possible that Daniel had taken over a hundred victims, their bodies still lying in shallow graves or disposed of in ways unimaginable to the normal mind. “Something else I couldn’t help thinking about when I was working on this one, Quinn. Something you really oughta keep in mind. Looking down at Macy, before I peeled back the face and did the brain pan—even after—she kept reminding me of Pearl.”
Quinn hung up the phone hard, causing Fedderman to stare over at him.
“You okay?” Fedderman asked.
Quinn was sweating. Trembling slightly. He dragged the back of his hand across his clammy forehead and sat back. “Yeah. Just talking to Nift about the postmortem.”
“That’ll do it,” Fedderman said. “Anything useful?”
Quinn related his conversation with Nift, now and then thinking about Pearl.
No doubt that was what Nift wanted, not knowing that Quinn would have been thinking about Pearl without being prompted.
Pearl herself entered the office an hour later. She was neatly dressed in gray slacks and blue blazer, shoes with slight high heels on them to raise her at least somewhat above her five-foot-one height. Her breasts didn’t look so prominent beneath the loose cotton fabric of her white blouse. Her eyes were dark and alert, her pale complexion set off by her jet-black hair, which fell to below her shoulders. Vivid was the word most often used to describe Pearl. A sketch in black and white by an artist who loved women.
She nodded good morning to Quinn and Fedderman, and to Sal and Harold, who’d only just arrived themselves. Then she went over and poured herself some coffee in her initialed mug. She was glad to see that someone else, knowing she’d be coming in late, had taken the trouble to make coffee.
“We saved you a doughnut,” Sal said, motioning toward a shallow white bakery box resting on the printer, “but Harold ate it.”
“I didn’t know it was Pearl’s,” Mishkin said quickly.
“That’s okay,” Pearl said. “At least there’s coffee. The four of you must have pitched in and somehow gotten it made.”
“Eat your doughnut,” Sal growled. “We were only kidding about Harold.”
“It’s cream-filled,” Harold said.
Pearl lifted the box’s lid to reveal a small and broken cream-filled doughnut with chocolate icing. Lucky she’d taken the time to toast and eat a bagel in the brownstone. Letting the box lid drop back into place, she made sure they all saw her disdain for the doughnut.
“Since we’re all here,” Quinn said, “we need to have a meeting and coordinate what we know. Maybe get some kinda picture of what we’re dealing with.”
Line one rang on the phones. Pearl picked up the unit on her desk and turned away so her conversation wouldn’t be a distraction. Also, it wouldn’t be overheard.
When she’d finished talking and hung up, she turned back to the others. She was the one who looked distracted.
“That was Rena Collins,” she said. “Macy’s mother. She’s flying into town today to talk to us, and to identify and claim her daughter’s body.”
“This is a homicide investigation,” Quinn said. “We’ll want to hold the body.”
“I told her that,” Pearl said. “I think she understands.”
Quinn raised his eyebrows.
Pearl shrugged. “She wants to see her daughter. She’ll wait for the body. She said she’s bringing a dress.”
No one spoke for a while.
Quinn said, “I’ll call Nift and make sure he makes Macy presentable.”
He immediately realized how callous that sounded, but he couldn’t think of a better way to say that pieces of Mrs. Collins’s daughter were either missing or needed to be fitted back together.
11
Q uinn picked up Rena Collins at her hotel and drove her to the morgue. She was an attractive woman in her fifties, with a trim figure that looked like the result of fanatical dieting and exercise. Her hair was blond, unlike her daughter’s, and she was tan, as if she’d been swimming or
Quinn hung up the phone hard, causing Fedderman to stare over at him.
“You okay?” Fedderman asked.
Quinn was sweating. Trembling slightly. He dragged the back of his hand across his clammy forehead and sat back. “Yeah. Just talking to Nift about the postmortem.”
“That’ll do it,” Fedderman said. “Anything useful?”
Quinn related his conversation with Nift, now and then thinking about Pearl.
No doubt that was what Nift wanted, not knowing that Quinn would have been thinking about Pearl without being prompted.
Pearl herself entered the office an hour later. She was neatly dressed in gray slacks and blue blazer, shoes with slight high heels on them to raise her at least somewhat above her five-foot-one height. Her breasts didn’t look so prominent beneath the loose cotton fabric of her white blouse. Her eyes were dark and alert, her pale complexion set off by her jet-black hair, which fell to below her shoulders. Vivid was the word most often used to describe Pearl. A sketch in black and white by an artist who loved women.
She nodded good morning to Quinn and Fedderman, and to Sal and Harold, who’d only just arrived themselves. Then she went over and poured herself some coffee in her initialed mug. She was glad to see that someone else, knowing she’d be coming in late, had taken the trouble to make coffee.
“We saved you a doughnut,” Sal said, motioning toward a shallow white bakery box resting on the printer, “but Harold ate it.”
“I didn’t know it was Pearl’s,” Mishkin said quickly.
“That’s okay,” Pearl said. “At least there’s coffee. The four of you must have pitched in and somehow gotten it made.”
“Eat your doughnut,” Sal growled. “We were only kidding about Harold.”
“It’s cream-filled,” Harold said.
Pearl lifted the box’s lid to reveal a small and broken cream-filled doughnut with chocolate icing. Lucky she’d taken the time to toast and eat a bagel in the brownstone. Letting the box lid drop back into place, she made sure they all saw her disdain for the doughnut.
“Since we’re all here,” Quinn said, “we need to have a meeting and coordinate what we know. Maybe get some kinda picture of what we’re dealing with.”
Line one rang on the phones. Pearl picked up the unit on her desk and turned away so her conversation wouldn’t be a distraction. Also, it wouldn’t be overheard.
When she’d finished talking and hung up, she turned back to the others. She was the one who looked distracted.
“That was Rena Collins,” she said. “Macy’s mother. She’s flying into town today to talk to us, and to identify and claim her daughter’s body.”
“This is a homicide investigation,” Quinn said. “We’ll want to hold the body.”
“I told her that,” Pearl said. “I think she understands.”
Quinn raised his eyebrows.
Pearl shrugged. “She wants to see her daughter. She’ll wait for the body. She said she’s bringing a dress.”
No one spoke for a while.
Quinn said, “I’ll call Nift and make sure he makes Macy presentable.”
He immediately realized how callous that sounded, but he couldn’t think of a better way to say that pieces of Mrs. Collins’s daughter were either missing or needed to be fitted back together.
11
Q uinn picked up Rena Collins at her hotel and drove her to the morgue. She was an attractive woman in her fifties, with a trim figure that looked like the result of fanatical dieting and exercise. Her hair was blond, unlike her daughter’s, and she was tan, as if she’d been swimming or
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