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Excerpt

Excerpt

Mister X

Quinn had found a box of paper clips in his bottom desk drawer
and was just straightening up when the dead woman entered his
office.

She’d startled him, the way she’d come in without
making any noise.

She wasn’t what you’d call beautiful, but she was
attractive, with slim hips and legs inside new-looking stiff jeans,
small breasts beneath a white sleeveless blouse. Her shoulder-
length hair was brown, her eyes a deeper brown and slightly
bulbous. She had symmetrical features with oversized lips, a slight
overbite. A yellow file folder stuffed with what looked like
newspaper clippings was tucked beneath her left arm. Her right hand
held a brown leather shoulder bag, the strap scrunched up to act as
a handle. She’d said on the phone her name was Tiffany
Keller. If she were still alive, Quinn thought, she’d be
pushing thirty.

There was a kind of grim resolve to her expression, as if
she’d just been affronted and was about to fire back.

The generous mouth suddenly arced into a toothy smile, and the
dogged expression disappeared entirely, as if a face like hers
couldn’t hold such a visage for long. Quinn was left with the
impression that he’d momentarily glimpsed someone else
entirely.

“Captain Frank Quinn, I presume.”

“Just Quinn,” he said. “Like the lettering on
the door, Quinn and Associates Investigations.”

“I was aware you were no longer with the NYPD,” she
said.

“Want to sit down?” he asked, motioning with a paper
clip toward one of the walnut chairs angled in front of his
desk.

“I’ll stand, thanks.” Her smile widened.
“I’m Tiffany Keller.”

He continued staring at the woman while his right hand groped
for the empty glass ashtray he used to contain paperclips.
“You said when you phoned earlier to make this appointment
that you were Tiffany Keller. Would you be the same Tiffany Keller
who was a victim of a serial killer?”

“That would be me.”

Unable to look away from her, he turned the tiny box upside down
and dropped the paper clips into the ashtray, hearing the faint
clickety sound that told him he’d hit his glass target.
“Excuse me, but aren’t you dead?”

“Not exactly.”

Wondering where this was all going, Quinn tossed the empty
paper-clip box into the wastebasket inside the desk’s
kneehole. It landed on recently shredded paper and didn’t
make a sound. “What is it you want, Tiffany?”

“I want you to find the Carver.”

The Carver was a serial killer who’d taken five victims,
the last one five years ago, and then suddenly ceased killing. In
the way of most serial killers, he’d slain only women. His
victims’ nipples had been sliced off and a large X carved on
their torsos just beneath their breasts. Then their throats had
been cut.

At the time, Quinn had been laid up after being shot in the leg
during a liquor store hold-up, and hadn’t been involved in
the Carver investigation. He’d followed it in the papers and
on TV news with a temporary invalid’s distracted interest. It
had been one of his few alternatives to staring at the ceiling. If
he remembered correctly, Tiffany Keller had been the Carver’s
last victim.

He leaned back in his desk chair and studied his visitor more
closely.

She didn’t wilt under his scrutiny.

“Actually I’m Tiffany’s twin sister,”
she said.

“Then why the act?” he asked.

She smiled even wider. Lots of even white molars. Quinn would
bet she’d never had a cavity. The large white smile gave her
a kind of flashy cheerleader look. It would dazzle you even in the
cheap seats.

“I thought one of the Carver’s victims herself
appealing to you to take this case might be more convincing,”
she said. She spoke with a hint of accent, her intonations flat and
slightly drawn out. She wasn’t from the Northeast. Probably
someplace Midwestern. Corn country. “I’m
Chrissie.” Ahm. “Chrissie Keller. My twin sister and I
were named after two of our mom’s favorite eighties recording
stars, Chrissie Hynde and Tiffany.”

“Tiffany who?”

“She didn’t use a last name. Some artists
don’t.”

“Some artists I’ve met don’t, either,”
Quinn said.

“Like pickpockets and confidence men and such?”

“Uh-huh. And impersonators.”

“I didn’t have to impersonate Tiffany,” she
said. “I just wanted you to think that maybe, for only a
second or two, you were face-to-face with her. A victim asking that
her killer be brought to justice.”

“An emotional appeal.”

“You got it.”

