Mister X

64

Quinn told Pearl she should take some time off and pull herself together. He wanted her to wait until Yancy was buried before even thinking about returning to work. Of course she ignored his advice. She was at her desk the next morning.

Pearl was locked on.

Even the afternoon after Yancy's funeral in New Jersey-paid for partly by Pearl but mostly by the Wind Power Coalition, as Yancy had no living relatives-Pearl came in to the office.

Quinn walked in and found her there, alone. They'd all attended the service and funeral. Afterward Vitali and Mishkin had left to tend to NYPD business for Renz. Probably they were filling Renz in on every detail of the attempt on Pearl's life, up to and including Yancy's funeral. Fedderman was reinterviewing Pearl's neighbors to see if anyone had recalled some minor detail that might have major significance.

Fresh news, much of it inaccurate, would be in tomorrow's City Beat as well as in the major papers. Cindy Sellers had been at the funeral, wearing a tight black dress accessorized with a small black digital camera. There had been no gathering after the funeral. Some of the mourners had gone on their own to an upscale Manhattan bar near Grand Central Station to drink and reminisce about Yancy. They were mostly men, expensively dressed, neatly groomed and with styled haircuts. If they weren't staying in Manhattan they had trains to catch to upscale communities back in New Jersey or in Connecticut. Quinn didn't know who they were. Neither did Pearl. Brother lobbyists, maybe.

The office was hot and damp, but Pearl didn't seem to notice. Her world was internal. Quinn walked over and switched on the air conditioner. The metallic hammering began, and he slapped the side of the unit. The hammering noise remained, but it was softer, as if in respect for Pearl's grief.

Quinn's shirt stuck to his perspiring back as he settled into the warm leather upholstery of his desk chair.

Sitting slouched behind his desk, he looked over at Pearl. There was a sheen of perspiration on her forehead and above her upper lip. She'd stopped at her apartment, or brought clothes, and had changed from her funereal black dress into tan slacks and a white tunic gathered at the waist with a maroon sash. Her eyes were slightly puffy, but other than that there was no sign that she'd been crying disconsolately only hours ago in New Jersey. The funeral, Yancy, were part of the past now, on the continent. Manhattan was another place altogether, an island. A hunting ground more sophisticated than veldt or jungle, and every bit as deadly.

On a corner of Pearl's desk was a lush floral arrangement Quinn remembered from the funeral home, though it hadn't been transported to the gravesite. The mortuary must have given the cut flowers to Pearl, and she brought them here, where they should last about a week if she kept them watered in their pressed glass vase. Quinn wondered what Pearl thought when she looked at them. Was she fondly remembering Yancy, or using the sight of the flowers to stoke the fire in her heart so she could find his killer?

Quinn said, "You all right, Pearl?"

"Um."

Apparently she didn't want to talk.

The phone rang, and Quinn punched the glowing line button and picked up before Pearl had a chance to answer. He saw by caller ID that the call's origin was Roosevelt Hospital.

"Quinn and Associates Investi-"

"It's Fedderman, Quinn. How's Pearl doing?"

Quinn glanced over at Pearl and caught her lowering her eyelids. She'd been staring over at him, curious.

"Okay," he said.

"What I called for," Fedderman said, "is Lisa Bolt is conscious."

"Is she-"

"She's slightly addled, but the doc says that's natural and there's no apparent brain damage. You know head injuries, how they bleed. It was bad, but not as bad as it looked. The rest of her's about healed up, too. She's in pretty good shape, Quinn, considering."

"What about her tongue?" Quinn saw Pearl glance over again.

"It can wag at us this afternoon, if we don't push her too hard."

Quinn looked at his watch. "It's afternoon now."

"So it is."

"See you shortly."

Quinn replaced the receiver and stood up behind his desk.

"Want to go for a drive?" he asked.

Pearl looked at him with her puffy eyes. "Where to?"

"The hospital. Lisa Bolt is awake."

A change came over Pearl's features. Within seconds, grief had given way to a hardness and determination. "Let's go."

"You sure you're up for this?"

"You sure you can stop me?"

"Actually," Quinn said, "I'm not."

As they were leaving, she turned back and lifted the vase of mortuary flowers. She deftly removed the tag and black ribbon without damaging a flower.

"For Lisa Bolt," she said. "They might help make her more talkative."

Quinn grinned at her with a kind of sadness. "Pearl, Pearl…"

"I can't think of a better use for them," Pearl said.

"Nor can I."

Quinn put up the BACK SOON sign and locked the door behind them.

They got in the Lincoln, Quinn at the wheel. On the drive to the hospital Pearl was quiet, but he could feel the energy coming off her damp flesh like waves of high-tension electricity. It reminded him of the way you could put your fingers up close to a TV screen and see the individual hairs on the back of your hand rise.

Lightning stitched the gray summer sky, bright enough to hurt the eye even in daylight. Quinn wondered if it was a coincidence.

He lay in agony, the edge of the knife blade resting lightly on his chest. He'd thought he was in control, but it hadn't turned out that way. The need had always been there, and now it was alive.

Unknown forces, driven by shame and guilt, were in control. He could see his fate moving like clouds across the ceiling.

This must not happen.

He should have known, should have been more careful, should have planned better.

Didn't he think he'd someday reach this point?

"Should have" is in the past.

The past that he'd thought was dead. That he feared so that it ruled his dreams. The past.

It must not happen again. It must not!

He had said the words aloud the first time to gather courage. Now he said them again, this time only in his mind.

I am a fool.

He applied the knife.

I must wash the sheets carefully.