Mister X. John Lutz

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?

      2

      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