Serial

21

New York, the present

“I figured that sooner or later I’d see my good buddy Detective Quinn again,” William Turner said.

Quinn was back in the brownstone vestibule that smelled faintly of cat urine. Turner, the former manager and part owner of Socrates’s Cavern, had opened the door and was staring out at him, grinning. He didn’t look so much like Einstein today. With his meaty lips and gapped teeth, he had what could only be called a lascivious grin. It went so well with his former business that Quinn wondered if it might be practiced.

Turner wasn’t wearing a blazer and ascot today. He had on a shimmering purple silk kimono and the same fleecelined leather house slippers he’d worn during Quinn’s last visit. His curly gray hair still looked as if it would overwhelm any comb. His blue eyes were alight with amusement, as if Quinn had just told a joke. Or maybe Turner regarded Quinn simply being there as a joke.

“I heard on the news you found another Skinner victim,” Turner said, “so I suppose you’re here to ask me about Simon Luttrell.” The New York media had already tagged the killer the Skinner. He was going to be valuable to them. Turner opened the door wider and moved aside so Quinn could enter. “Ask away, Detective.”

“Do you have a cat?” Quinn asked.

Turner grinned wider and appeared quizzical. “Pardon me?”

“A ca-”

“No, no. I don’t much care for them.”

Quinn didn’t tell him why he’d asked. The acrid scent in the vestibule that seemed to clog the bridge of the nose. Well, maybe it was some kind of antiseptic cleaning fluid.

He sat down as he had before on the flowered beige sofa, facing Turner’s pottery collection. “It didn’t take long for the news media to pick up the name Simon Luttrell.”

Turner stayed with his grin, but it became knowing as well as lewd. “Prompt coverage is what you might expect, considering the name was scrawled in blood on the bathroom mirror, like with the last victim. And we both know how the NYPD leaks information.”

“Not every compartment is watertight,” Quinn admitted, “but the ship sails on.”

“Poetic and true.”

“Do you remember Simon Luttrell?”

“Never laid eyes on the man, that I can recall. No surprise. Our membership numbered well into the hundreds.”

“He had a gold key.”

“Ah, you’ve been doing your research.”

“Do you recall him now?”

“No. Sorry. Gold-key membership also numbered in the hundreds. It wasn’t as exclusive a club within a club that the members assumed.” Turner strode to a chair and sat down, causing the kimono to work up and reveal thin, bluish ankles. The reflective purple material was so full of static electricity that it actually struck sparks. “Look, Detective Quinn, all Simon Luttrell is to me is ancient history that I’m not particularly interested in and don’t even remember. And as far as I know, he isn’t part of the New York S and M world now.” The gap-toothed, nasty grin again. It came and went so easily on his fleshy face. “What I think,” he said, “is that someone clever is playing with your mind.”

“We’ve considered that,” Quinn said.

“And we both know it isn’t me.” Turner shrugged his narrow, rounded shoulders beneath the kimono. “But, when you’ve got dead tortured women, one after the other, and sexually adventurous men like Philip Wharkin and Simon Luttrell, or someone pretending to be their ghosts, who you gonna call? An old porn king, that’s who.” He sighed. “Hell, I guess it’s only natural. But it’s misguided.”

“How did you know Simon Luttrell was dead?”

“That leaky boat we talked about.”

Quinn decided not to comment. He stood up, not really surprised that he’d drawn a blank here.

Turner also stood. It took him a while, as a man grown old and slow. “You know the one part of me that doesn’t get stiff these days?” he asked.

“I don’t know and I don’t want to guess,” Quinn said as he moved toward the door.

His dismissiveness prompted Turner to further proclaim his innocence.

“I’ve got nothing to do with those killings, Detective Quinn, and I don’t know anyone who’d do such a thing. Hell, I’ve got a daughter myself.” He motioned with his head toward a photo in front of his pottery in the bookshelf. A bright-eyed young girl with springy dark hair grinned crookedly at Quinn from a tilted wooden frame.

Quinn wondered if she knew about her father’s earlier life. He almost asked, then decided it wasn’t relevant. If it ever became relevant, he’d ask.

“We in the porn industry dislike it more than anyone else if some animal’s out there stalking and killing women,” Turner continued. “It brings heat. Like this visit. And all when you should be directing your efforts toward finding the killer.” The silk kimono swished and sparked rhythmically as he escorted Quinn to the door. It made a faint sound like cellophane crackling. “You believe me, I hope.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Quinn said. “It’s more that I’m not sure you speak for everyone in the porn industry. To them, women are product and profit.”

“Not dead women,” Turner said, opening the door to the vestibule. “They’re trouble.”

He offered his hand for Quinn to shake, but Quinn ignored it, fearing electrocution.

Outside on the sidewalk, Quinn wondered if he could believe anything Turner had told him.