Mister X

33

When Quinn got to his apartment he found that he wasn't tired. Too much adrenaline in his blood. Too much coffee. And probably the cigars didn't help.

He stayed away from both as he went to his den, sat behind his desk. He couldn't help noticing that the apartment was stuffy and smelled like cigar smoke. May would raise hell if she still lived here. So would Pearl. Women didn't seem to like cigars. Was there some Freudian reason?

Freud would probably say so.

Quinn got his legal pad from the shallow middle drawer.

He read over and thought about what he had so far: Tiffany Keller years ago, last victim of the Carver. Her twin, Chrissie, wins the Triple Monkey whatever slot-machine jackpot and finds herself suddenly moderately wealthy. Decides to use the money to find sister's killer. Or, more accurately, to avenge sister's death. NYPD demonstrates no interest in reopening the case. Chrissie, after pretending to be Tiffany's ghost to get attention, finally admits who she is and hires Q. amp; Assoc. to find the Carver. After paying a handsome retainer, Chrissie disappears. Pearl notices Chrissie deleted any and all photographs of Tiffany from news items in the folder she left with Quinn. Photos on the Internet reveal that Chrissie and Tiffany looked nothing alike. Renz phones and tries to warn Q amp;A off the case.

Then there was the notation that Chrissie was not to be trusted. Well, nothing had changed there.

The next entry on the legal pad read: Maureen Sanders found dead, wounds unlike those made by the Carver, too shallow, silver spoon in mouth, like Carver's sick humor. Carver, but older so more hesitant? Mary Bakehouse attacked before Maureen Sanders. Carver frightened away? Chooses more helpless victim Sanders? Chrissie still missing. Carver victim?

Quinn noticed as he had the last time he'd used the pad that there were too many question marks.

He picked up a pen from the desk and added on the legal pad: Renz tries to shut down case. Q. calls Cindy Sellers to help pressure Renz to continue investigation and so info flows both directions. Chrissie returns. (Brown eyes now blue-used contacts to look more like Tiffany.) Shadow woman almost caught in Mary B. apt. bldg. (Trust no one.)

That was about it, Quinn thought, putting the pad back in the desk drawer. He wasn't sure whether to call it progress or additional frustration.

He went into the kitchen and poured himself two fingers of Famous Grouse scotch in a water glass, added some ice cubes.

Then he went in to watch television. A French movie was on PBS. Quinn was partial to French movies. You never knew what direction they were going to take. So like life.

"You should move in with me," Yancy said to Pearl.

"We hardly know each other."

"We know each other superficially, and that's the best way."

They were having breakfast in his kitchen. Pearl had made cheese omelets. She had a lacy but functional apron tied around her waist. Yancy had wanted her to wear it and only it, but she'd demurred and gotten dressed in slacks and a knit pullover before donning the apron. She hadn't felt so domestic in years.

"I mean," Yancy continued, "you're spending your nights and parts of your days here anyway, so why shouldn't you throw some clothes in a suitcase and stay here with me?" He was showered and fully dressed in shirt and tie, looking at her as if all he saw on her was the apron. Theater of the mind.

She took a bite of omelet and chewed for a while, letting him think she was mulling over his proposition. "It isn't so simple, Yancy."

"So bring some furniture."

"I don't mean that. It's the…"

"What? Appearances?"

"No, I don't give a rat's ass about appearances. I'm talking about how it'd be between you and me."

"It'd be the way it is now, only more of it."

"No, it wouldn't be exactly the way it is now. We'd soon become…a couple."

He smiled handsomely at her with his refreshing blankness. "Yeah, I can count."

"What you're proposing is something like a marriage. In fact, if we lived that way long enough it'd become a common-law marriage."

He forked in more omelet, then swallowed and took a sip of coffee. "A legal technicality."

"I'm not cut out for marriage of any kind."

"I wouldn't say that. You're a hell of a good cook. And you look terrific in that apron."

"Ugh! See, you're trying to domesticate me already."

"Like a wild mare in a corral," he said.

Horse analogies while I'm wearing an apron like June Cleaver? What the hell does he mean by that?

This was the kind of thing that could be a problem. While Yancy was ostensibly transparent, there were times when he thought in ways that baffled her. Or was that simply a complicated way of saying he was devious and a skilled liar?

Pearl warned herself: Don't make a two-sided problem six-sided. For that matter, don't create a problem where there's no problem at all.

An amused comprehension glowed in his blue eyes. "Do you think I'm too old for you?"

"No. You don't seem too old for anybody."

"Maybe you don't like the white hair," he said.

"It's more the dark roots."

"I explained why I-"

"Yeah, but it seems dishonest."

He seemed mildly surprised. "It's not dishonest. Not even illegal, immoral or fattening. It's simply me, slightly altered for convenience."

"But you seem to alter almost everything for your convenience."

"Why not, if it's convenient?"

She smiled to temper any insult. "To tell you the truth, darling, everything you say is subject to doubt."

"That kind of consistency is hard to find in a man. Anyway, truth is an amorphous concept."

"You do tell the kind of lies I like. Practical lies."

"So move in with me. We'll tell the neighbors we're siblings. Let them think we're doing unspeakable things to each other."

Yuk! Yet Pearl had to admit there was something about such a charade that tickled her perverse side. Not the notion of sibling sex-that was absolutely repugnant. But its very repugnance made it kind of appealing as a pretend way to put one over on the neighbors. Yes, horrifying the neighbors could be fun.

No, no, no!

But for a moment the devil in her mind had considered it. That was the sort of thing that made her uneasy about being so close to Yancy. He seemed to understand her entire spectrum of emotions, and he could play it as if it were a harp. That made her feel vulnerable. Floating a sister-brother illicit relationship rumor as a diversion while simply living together. Quinn would never suggest such a sick thing, even jokingly.

Serious, obsessive Quinn.

It struck her again: Maybe Yancy's appeal was that he was so unlike Quinn.

So what's wrong with that?

"If it would make you feel better," Yancy said, "we could tell people we've been married twenty years. Even have families out there from previous marriages. And in-laws. Though I don't have any of either."

More lies.

"Do you have any family in the area?" he asked.

Pearl hesitated. But why lie like Yancy?

"Just my mother," she said. "In New Jersey."

"No kidding? I'd like to meet her. You know what they say, if you're going to pretend to be married to a woman, you should meet her mother."

"No," Pearl said, "you shouldn't."

"So think about my offer," Yancy said.

"This is me thinking," Pearl said. She stood up from her chair and began clearing the table, even though there were a few remaining bites of omelet on Yancy's plate. "I've gotta get outta here and go to work."

Yancy sat back and crossed his arms, watching her and grinning lewdly.

"That apron!" he said. "There's something about a really sexy woman wearing an apron."

"Try thinking of something else."

"Washing the dishes bare-breasted?"

"Don't ever do that in front of me," Pearl said.