“Justice is a hard thing to find in this world, Chrissie.
Sometimes even hard to define. It can be a lot of work and expense,
and then we might not like it when we find it.”

“Or we might glory in it.”

Never having been in her position, Quinn found it difficult to
disagree.

“I have the means to pay you for your work,” she
said. “And what I want to do with my money is find out who
killed Tiffany and make sure he pays for his crime. This might
sound strange, but I think that’s why I have the money. Why I
won the Tri-State Triple Monkey Squared Super Jackpot.” She
shifted her weight in the stiff jeans so she was standing hip-shot.
“That’s three monkeys in a row three times,” she
said with a note of pride.

“You did that?” he said, figuring she must be
talking about slot-machine winnings.

She swiveled back and forth on the foot her weight rested on, as
if idly crushing a small insect. Her shoes were rubber sandals that
looked as if they must hurt her feet. “I surely did. With a
lucky quarter, and a good reason to win the hundred and thirty-nine
thousand dollars.” Her face broke into the big smile.
“That’s still a lot of money after taxes.”

“Even here in New York,” Quinn said. He leaned back
again in his chair, farther this time, making it squeal a warning
that it might tip and send him sprawling, make him pay for flirting
with danger. He said, “Now you’re on a
mission.”

“That I am, Mr. Quinn. Don’t tell me to go to the
police, because I already have. They’re not interested. The
Carver murders happened too long ago, and I got the impression the
police don’t want to be reminded of a serial killer case they
never solved.”

“Bureaucracies hate being reminded of their
failures.”

“I’m not interested in what they hate or don’t
hate. I’m interested in justice for Tiffany.”

Justice again.

“People on a mission scare me,” Quinn said, thinking
he had a lot of room to talk. But what he’d said was true. He
sometimes scared himself. “You’re not from New
York.”

She looked a little surprised and licked her big red lips.
“It shows that much?”

“Not a lot,” Quinn said. He tapped a forefinger to
his cheekbone beneath his right eye and smiled. “Trained
observer.”

Chrissie pulled the chair closer to the desk and sat down. She
crossed her legs tightly, as if she were wearing a skirt and not
jeans, or as if she thought Quinn might glimpse too much denim-clad
thigh and go berserk and attack her. “I’m from
Holifield, Ohio. So was Tiffany, of course. It’s a small
town. Most folks work for the chemical plant or for Tread- strong
Truck Tire Manufacturing. Tiffany worked in the plant for a while;
then she came here to New York to try to become an actress. She got
killed instead.” A firm expression came over Chrissie’s
face. Her lips compressed together over her protruding teeth and
paled, but only for an instant. “I want that
rectified.”

“Avenged?”

“That, too. You should know, Mr. Quinn, that when one twin
dies the other also dies a little. And the way Tiffany died...well,
it’s almost like it happened to both of us. Twins’
deaths are special.”

“Everyone’s death is special to them.”

Chrissie leaned forward in her chair, her hands cupped over her
knees. She had long fingers, well-kept nails. No rings. “The
police called the Carver investigation a cold case, Mr. Quinn. I
want it heated up again. I want my mission to be your
mission.”

“You need to give this some thought,” Quinn said.
“The NYPD cops aren’t fools. Most of the time, anyway.
They couldn’t solve the Carver murders five years
ago.”

“I’ve read about you, Mr. Quinn. When it comes to
serial killers, you’re smarter than the police. Smarter than
anyone.”

“Now you’re making me blush.”

“I doubt if much of anything does that,” she
said.

“Now you’ve reverted to insult.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I was referring to your
experience, the fact that you’re a winner.”

“Praise again. I’m getting whiplash.”

“I’ll put my faith in you, and my money on
you,” Chrissie said.

“Investigations go into the cold-case file; time
passes.... They get harder to solve. I couldn’t promise you
much.”

“I’m not interested in promises,” Chrissie
said. “Just results. Like you are.” The smile came
again, a red slash of amusement that broke into speech. “They
say you’re only interested in results, that you skirt the
rules in ways an actual cop couldn’t. That you’re a
hunter who never gives up.” She edged even farther forward in
her chair, as if she might spring across the desk and devour him
with her big smile. “What do you say?”

“I give up. What do I say?”

“You say yes, of course.”

“I guess I shouldn’t have left it up to
you.”

