Night Kills. John Lutz

the dismemberment. Usually people don’t unaccountably start doing such things all at once.” She reached into the big purse and pulled out a buff file folder, took a few moments to check its contents. “The insertion of the stake occurred after death. That’s interesting. Necrophilia with a substitute penis.”

      “You think?” Pearl asked, glancing at Fedderman.

      “Looks that way,” Helen said. “The dismemberments were neatly done, but apparently not by someone with a medical background. He might have practiced on animals. Possibly on family pets.”

      “Jesus!” Fedderman said. He swiped his shirtsleeve across his mouth. “Will I never get used to these assholes?”

      Helen smiled at him. “It’s good that you don’t.” She sat back as best she could in the rigid chair.

      “That’s all you can give us?” Renz asked.

      “I’m afraid so, at this point. It would be good to have entire bodies, maybe a witness or two. Oh, there is one other thing. He wants you to know both women were killed by him—that’s why he used the same gun.”

      “And the stake?”

      “I don’t know about the stake. Especially after death. Some of this doesn’t yet add up. There’s something especially creepy about this killer.”

      “They’re all sickos,” Pearl said.

      “That’s not the medical term I’d use, but it’s fairly accurate,” Helen said. “This guy, though—and we all know the killer’s almost certainly a guy—promises to be particularly interesting. His mental processes might be unfathomable, even after he’s caught and studied. For instance, he hides the torsos, but not so well that he doesn’t want them found.”

      “Trophies,” Fedderman said.

      “No. More like his calling card. But trophies aren’t uncommon. Maybe he’s keeping the heads as his trophies.”

      Pearl took a noisy gulp of her coffee, burning her tongue.

      “This guy” Helen crossed her legs tighter—“one thing’s for sure about him, he’s a very special case.”

      Tonight he’d just arrived home after a weekend of doing business in London. Whenever Shellie asked David about his business, she got the same vague answers, but she was less and less concerned. She was convinced now that David was a good man. Whatever he was involved in was sure to be benign and legal. He was simply one of those men who wanted a firewall between home life and business. Between love and the real and ugly world outside of love. Shellie understood that. She felt the same way herself.

      Her wardrobe had grown and improved since she had moved in with David. She had on the navy blue dress she knew he liked, bone high-heeled pumps, a double strand of pearls around her neck. Her hair was artfully mussed, the way he liked it. The top button of her dress was undone to reveal a glimpse of cleavage, the way he liked it. Later they would make love, the way he liked it. She was the way he liked her, and she was happy. She was sure David was happy, too. They each had an interest in the other’s happiness. It had kind of surprised Shellie, the way she’d come to feel. Nothing in life pleased her more than pleasing David.

      “Italian tonight?” he asked. Her favorite dishes were Italian. “I thought maybe Randisi’s.”

      Randisi’s was a five-star restaurant on the East Side. Some thought it was the best Italian restaurant in the city.

      “Sounds wonderful.”

      He smiled. “Good. I made a reservation.”

      At the restaurant Shellie heard David tell the maitre d’ there was an eight o’clock reservation for Clyde. Shellie smiled. David always used the name Mr. Clyde when he made reservations, or simply the first name Clyde when asked to leave a name on a waiting list. It wasn’t a bad name, but it certainly didn’t fit his handsome, assured, and debonair presence. She looked at him, so well tailored in a dark blue suit, white-on-white shirt, gray silk tie. Not your usual Clyde. She felt a swell of pride. Her David.

      “Mr. and Mrs. Clyde” were almost immediately shown to a good table near a wide window with a view of the East River.

      They had martinis, then ordered antipasto and cannelloni. David asked for a good red wine. “To celebrate,” he said.

      “What are we celebrating?” Shellie asked.

      “My arrival home.”

      “You’ve only been gone a weekend.”

      “It’s always a cause for celebration when I return to you.”

      “Am I not worth champagne?”

      He grinned. “Shellie, Shellie. You must know you have me in your spell.” He leaned over the table, looking serious. “Do you want champagne?”

      She shook her head no, feeling ashamed. “No, darling. I was only testing you.”

      “Do I pass?”

      “A-plus,” she said. They were talking like two people in a sophisticated play, she thought. This amused her and made her feel slightly silly simultaneously. The swank surroundings must be affecting them. Role playing again. Well, so what? That was all everyone actually did, when you came right down to it. She didn’t see what was wrong with that when she could see so much of what was right with it.

      The food, as usual at Randisi’s, was wonderful. As was the wine. David knew how to choose.

      Outside the restaurant, they were both a bit tipsy. Shellie leaned against David for support.

      He was about to hail a cab when a gleaming dark car pulled to the curb near them. It was a big car, a Chrysler. They were on a one-way street, and the driver’s side was only a few feet away from the sidewalk. The window glided down.

      Shellie assumed the driver would be with a service and he’d try to talk them into taking the car instead of climbing into a cab. She was surprised to see an attractive, hard-faced woman about forty with a gray buzz cut and no makeup. She wore a black pullover shirt with the collar turned up. Her arms were slim but muscular, and Shellie saw that the hand resting on the steering wheel was gloved. Driving gloves, she assumed. Maybe this was a professional driver and the big Chrysler was a car for hire.

      “Need a ride, bro?” the woman asked, looking at David.

      “I’ll be damned,” David said. “What are you doing here, Gloria?”

      “I was on my way home and happened to see you. New York’s not so big that coincidences don’t sometimes occur.”

      “Obviously not,” David said.

      “Anyway, this is my neighborhood. Or at least I regularly drive through it.”

      Now the woman looked at Shellie. She had dark eyes, deeply set and intense. “You must be Shellie.”

      David squeezed Shellie’s arm. “This is my sister, Gloria, Shellie. The only person in New York I’ve told about us.”

      “David and I always share the good things,” Gloria said. Her dark eyes took on a glitter in the reflected red light of the restaurant’s illuminated sign. “That’s the way it’s been since we were children. I know my brother well, and I haven’t seen him fall so hard for a woman in years. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.”

      “Same here,” Shellie said. She moved forward, one foot off the curb, and shook the leather-gloved hand proffered through the open window. Gloria smiled at her, an unexpectedly beautiful smile that caused Shellie to smile back.

      “Listen,” Gloria said, her dark glance darting from one to the other, “why don’t you two come up to my place and have a drink? Afterward, I’ll drive you home. I really do want to get to know you, Shellie. Everything I hear is so positive. Like, finally, you’re the one.”

      Shellie felt a warm rush. That was always what she’d