Her body went into spasms and she emitted a low and frantic moan, over and over. Dwayne knew she had discovered the dead body next to her.

He rolled her so she was again lying on her back, still moaning. She was terrified to look over at Dwayne’s dead father now, and kept her wide, wide eyes fixed on the ceiling. She began kicking with both legs together, so he wrapped the sheet tightly around them so she could kick in only a limited way.

Dwayne stood over Maude, knowing she was helpless. The knife was still jutting from his father’s chest.

Dwayne removed the knife. It slid out easier than it had gone in. He held it where Maude had to look at it. She screamed into the knotted tie, one of his father’s favorites. Dwayne was sure no one could hear her outside the room, much less outside the house. Smiling down at her, he laid the knife gently across her exposed throat. Her horrified eyes were fixed on him. She couldn’t look away. Beneath the horror, she was pleading.

Dwayne couldn’t get out of mind how easily his father had died. Had passed on, or over. Or descended into hell.

Maude was going to have to suffer for both of them. For what they did. For who they were. For who and what he had become.

At the end, the final moment of her life, the beginning moment of her death, they would both know that he possessed her and would possess her for all time. She’d be like an exquisite piece of art, a thing of beauty forever suspended in amber. Whatever happened to her after that, to her corporeal self, didn’t matter.

Leaving the knife where it was, feeling her frantic gaze follow him, he crossed to the bureau and picked up the pack of cigarettes lying next to his father’s wallet and keys. There was an expensive gold lighter there, too.

He walked back to the bed and lit a cigarette, though he didn’t smoke.

They both knew he didn’t smoke.

He watched her watch the cigarette as he moved closer.

18

Quinn knew that Helen the profiler was waiting around the office for the others to leave. When they were gone to their various tasks, she pulled a wooden chair over and sat down in it so she was facing Quinn across his desk.

“Renz has decided to go large with the media,” she said.

Quinn absently reached into a desk drawer for a cigar. He drew out one of the Cuban robustos in its brushed-aluminum sleeve.

Helen smiled and said, “Pearl will kill you, if that cigar doesn’t.”

“How would she know?” Quinn asked.

Helen continued to smile.

He put the cigar back. “I’m assuming Renz instructed you to tell me about the going-public-with-all-guns plan.”

“Yeah. He’s curious as to your reaction.”

“Actually, I agree with him. It’s all going to leak out anyway. At least this way, all the cards will be on the table.”

“Per Renz’s instructions, I’ve made myself available to be interviewed, instead of him, on the Minnie Miner ASAP show.”

“Was Minnie agreeable to that?”

“About like a cat getting declawed.”

Quinn closed the drawer that housed the Cuban cigar. “Better thee than me.”

“Minnie would have preferred you. Or even Renz.”

“Not a good idea,” Quinn said. “I wouldn’t want to have to lie to her, but I might. Renz would love to lie to her.”

“So, not all the cards will be on the table.”

“Maybe a few up my sleeve.”

Helen crossed her arms. She already had her long legs crossed. She seemed to be settling in with more to say. “Wanna know what I think?”

“You’re going to ask for my cigar,” Quinn said.

“Not hardly.”

“Okay. Think about what?”

“Lots of things, all pertinent.”

Quinn settled back in his desk chair, in a waiting position. “I can count on you for that, Helen.”

“Our killer, whether he’s the original D.O.A. or not, is going to take another victim soon.”

Quinn had come to the same conclusion, but he remained silent. He wanted to hear Helen’s views on this. Maybe they were the same as his.

“The mass murder—six women, for God’s sake—was a mistake. Even if the killer might see it as a stroke of good fortune. When he entered Andria Bell’s room, he had no idea the connecting door to the next room would be unlocked. Probably didn’t suspect he was entering what was in effect a suite. Then suddenly there he was, with a knife and six women.”

“Could have been that way,” Helen said.

“Okay. When he’d finished making Andria helpless, he herded the women into the adjoining suite and threatened one so that she helped tie and gag the others. He bound and gagged the remaining one—his terrified helper—then he had his idea of fun.”

“Not for long, though,” Quinn said, recalling the nature of the wounds. Andria Bell had been the one who was tortured over a long period of time.

“It was Andria the killer wanted to get busy with,” Helen said. “Andria was the one who had information he wanted. The Richard Speck act with the other five was done partly out of necessity and enjoyment, and partly because the killer wanted to make a splash in the news. Wanted to be somebody right away.”

“He got that,” Quinn said, “though maybe not as much as he wanted.”

“He never will get as much as he wants. The point is, whether he would have killed five, ten, or fifteen women in that hotel suite, the effect on whatever drives him will be the same as if he killed only one.”

“Think so?” Quinn asked.

Helen nodded. “Obsessions compel action on a mental timetable, not a body count.”

Quinn rested his elbows on the table and knitted his fingers. “You’re saying he has no choice other than to feed his obsession.”

Helen said, “He’s whetted his appetite, and in a big way.”

“You gonna bring that up when you’re on the Minnie Miner show?” Quinn asked.

“Yes. We’ll see what she has to say.”

“Won’t she be the one asking the questions?”

“She’ll think so.”

Quinn unlaced his fingers and sat back. “Helen, do you have anything even remotely good to tell me?”

Helen smiled. “Soon as I get outta here, you can fire up that cigar.”

But Quinn didn’t light the cigar. He was going to meet Pearl in a few hours for dinner, and he knew she’d smell tobacco smoke on his clothes. And if Pearl happened to have a cold, her daughter Jody would certainly smell cigar smoke and rat him out. Jody had become Pearl’s surrogate snoop. As well as Quinn’s.

Quinn tapped a beat on the desk with his fingertips and pondered.

The whole damned family was like that.

For a moment it unnerved Quinn. Renz’s view of the world might be right.

19

Jeanine Carson’s date, Thomas Gunn, appeared across the street, but didn’t see her. When the traffic signal changed, he crossed at the intersection and strode toward her building. He was wearing light tan slacks, a navy blue or black blazer, and carrying a light coat draped over his arm. Jeanine didn’t think rain was in the forecast. So why—

He saw her, smiled, and her doubts disappeared in a part of her mind where she didn’t want to go.

Limping slightly, he came toward her on the sidewalk, where she was waiting just outside her apartment building. “I didn’t think you’d come down and meet me,” he said. His smile caused a long but faint scar on the side of his face to crinkle. Somehow sexy. He seemed pleased that she was displaying such eagerness. Flattered. “I brought this for you.” He drew from beneath the folded raincoat a bottle of red wine. “It’s Australian, and it’s great. A friend tipped me off about it.”

“Does it go with Vietnamese food?”

“Sure. It goes with anything. If you’re thinking about that Vietnamese restaurant two blocks down, then we’re thinking in the same channel.”

“So happens I am,” she said, telling herself that this might be an omen, the way their minds were synchronized. Feeling better about Thomas Gunn, she added, “We can drink the wine with our food, or bring it back here and have it afterward.”