He watched her pick up her worn leather purse from where
she’d leaned it against the chair leg and reach into it for
her checkbook.

He didn’t try to stop her. For all he knew she was right.
Right and lucky. That was why she’d won the Tri-State Triple
Monkey Squared Super Jackpot.

What had he ever won?

It had all been so quick, and the eye could be fooled.

Pearl Kasner, acting as hostess, stood off to the side in the
dim entrance alcove of Sammy’s Steaks, unsure of what
she’d just seen.

She’d waited patiently, making sure she was on the
periphery of Linda’s vision. A slender and tireless young
woman with hair that dangled in natural ringlets around her ears,
Linda was one of the busier food servers at Sammy’s. The
customers were crazy about her.

As she ran another diner’s credit card, Linda casually
drew what looked like a small black box from her pocket, laid it on
the counter, and swiped the card a second time.

Back went the box into her apron pocket.

It was all done so quickly and smoothly that you had to be
watching for it, looking directly at it, to notice it.

Pearl edged back completely out of sight and smiled.

She’d been right when she’d noticed Linda the first
time. Whenever Linda was alone settling a diner’s check, she
would run the card twice, once legitimately, the second time to
record the card’s number in the device she carried concealed
in her apron pocket. For several days, the customers’ names
and card numbers could be used safely to purchase merchandise. When
finally the diners realized what was happening and notified the
credit card company, they wouldn’t be likely to connect the
stolen number with a not-so-recent steak dinner at
Sammy’s.

Pearl left the foyer unattended and weaved her way between
white-clothed tables and across the restaurant. She was slightly
over five feet tall, with vivid dark eyes, red lips, and black,
black shoulder-length hair. Pearl drew male attention, and when
attention was paid, said males saw a compact, shapely body with a
vibrant energy about it. Her ankles were well turned, her waist
narrow. She had a bust too large to be fashionable, but only in the
world of fashion.

No one who looked at Pearl was disappointed.

She approached a booth where a lanky but potbellied man in a
wrinkled brown suit lounged before a stuffed mushroom appetizer and
a half-empty martini glass. He was past middle age and balding, and
the day Pearl started pretending to be a hostess, he had started
pretending to be a slightly inebriated customer who ordered
appetizers as an excuse to drink alone. That was better than
drinking at the bar, where the mostly under-forty club was watching
and discussing baseball. Discussing it loudly and sometimes
angrily. They could really get worked up over steroid use.

The solitary drinker was Larry Fedderman, who had long ago been
Quinn’s partner in an NYPD radio car, and later his fellow
Manhattan South homicide detective. Fedderman, retired from the
department, had been living in Florida when Quinn founded Quinn and
Associates. Pearl had been working as a uniformed guard at Sixth
National Bank in Lower Manhattan.

They’d both stopped what they’d been doing and went
to work for Quinn as minority partners in Quinn and Associates
Investigations. They were the associates.

Restaurateur Sammy Caminatto had hired QAI to discover how his
cousin’s Visa card number was stolen, when the only place
he’d used his new card and new number, before cutting the
card into six pieces to keep it out of his new trophy wife’s
hands, was at Sammy’s.

Quinn had assigned Pearl and Fedderman to the case, and
they’d slipped into their roles at Sammy’s. Now it
looked as if they’d found the answer to the riddle of the
roaming card numbers. It was in Linda’s apron pocket. Which
Pearl thought was a shame, because she liked Linda, who was cute as
puppies, naïve, and probably being used.

“Looks like Linda’s it,” Pearl said to
Fedderman.

He showed no reaction but said, “I’m surprised. She
seems like a good kid.”

“Maybe she is, but she’s going down for this one.
Carries a mimic card swiper in her apron pocket.”

“I watched for those and missed it,” Fedderman said.
“She must be smooth.”

“You can tell she’s done it before.”

“Let’s not spoil her evening,” Fedderman said,
sipping some of his martini that he hadn’t poured into his
water glass. “Let’s let her copy some more numbers,
build up the evidence against her.”

“Watch her keep breaking the law?”

“Sure.”

“Doesn’t that kind of make us accomplices?”
Pearl asked. Since becoming an associate and not having the NYPD to
cover legal expenses, she’d become cautious about exposing
herself and the agency to potential litigation. Or maybe this was
because she’d become fond of Linda and didn’t want to
compound the mess the young woman was in.

