Quinn was on the sofa in the brownstone, leafing through the autopsy photos of Judith Blaney, studying each one carefully. The workmen were busy on the top floor. Sounds of sawing and hammering could be heard, but barely, muted by the thick floor and walls.
Pearl was standing behind the sofa, leaning over Quinn’s shoulder. Her hand rested lightly on his back, weightless as a small bird that had lit there. The hand was either for balance or to display affection. Quinn couldn’t be sure which.
They were going to make a lunch of the lasagna they hadn’t eaten last night at Ricco’s Restaurant. That the gruesome morgue photographs of Judith Blaney didn’t affect their appetites suggested to Quinn that maybe they’d been in this business too long.
He glanced back at Pearl, then straightened the stack of black-and-white photos and placed them on the coffee table. Pearl came around and sat in a chair facing him.
“I was studying those wavering cuts in her torso and thighs,” Quinn said.
“We both were.”
“See anything to them? I mean, in the way of some message being communicated?”
“The message I get is that the Skinner is one sick cookie. Sick and sadistic.”
Quinn sighed and leaned back in the sofa. “What kind of knife do you supposed made those cuts?”
“Something sharp and with a fine point. Probably made for a specific purpose. A specialty scalpel?”
“Nift says no. He doesn’t think the killer’s using any sort of medical implement. But he does admit he can’t be certain.”
“Maybe something for cleaning fish.”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Quinn said.
“Maybe it’s simply another diversion. We are all agreed that the business with the Socrates’s Cavern membership list and letter S are simply that. Not to mention the shoe in the mouth.”
“Diversions, but we’re still forced to waste time checking them out.”
“So maybe we’re supposed to run around in circles trying to figure out what the fancy cut marks on the victims mean. Or maybe they mean nothing.”
“One distinction,” Quinn said. “The killer seems to have enjoyed carving designs in Judith Blaney. He apparently spent a lot of time doing it.”
“I get you,” Pearl said. “It’s his pleasure as well as a diversion.” She sat back and thought. “The wrong rapist identification factor-now that’s a solid connecting thread. I’m sure we’ll find it in Judith Blaney’s murder.”
“That’s what the killer wanted to conceal in the beginning,” Quinn said. “He must have known we’d eventually tumble to it.”
“You don’t suppose,” Pearl said, “that he’s using the rape misidentifications the same way he used the Socrates’s Cavern diversion.”
“You mean there might be a third, actual motive? You’re making my head hurt, Pearl.” But he had to admire her mind’s reach. “It would require too many victims,” he added. “The risk increases with each one.”
“He’s a psycho,” Pearl said. “He might not have done a risk analysis and determined a point of diminishing returns.”
“Oh, I bet he did. In fact, I think we can rely on it.”
She gave Quinn a level stare. A lock of her dark hair dangled near her left eye, giving her a tousled, sexy look. “Are we getting closer?” Her voice seemed slightly husky.
He didn’t want to misunderstand her. “To the killer?”
“Of course.” Her strictly business voice now.
He stared at her. She didn’t seem to have noticed the double entendre. Or maybe she had and was playing dumb. He wished she’d spend the afternoon with him in bed so he could make love to her, try again to convince her that she should move in with him. Yancy Taggart had died long enough ago that his memory no longer stood in the way. Quinn was reasonably sure of that. If only she could make up her mind. Her heart.
“I feel that we are getting closer,” Quinn said, “but I couldn’t tell you why.”
A persistent high-pitched dinging drifted from the kitchen. The oven timer.
“Pearl,” Quinn said, “do you want to stay here after lunch? Maybe spend the night?”
“The lasagna’s ready,” Pearl said. “I’m not.”
When they were almost finished with lunch, the brownstone phone rang.
Nift again.
“I thought I should mention what else I discovered when I cleaned all the blood out of Judith Blaney’s mouth and throat,” he said.
Quinn looked at what was left of his lasagna.
“It seems her tongue was removed,” Nift said.
“Removed?”
“Cut out. Back near its base. Very deftly.”
Quinn said nothing.
“Am I calling at a bad time?” Nift asked.
“No, not at all. Thanks.” Quinn hung up the phone. He looked at Pearl.
“Anything important?” Pearl asked.
“I’ll tell you after you finish lunch,” Quinn said.
Marinara sauce dripped from a corner of Pearl’s mouth. Her tongue darted out and she licked it away. Shrugged. “Whatever.”
Pearl, Pearl…