“But last night, you pestered him. Or so he says.”

“No, I can become a pest, I know. And a loud one. But sometimes you gotta stand up for yourself.”

“That’s for sure,” Pearl said, flashing looks at Quinn and Fred, becoming Serri’s friend and ally in the war of the sexes.

“It ain’t like you’re an expert on the Middle East,” Fred Charleston said to his wife. He glanced toward the kitchen. “Now, poison gas, maybe.”

“See the crap I gotta put up with?”

“Yes,” Pearl said.

Fred gave Pearl a surprised look. The big cop wasn’t going to get involved. He looked neutral as the Supreme Court. Fred was being ganged up on here. He said, “We’ll be helpful as we can.”

“You don’t have to be an expert to see what’s wrong over there,” Serri said, looking at Quinn, then at Pearl. “And I figure what Fred and I say to each other’s private anyway. None of the neighbors’ business.”

“True enough,” Quinn said, “but you can count yourself lucky some of those neighbors were eavesdropping last night, and you two were giving them a show at the same time Jeanine Carson was being killed. Of course, the time’s not nailed down. Stories change. The investigation is fluid.”

“Fluid? You mean just because I found Jeanine’s body means I might have murdered the poor woman?” Charleston asked. He seemed astounded. Serri didn’t.

“Might, sure,” Quinn said. “Going into an investigation, we suspect everybody. Starting with the last person to see the victim alive, and the first to see her dead.”

“Like on TV.”

“We like it when it ends like on TV, too,” Quinn said. “All wrapped up tight and tidy for a commercial.”

“Seems to me the first person to see a victim dead would be the killer,” Fred said. He had a nasty, almost invisible little grin. Quinn was beginning to dislike him a lot.

He wasn’t the only one. Pearl looked peeved.

“Don’t get all smart with us,” Pearl said. “Alibis were made to be broken.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Serri asked.

Wrong way to go, Pearl thought, remembering how, in domestic cases, the partners often wound up siding with each other against the investigating officer.

“It’s just something we say.”

“Fact is,” Quinn said, “most of the tenants don’t recall hearing the fracas between you and your wife.” He didn’t mention that the tenants on either side of the super’s apartment did hear it. Quinn fishing.

Fred rose like a gullible guppy to the bait. His features reddened—a man with a temper. “These old walls are about two feet thick. That’s one of the reasons folks rent here. Neighbors don’t tend to overhear each other’s conversations in this building.”

“There’s always the vents to carry sound,” Serri said. Nipping at her husband. She leaned slightly forward when she spoke, and projected a tireless tenacity.

Quinn was beginning to side with Fred, even though he disliked the man. Maybe because he disliked the wife more. Pearl was secretly grinning at him.

“Wouldn’t know about vents,” Fred said, in control of himself now, if not his wife. “I work mostly on the plumbing.”

“Which is how you discovered the body,” Pearl said.

“Roy Culver, who lives in the apartment above Jeanine Carson’s, had a leaky toilet where the bowl went into the stack and needed it looked at. He knew I was gonna go into his apartment this morning—you can ask him.”

“Did,” Pearl said.

“Looked like water from the bowl was gonna run down into Jeanine’s bathroom, right underneath, and it had to be stopped right away or there’d have been a lotta damage.”

“Culver called you last night, but you waited till this morning to tend to the plumbing.”

“Had no idea as to the seriousness of it until I actually looked at it and learned the stack was involved. That’s when I knew I had to talk to Jeanine, and fast. Get her permission to do some work in her apartment. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t let myself into her place on my own, nor anybody else’s, but you know how much destruction water can do.”

“We do,” Quinn said. “And the neighbors did hear you arguing almost nonstop till about midnight.”

“That’s when the wife got tired,” Fred said.

Pearl glanced at the seething energy that was the wife. It was hard to believe she was ever tired.

“Is it possible,” Quinn said, “that the neighbors heard the victim and killer arguing and assumed it was you and your wife?”

The super was silent for a long time. “I guess it is,” he finally said. “But truthfully, it ain’t in the least likely.”

“Hmph,” Quinn said, nodding thoughtfully.

All of a sudden nobody had anything to say.

“I’ve gotta agree that the Middle East is a bitch,” Pearl put in, looking at Serri. It was odd how, even with her blond hair and blue eyes, Serri Charleston possessed a vaguely Middle Eastern countenance. Or maybe Mayan. Strange . . . Like two components that didn’t mix. “Your maiden name—” Pearl began to ask.

“O’Reilly,” Serri said.

“She might be half Irish, but she’s knowledgeable on the Middle East,” Fred said. “Television, newspapers and all. Serri thinks all those explosives used on innocent people is a crime.”

“I guess she’s right,” Quinn said.

“Acts of war,” Serri said. “All that military hardware being used over there.”

“You’re not an expert on munitions,” her husband told her.

“I know a war when I see one. And don’t tell me I don’t know munitions.”

Quinn was beginning to get weary of the problem with the Charlestons’ marriage. It was a dogfight not to join. He and Pearl didn’t want to get embroiled in a politically charged discussion.

“I guess war is war,” Pearl added. Nothing like a little overarching, meaningless philosophy to throw a blanket on things.

“It’s what happened in Jeanine Carson’s apartment last night that interests us,” Quinn said.

“The neighbors would recognize our voices,” Fred said, having given the overheard argument scenario more thought. “We both have real distinctive voices.”

Which was true.

Serri Charleston said, “We’re alibied up,” “Hmph,” Quinn said. “You do watch a lot of television.”

“Including the military channel.” Serri, not letting up.

“That might be what the neighbors were hearing coming from your apartment last night.”

“They were hearing the real thing,” Serri said. “And it don’t look like me or Fred shot at each other. And I never noticed any tank tread marks on the carpet.”

“But then you weren’t looking for them,” Quinn said.

“Actually,” Pearl said to both Fred and Serri, “we’re more curious about what you might have seen or heard than about whether you have alibis.”

“We told the cops in uniform about where we were and what we done and how it came to pass that I found poor Jeanine Carson’s dead body,” Fred said. He swallowed hard and seemed suddenly in danger of vomiting. Then he appeared to have fought back the impulse. “All that blood and . . . the rest of it. That ain’t a sight I’ll soon forget.”

“We know how it is,” Quinn said softly.

“I don’t see how the two of you stand it,” Fred said. “The business you’re in.”

Quinn ignored the comment. “There’s a lot of art on the victim’s apartment walls,” Quinn said. “She ever talk to you about it?”

“No. She was into art. Some kind of art repairer for the museums is what I gathered.”

“An artsy type,” Serri said. “Liked to think so, anyway. Had a thing about French painters. At least that was my impression.”

Quinn stared steadily at her. Her expression was blank. Being with Serri was something like being with Harold.

Fred Charleston had turned pale and was making a visible effort to breathe evenly. Concentrating. Trying to get his memory out of that bloody apartment, away from the dead woman. Not paying the slightest attention to what his wife was saying. He’d pay for his lack of attention later.