“In a way,” Fedderman said, “but
nobody’ll know but us. And you and me, Pearl, we’d
never rat each other out.”

“I suspect you’re half right,” Pearl said.

She waited till an hour before closing time to call the NYPD,
and Linda was apprehended with the card recorder in her apron
pocket. It contained the names and credit card numbers of five
diners who’d paid their checks with plastic that evening.
Damning evidence.

As she was being led away, Linda was loudly and tearfully
blaming everything on a guy named Bobby. Pearl believed her.

“Men!” Pearl said, with a disdain that dripped.

Fedderman didn’t comment, standing there thinking it was
Linda who’d illegally recorded the card numbers.

A beaming and impressed Sammy told them his check to QAI would
be in the mail, and Pearl and Fedderman left the restaurant about
eleven o’clock to go to their respective apartments. They
would write up their separate reports tomorrow and present them to
Quinn, who would doubtless instruct Pearl to send a bill to Sammy
even though it might cross with his check in the mail. Business was
business.

Fedderman waited around outside the restaurant with Pearl while
she tried to hail a cab. The temperature was still in the eighties,
and the air was so sultry it felt as if rain might simply break out
instead of fall.

It never took Pearl long to attract the eye of a cabbie, so
they’d soon part and Fedderman would walk the opposite
direction to his subway stop two blocks away.

Pearl extended one foot off the curb into the street and waved,
kind of with her whole body.

Sure enough, a cab’s brake lights flared, and it made a U-
turn, causing oncoming traffic to weave and honk, and drove half a
block the wrong way in the curb lane to come to a halt near
Pearl.

“It might have been Bobbie with an
‘I-E,’” Fedderman said, as she was climbing into
the back of the cab. “A woman.”

Pearl glared at him. “Dream on.”

She slammed the cab’s door before he could reply.

Fedderman watched the cab make another U-turn to get straight
with the traffic. He wondered if Pearl had always been the way she
was, born with a burr up her ass. She was so damned smart, but
always mouthing off and getting into trouble. What a waste.
She’d never had a chance to make it any higher in the NYPD
than he had. Fedderman was steady, a plodder, a solid detective,
unskilled at departmental politics and wise enough to stay out of
them. Staying out of things was another of Pearl’s problems.
She couldn’t.

Another problem was that Pearl was a woman, and she had those
looks. Her appearance drew unwanted attention, and she’d
always been too hotheaded to handle it. She’d punched an NYPD
captain once in a Midtown hotel after he’d touched her where
he shouldn’t have. That alone would have been enough to sink
most careers. It hadn’t quite sunk Pearl’s, but there
was always a hole in her boat, and she’d had to bail
constantly just to stay afloat. That was why she’d finally
drifted out of the NYPD and into the bank guard job. She could be
nice to people ten, twenty seconds at a stretch, so it had worked
out okay for her. But she’d never been happy at Sixth
National. She missed the challenge, the action, the satisfaction of
bringing down the bad guys, even the danger.

The way Fedderman had missed that life while chasing after
elusive golf balls down in Florida, or fishing in Gulf waters and
pulling from the sea creatures he didn’t even recognize as
fish.

Like Pearl, he’d been ripe for Quinn’s call.

Fedderman smiled in the direction Pearl had gone and then walked
away, his right shirt cuff unbuttoned and flapping like a white
surrender flag with every stride. If he knew about the cuff, he
didn’t seem to mind.

He did kind of mind that there would be no more free drinks and
appetizers at Sammy’s.

The next morning they were sitting in the arrangement of desks
that made up Quinn and Associates’ office. Quinn was seated
behind his desk, Pearl and Fedderman in chairs facing him.
Low-angled sunlight invaded through the iron-grilled window and
warmed the office. The Mr. Coffee over on the table in the corner
was chuggling away, filling the air with the rich scent of
fresh-brewed beans.

Fedderman had his suit coat off and was slouched sideways,
taking notes. His right shirt cuff was already unbuttoned. That
usually happened because of the way he cocked and dragged his wrist
over paper as he wrote. A sunbeam alive with dust motes had found
Pearl and made her more vividly beautiful than ever. Quinn wished,
as he often did, that what they’d shared together
hadn’t ended. He liked to think that maybe it hadn’t.
He knew Pearl liked to think that it definitely had, for her,
anyway. Could be she was right.

