the restaurant."

"Have we got a sheet on him?"

"I'm going to check on that," Quinn said. "I need for you to find out his name nobody uses."

"Me?"

"It might be too obvious if I ask Lauri. And if I ask at the restaurant, somebody, some worm, might recognize me and mention it to her. You could go by the Hungry U when she's not there and ask around in an unofficial capacity."

Pearl stood up from her perch on the desk. "Get hold of yourself, Quinn. You're liable to get that boy fired."

"What if he has a sheet? Deals in drugs, steals cars, or assaults women?"

"You suspect any of that?"

"All of it."

Pearl stared at him and shook her head. "You're overplaying your role as a father, Quinn. I was glad to talk with Lauri, but I'll be damned if I'm going to spy on her or delve into her personal life."

"Personal life?"

"Sex life."

"Damn it, Pearl!"

"Damn what?" Fedderman asked. He'd just come in. The morning was heating up and he already had his suit coat slung over his shoulder, holding it Frank Sinatra-style, hooked on one finger. His tie was crooked and there were crescents of perspiration beneath his arms on his white shirt that was partly untucked.

"Nothing," Quinn said. "I want you to call a restaurant in the Village, the Hungry U, and tell them you're a journalist for Spin magazine. Ask for the real name of a guy whose band is playing there, goes by Wormy."

"That French?

Quinn explained and spelled it for him.

Fedderman had played journalist before and didn't find the request all that unusual. "What's the band called?"

"The Defendants."

"Cute," Fedderman said. "What're we gonna do when we find out who this Wormy is?"

"We're gonna find out who he really is," Quinn said.