Quinn had made copies of the clippings Chrissie Keller had given
him, and he explained the situation. Pearl and Fedderman listened
carefully. This was the sort of investigation they all liked ---
multiple murder rather than credit card pilfering. In the world of
catching the bad guys and setting things as right as possible,
solving this one could make a person feel useful. If only the case
weren’t more than five years old. They all knew the odds of
rekindling the past and nailing the Carver were long.

“I’ve read a lot about the mystical link between
twins,” Pearl said, when Quinn was finished talking.
“I’d like to say it’s bullshit, but I’m not
so sure.”

“I don’t see how the mystery of twins is in any way
relevant to this,” Fedderman said. “Other than
motivating our client.”

“That’s enough relevance,” Quinn said,
“considering we’re no longer paid by the city.”
He looked at Pearl. “Or by a bank.”

They had all stuck their necks out to create this investigative
agency, and they knew it.

Three people, working without a net. No one said anything for a
while.

“That was a pregnant pause if ever I didn’t hear
one,” Pearl finally said.

Fedderman, who’d been adding tooth marks to his dented
yellow pencil, glanced over at her. “Does that mean we can
expect another, smaller pause?”

“Point is,” Quinn said, “however a
client’s motivated, if it’s legal and ethical,
we’ll gladly accept payment.”

“One out of two would be okay,” Pearl said.

She was ignored.

“You mentioned our client had won some sorta
jackpot,” Fedderman said to Quinn.

“Slot machine thing. She hit a kind of tri-state trifecta
and got temporarily rich. This is how she feels compelled to spend
her money.”

“That mysterious twins business,” Pearl said.
She’d also been taking notes. She tapped her pencil’s
eraser on a front tooth in tiny bounces. “I remember the
Carver murders, how they confounded the hell out of everyone. You
looked through this stuff already, Quinn. Do you think we’ve
really got a chance of finding the killer?”

“A chance, sure.”

“It’d help if we could get the murder books outta
the NYPD cold-case files,” Fedderman said.

“Right now,” Quinn said, “I don’t think
the NYPD would be very cooperative. Understandably, they
don’t want us stirring up something they failed to
solve.”

“Maybe you could talk to Renz,” Pearl said.

Harley Renz was the city’s popular police commissioner,
and a longtime acquaintance of them all. He was an unashamed,
ambitious, and corrupt bureaucratic climber. “Renz would have
the most to lose if we came along after five years and solved a
serial killer case,” Quinn said. “In Harley’s
eyes, that’d be making the NYPD look like dopes.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Fedderman
said. “So what would he lose?”

“Political capital. To Renz, that’s like losing his
own blood. In fact, it is his blood.” Quinn laced his fingers
behind his neck and leaned back in his chair. Maybe too far back.
Pearl was watching him, waiting to see if this time he’d
topple backward. Maybe hoping. “We need to have something
solid before we go to Renz,” Quinn said. “And some way
for him to gain by us solving the case.”

“Meanwhile,” Pearl said, “we do our jobs, and
never mind if our efforts are hopeless.”

“I’ll miss the free drinks and food at
Sammy’s,” Fedderman said. “But to tell you the
truth, I was getting tired of playing the alcoholic businessman.
And Pearl was putting on weight.”

“I’ll come over there and put some weight on your
god- damned head,” Pearl said.

Quinn thought about settling them down so they could all get to
work familiarizing themselves with the five-year-old murder
investigation; then he decided against it. He knew Pearl, and she
wasn’t yet at the point where she would physically attack
Fedderman. And experience had taught Fedderman how to tread around
Pearl just out of range while sticking her with his barbs. So let
them agitate each other, Quinn thought.

It was how they worked best.

Excerpted from MISTER X © Copyright 2011 by John Lutz.
Reprinted with permission by Pinnacle. All rights reserved.

Mister X
by by John Lutz

  • Genres: Fiction, Suspense
  • paperback: 400 pages
  • Publisher: Pinnacle
  • ISBN-10: 0786020261
  • ISBN-13: 9780786020263